The Immoralist misses the company of
the Peacock1. Quick to anger, the former
had ruffled the feathers of the latter.
The feather is beautiful, like Krishna’s
face etched, but of no use. Miffed, the
bird asks “Does beauty have no purpose?”
No. Not when it is accidental. Suppose
you had chosen this madness of colour,
it might be that there was a reason.
The peacock, with one sweep, disturbs
the chess board between them. Beak
upwards he asks “Then the dubious moves,
they have a purpose?” The Immoralist,
weighed by the answer utters, But I never
said that my dubious moves were beautiful.
“But they are by accident?”. No, dear Blue
Bird, I make them for accidental love – the
other’s win. Purposeful. For useless Love.
The beloved in purposeless blue, and the
Immoralist across the dishevelled chess
board, wearing a red leaf on sleeve.
- From the Immoralist and Peacock series [back]
Is poetry about line breaks at inappropriate places?
Nilu: Such insight!
Lovely at first reading. Let me ponder a bit more though. Nilu is quibbling. You are talking about surrender.