On The Slopes - Poem by Ananta Madhavan
My imperfections tease me. I am
arrived at that pitch of felicity,
where I can choose to say what
fragments of copious wordage are useless.
I work in a quarry rich with stones;
Some may be gems, grey slabs perhaps,
Some with dull daubs, some beautiful.
Surfaces delight me. Even the montage
of a flattened universe,
the bas-relief of remembered music;
the depth from eye-ball to brain-wall:
the third dimension we can try
to re-conjure that artifact
in a braille for sensitive souls to read,
sensitive, though blind.
Poet's Notes about The Poem
proficient in writing my thoughts and sensations.
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