From our fancy cars to our cozy homes, filled to the brim with things of comfort and of instantaneous joys, what hounds us - what emptiness hoovers our lives.
we boast of our wisdom and marvel at our heavy, expensive volumes of Homer and Plato and Emily and Gandhi. Decorated tombs of men and women of yore.
we meet at poetry readings and laugh and drink and squeeze energy from the newly supple spring air. Breathe us the mirth.
this could be the New York School of Poetry of our times or the immigrant generation of the Beats. Or a nothinger in a sea of other nothingnesses.
nights are blue and virile, ripe with sparkling charms. And stars are good at being the deadbeat masses of gas and dirt.
but the emptiness still hounds us.
Anant Dhavale
This poem was recently published in the “This Broken Shore’l magazine .
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