A Scratch

Arun Kolatkar passed away. One of his great poems that I was fortunate to read is reproduced here. Godspeed, Arun!

A SCRATCH
what is god and what is stone
the dividing line
if it exists
is very thin at jejuri
and every other stone is god
or his cousin

there is no crop other than god
and god is harvested here
around the year and round the clock
out of the bad earth and the hard rock

that giant hunk of rock the size of a bedroom
is khandoba's wife turned to stone
the crack that runs right across
is the scar from his broadsword
he struck her down with
once in a fit of rage

scratch a rock and a legend springs

C'est la vie? or C'est moi?

I'm too leftwing to be right...
I'm too rightwing to be left...
I'm so middle that I'm in the middle of nowhere...
I ask not why am I here, I ask why "here" is here.

Soren Kierkegaard, the 19th century Danish philosopher wondered 'Why was my consent not sought before I was put into this world'. With due apologies to The Bard, if 'all the world's a stage and we are merely actors...' I should then like to have a word with the director.

Why am I venturing into the realm of philosophy and psychology?
Because psychologists never grow old, they always remain Jung ! (Ouch! that must've Freud the brains, eh?)

No, I was engaged in a contemplative retrospection of the past few days ('orrible, I tell you) and that made me wonder what I have so un-succintly put in my poor (pour?) French...

Is this life? or is it just Me?