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It is 16.45 in my adorable city, a Saturday, in a few minutes,
the streets would come alive with people. Yes, I announce,
everyone would try to create a change for someone,
everyone would desire a refreshing change with someone.
Those who are addictive to playing with the bodies and
minds of opposite sex would, invariably, take a little longer
in front of the mirrors : the décolletages would be checked
and rechecked, side windows would be adjusted for just a
hint of skin, the temporary peek of a butterfly tattoo boldly
breathing a little above the waist of the faded blue jeans
would be caressed; cheeks would be pinched hard until
they dimple a crimson hue. A few have already gathered
around at the footsteps of the bookstore to borrow a riot
of clever lines, wise retorts, and others acquired new bag
of tricks up their sleeves, somehow. Those who “fall in and
fall out of love” with minimal efforts, the majority of my
lovers fall into this category, would start rehearsing things,
they learnt from movies or those lies as sketched out by
their buddies, one last time while scurrying out of the cabs –
“oh you shine, my love, like a sugar maple”, ‘lay your sleeping
head on my {not-so-} faithful arm”, “your eyes shine like
diamonds or stars, I never understand how”, and the classic
piece “I love you”, which wears no meaningful status these days.
Yes, as you can see and hear, One hell of a night is up for grabs,
with varying degrees: some stupids would willingly face the
errors they made in the last edition of Fall/Autumn, some
fools would digest the regular staple commodities of lies
to be held by a warm body against the shivers of rain
outside the window. A segment of the wily, crafty, nimble-footed,
yet another time, would try to outwit “simply unaware” badges
and the other segment would simulate delirious pain in the soft
and silky folds of skin around their limbs and groin.

And I am , the loser, who is perfecting myself in the art of losing,
would stand in front of the old woman, who sells Roasted corn,
Salted peanuts on a push-cart, streetfood-corn.jpg

whose five-year-old grandson
is my little friend, perplexed – How would I survive in a world
where people try to fit together with a mosaic of lies and betrayals,
where people, no longer aware of pain, effort to exert pain greedily!
The cars would be parked in their usual places. They would remain
still until their owners come and buzz them to life. The deep shade of
trees would give them company – A few friendly words, which
loose-limbed people can never understand, would be exchanged.

Yes, indeed, One hell of a night is up for grabs!

well, someone whose messages I wake up to these days says ” though this is a beautiful piece, but why charade the open wounds..it only festers more with each reckless, indifferent glance”.

To be honest with the world and with myself, I divorced from human nature for a while to look at the sort of absurdities it tends to throw around…….or am I under the influence of Elizabeth Bishop who taught at Harvard in the 1970s, she spurned the academic approach of New Criticism, insisting that poems should never be interpreted. yes, I would say, “What I saw that moment, especially with a pair of eyes that were hurt a season ago” was a primary instinct that I experienced it!

One Art by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master; 
so many things seem filled with the intent 
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day.  Accept the fluster 
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. 
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster: 
places, and names, and where it was you meant 
to travel.  None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother's watch.  And look! my last, or 
next-to-last, of three loved houses went. 
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones.  And, vaster, 
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. 
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.
---Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture 
I love) I shan't have lied.  It's evident 
the art of losing's not too hard to master 
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
 -- Elizabeth Bishop 
 
the sense of loss is apparent in the last set with an assertion "the art of losing's 
not too hard..."  Poignant!
"....Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken." 
         -from "On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer"  by  John Keats

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