I write poetry for Jane as if she’s there, sitting, playing Ragtime on the old dusty, slightly untuned piano in the next room though she left me and isn’t here and will never be.
I don’t blame her for leaving this archetypal caricature of a blend of Bukowski and Layne Staley – rum in the mornings and a downer three times a day, never keeping a job and unable to bridge the dichotomy between getting a life and living for art.
Jane, blue-eyed, brunette, petite, intelligent and well-spoken with an uncanny knack for saying the right things at the right time.
Jane, expressive, articulate with a mind capable of both stern reasoning and metaphor, assonance and alliteration – her poetry both high-voltage expressionism and thought-provoking, embodying both her core and her depth of consciousness, exposing her vulnerability and shielding her at the same time.
Jane, a psalm for the broken and a lament for the distraught with both a King Davidian outpour of the heart ending in ethereal praise and Elijah’s rebuke – a say what you need to say, John Mayer lyricism.
I write poetry for Jane because she’s better than lovers turned into stalkers, robbing my mind’s beggar’s bowl of the smallest coins of peace, chasing me like street dogs on these dirty, squalid Indian streets with puddles of yesterday’s rain and piss, pseudonymously haunting me with their counterfeit identities making my sixth sense tingle and then spiral into paranoia.
I write poetry for Jane and if she asked me to stop, I will because true love lets go and I’ll always love her until the day my lines breathe my last.
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)