In a world of sleaze the corporation
smokes its own cigar, and scholars
with cloven hearts, and mindfull
of the joys of market
enter the west to win. For them
women are a holiday, a pleasant
recreational break from the serious
and manly art of making money.
I’ll just ignore the whole team,
and the small bluish smudge
on my sweetheart’s veiny neck.
After drinking a pint of coffee
I stand resolute at the no. 55 bus-stop
in several inches of filthy snow, feeling
like the dormouse from the Mad Hatter’s
tea party, stuck in the house of logic.
John Major’s England huddles under
the village poplars, and the teenage Turks
watch TV, cosy in the communal darkness.
Bubbles of tension rise along my spine
ready to attack my professional deportment.
Another day in the British Museum
Library, where people quietly
accrue knowledge and academic paychecks.
I told my lover some magic:
of a place where the earth seemed
larger than the sky, in the Himalayas
as the river Indus meets the Zanskar.
But she let me leave anyway,
with a thermos of miso soup,
an extra scarf, and a couple of lines
I still hadn’t used,
to warm anyone with that day.
© Dipti Saravanamuttu