Page 3 - Poems

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EARLY JANUARY

Stalingrad, en route to 8 a.m.
There’d seldom be much space for hearts
to settle or stay. Forty pairs,
or so, of feet would fidget, fence,
lurch and trip through Gare de l’Est,

République and Oberkampf.
By Bastille, he’d begun to sip
newsprint – Le Monde or its weekend
supplement? – and dreamshot, half-clad lips,
turn by turn, one with relish.

And you, you’d listened, ears wrapped
in France Inter, listened through stations,
crowds and kisses, to Bernard
Maris cross words with Dominique
Seux, like on any other Friday.

Listened to Maris slam greed
and growth unbridled, Seux untangle
cutbacks, layoffs, the endless
spiral of State thrift, and both seek
a gentler realm for earthlings.

Listened, till Campo Formio,
to crucial, affable debate.
Listened, unknowing this would be
their last duet, unsullied by grief,
horror, the end of nameless freedoms—
another kind of unbeing.

Karthika Naïr

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