Amit Majmudar

Sing, O Muse, of the man of many reverses,the man with a mind of many winding ways,turned around and turned away from homethere on the open labyrinthine sea,of the man of many dodges, the windspunweathervane of a wanderer, navigatorforever divagating, of the man with a mindingeniously devious, the . . . . Continue Reading »

He is a churchyard. In his grasses, crossesHave blossomed once again, like quartered rosesThat know the real crowns are made of thorns.Redolent cedar, these, both kings and thronesIn one, and no, they aren’t marking graves.Here is no fear and trembling. No one grieves.No sickness unto death, no . . . . Continue Reading »

A raindrop mirrorsThe whole typhoonStretched like a spoonUpon her clear Curvaceous skin,Synoptic nudeFully tattooedFor one instant With her whole kind’sCreation mythSo that her fall Expresses allThe other mindsShe’s fallen with. —Amit . . . . Continue Reading »

The peak that paints the lakeIs quick to break. A height becomes a depth,A life a death. An Eiger sinks beneathThe eager cleat As seeking shows us whatWe sought is not. To find a seeker’s pleasureIn self-erasure The mountaineer must wishHerself to mist. —Amit Majmudar Photo by thijser . . . . Continue Reading »

A turkey, turnkey, turncoat, dovecote, dovewaddles and wavers and wings her way above,metempsychoses, metamorphosescrossing horizons, orisons, seasons, seas,slow-shutter shudder, each shape reshaped, rebornas cochon, cocoon, raccoon, acorn, corn,and art, like nature, thinking nothing of it—a . . . . Continue Reading »

On your thirtieth birthday, you find that your clothes Belong to someone slimmer. It’s like only your socks haven’t shrunk in the wash. From then on, you remember Undressing in front of a lover or mirror To reach for the dimmer. . . . . Continue Reading »

You needn’t be born a Bourbon To dream your funereal deluge, Some climactic climatic disturbance To rain out the end of your reign. A desultory drizzle of tears Is the most that most of us . . . . Continue Reading »

Infinity requires us to count to three, our calculus and three-step proof. Dust cubed is dust: The sum of love, unequalled, spans the fingers of a single hand. The word, archaic, still solves for man. Those Aramaic postulates hold” the algebraic is never old. We do the math to know the soul: . . . . Continue Reading »

It would seem, from the sound of it, slang ?In Her Majesty’s Navy, say, circa ?Trafalgar”the deckhand whose job was ?To heave-ho the anchor aboard, ?The chain like a slain sea serpent? Collecting in coils behind him. Or maybe a meteor fragment, ?Some glittery space-coal without ?Any real . . . . Continue Reading »

Aching for Acre, in a sacred ague, They’re setting out. They wear only their nightgowns, These ageless androgynes, these little angels Who raise their wooden swords and hymns of glass. They’re saying how the journey there will be A stroll between aquariums reviewing Divisions of moray and . . . . Continue Reading »