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The Atlas of Lost Beliefs
Ranjit Hoskote
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eBook - ePub
The Atlas of Lost Beliefs
Ranjit Hoskote
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Commenting on Hoskote's poetry on the Poetry International website, the poet and editor Arundhathi Subramaniam observes: "His writing has revealed a consistent and exceptional brilliance in its treatment of image. Hoskote's metaphors are finely wrought, luminous and sensuous, combining an artisanal virtuosity with passion, turning each poem into a many-angled, multifaced experience."
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Sujet
LiteratureSous-sujet
Asian PoetryI
MEMOIRS OF
THE JONAHWHALE
THE CHURCHGATE GAZETTE
I
Last word on the subject, I promise.
I walked into the train station and it was terrifying.
Like nerve gas had laid the architecture out flat,
the tall glass columns bloodshot and the booking clerks
slumped over, all dead at the till.
A plaster Gandhi with sulphur-rimmed eyes
stopped me (what a substitute for kohl and why?).
You missed the last train, it said, he said,
you missed the last and only train that was safe
for a man whoâs left half his life behind.
II
A straggler from a late-night movie had more advice.
You could so easily gag on a wine-red, tasselled silk scarf
stuffed in your mouth, he said, you could so easily gag
on sour saliva or a shard of bay leaf,
or a letter swallowed just after the bell has rung
and before the door opens.
III
I thought of the possibilities as I left the station without a compass.
Walk straight enough, said Gandhi, and you could walk into the sea.
At the wharf, the sailorsâ wives were keening together:
they were singing the last songs of the whales.
I was their brother and I had killed them
with my broken harpoon and my rusted smile.
IV
Find affection, I told myself. Thatâs fundamental.
Find a voice that doesnât draw blood
each time you hear it. I walked past myself,
I rippled across lean men and sleek women
laughing behind plate glass, their hands caught
in pools of light, wine gleaming in brittle flutes.
V
Birdsong disturbs the king of incomplete lives.
He wakes up in the middle of the novel heâs writing
in the Midnight Hotel. His eyes need shielding
from the raw clarity of neon. He is back
where he began, with a plate of waxy grapes
and a blunt silver knife on his bedside table.
VI
Break, ice, for me.
Let me fall through stinging water
in my skin of rust and flame.
Iâve jumped from a tree
thatâs branched into the clouds.
Itâs sucked up all the reality
Iâve watered it with.
Its fruits are red and wrinkled.
I plunge into drowned gardens
where I walked once.
Sinking, the water stroking
my crown of leaves
as it comes apart,
dark tribune, archaic clown,
I open my eyes.
THE MAP SELLER
for Nikola Madzirov
The roofâs dripping with pigeons and Iâve just escaped
the worst of the sun, strapped on my scuffed leather bag,
and in a moment â this shadeâs delicious â and before
the pedlars start shouting, Say your piece! Say your piece!
Iâll start calling out names and pulling countries from it:
big countries, small countries, countries broken in two,
countries the size of handkerchiefs and countries engorged
with other countries, buffer zones jostled by failed states,
island republics sinking by degrees. Even nuclear powers
that started as papaya plots or guano archipelagos.
Whatever you like, Iâve got a map that looks like it â
and you can have any piece of my flaking jigsaw atlas,
if only I could reach you across this accordion sky
thatâs billowed open to rain on all the hats I wear:
tribune of nowhere, midnightâs newscaster,
out-of-work weatherman, all-terrain refugee.
And across this trench that a JCBâs dug along my street:
tomorrowâs avenue, todayâs wide sludge grave.
THE ATLAS OF LOST BELIEFS
Without waking up, turn to page thirty-seven
in the Atlas of Lost Beliefs
and surround yourself
with apsaras, kinnaras, gandharvas, maenads,
satyrs, sorcerers, bonobos, organ grinders,
stargazers, gunsmiths, long-distance runners,
gravediggers, calligraphers, solitary reapers,
beenkars, troubadours, rababias, ronin,
nagas, pearl divers, Vandals, Goths,
mummers, snipers, collectors of moths,
hobos, dharma bums, bauls, ...