Beyond Land and Time

On the Top

(Shômārurhô)

Translated by Marian Maddern

“Why do you not write a poem yourself?” I asked

with a faint smile; the blob of shadow did not reply.

I understood that here was no poet—just an imposed preface.

On manuscripts, commentaries, annotations, pens and ink

he sits enthroned—he is no poet—an ageless, desiccated

professor; toothless he is, and rheumy-eyed; his salary

a thousand rupees monthly—another fifteen hundred

he gets from his dissection of the guts of dead poets.

Although these poets sought the warmth of love and yearning—

they were tumbling amid the turbulence of sharks.