Ishan Marvel is a web reporter at The Caravan. The reporting life is gradually killing the poet in him. When finally tired of playing his youth, Ishan intends to live on top of a mountain with a rifle and a dog.

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TO WALK OR NOT TO WALK

The moment you realize
what you are being,
you are no more the same
A choice emerges—
a bridge is drawn,
yet you tarry

 

EVENINGS IN THE CITY #9

although you’ve long run out of things to say,
you’re still waiting in the same park for the same friend to show up
because it’s always nice to have an excuse to drink
a gulp makes for easy punctuation, and if nothing else, there’s always nostalgia
remember the time when we pissed at the school gate?
ha ha ha ha ha ha
besides, you can go here and you can go there, but the din is relentless
and all the city evening can offer is the numbing of a cheap bar

toss the pen in anger and walk off,
then go back and pick it up—and the crumpled sheet—
you can always make a novel out of failed poems, you think
and meanwhile street dogs ration their piss to mark another spot, getting hard at the prospect of confrontation—you’re not like them, are you?
happy college kids you hate, for some reason that you can’t decide,
and to be sprawled on the grass you’re too proud—of what you’ll never know

but finally, he’s here, and you’re there, three shots down with a beer each
and of all the days, today you get the feeling that something just might happen—and it does!
after all it’s not every day that someone pours a glassful of heart for you to cherish in the locker of your head
the gesture, uninvited, seems almost sacred, and just so you can remember, you call for another shot—fire down the hatch and a brief asylum of smoke
and to think how easy it is, that all of a sudden someone could graduate through the labyrinth of projections right into your inner circle
a confession is all it takes, and then you know you too could pour a glass or two
it’s what they call trust in case you’ve forgotten
because in the city, you’d rather forget
but every now and then, when delirious you step out of the neon dark there is a sign—
every now and then, the clouds bring rain

 

 

BECAUSE POETRY IS LIKE A BAD HABIT WHICH YOU CAN NEVER ESCAPE

Because it is never that easy
You cannot pretend to be old enough and think you know it all
You had a feeling once, but it’s long gone and now you’re just dragging along the days, forgetting all the time
Why be smug, you critical consumer?
Someday the lines will start to blur, and you’ll be munching on bits of soul before you know it
Your get-out-of-jail cards are not free; there is a deeper price
Nothing is free except that flutter inside you
And it’s about time you sense it, catch it, and let it wave till it’s rollicking and glorious, and there for all to see
‘Cause it’s about time you take that step off the ledge
Because no matter how hard you try to convince yourself, there’s nothing great about being martyred to mediocrity
And it’s alright, you don’t have to screw everyone
If you think you’ll take and take, and be cool, and never have to give or suffer, you’re probably wrong, or just a real lucky bastard
But that doesn’t happen much—no one’s that lucky!
‘Cause life has a way—a crazy jolt mechanism which kicks in now and then so that you can stop being an ass
Remember, you may be cruising but you’re still in the ocean—and in the ocean all you can do is try real hard and let go
‘Cause the business of survival is strange—redemption lies in taking it by the throat, not lying down
And yet, to revel in the place where there is sunshine—what else is there to do, my friend, what else?

 

 

To read 

TAKING FATHER TO THE HOSPITAL

MANDALAS

 

 

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