Click to view Profile
Rohan Dominic Mathews

Rohan Dominic Mathews

Photo by Lucan Husac.

Why do you care?

Rohan Dominic Mathews
Why are those mountains mine,
only in crusty posters
soiled with summer stains,
the snow, no more pristine white
but yellowed by the heated bulb.

Why are those brooks,
only in books of Wordsworth,
or Listerine sensitive films,
where bright sunshine yawns
on the hero's scalp, as he chooses
to move back to his home-town

Why are deserts too hot to touch,
but in passing buses and strangers vents
Its too hot to go there,
better sit under your porch and wait
for the rain, and let some sweat
drench your suit, of skin and soot!

Why are the rapids
so slow to meet me
as if I were an out-caste
too careful for foamy pastures
hidden in crevices and cliffs
gusting into travelers hearts

Why am i stuck in the mindless signals
where red must green, or somewhere in between
And alcohol reflected on a laptop screen
is my salvation, and my holiday

Why do you smile,
when you dance through the night
to wake up a stranger
to your strange self

Why do you try to be
so pathetically poetic
numbing your life

with your own terse verse
spouted in smart adjectives
ignoring metaphors,
if you step out of this room
Sodom will become salty!

The better muse

Hail you sultans of swing
Gnawing away pages
With your clever lyric
I cannot stand or sit
When i see your faces
Painted in so many colours
I hide behind cardboard boulders
And pin holes so that i can catch a glimpse
Smell your fumes
I giggle in closed rooms
With curtains blocking any sunlight
And write half baked poems
Those poems are not all eulogies
To your deft pen-like gestures
Neither are they mockumenting your rise
They are gestures similar to yours
But indefinite
Like a feet testing how cold the river is
Sometimes the feet rushes into the water
And the body shivers
The lung shrieks
But on most times
You dab a little and gently enter
Letting the cold move you to joyous tears
My half baked poems express moments
When the silence of winter night
Cushions your anxiety
And leaves that fraction
For verse to enlighten
The experience
For some it could be
And I mean in all honesty
A long winded expression of flatulence
Every moment suggests
A possible reclined contemplation
Cushioned by silence
But, the sultans somehow
Don't appear to relish the silence
But, recite the noise in their own words
They somehow seem to relish
The cacophony
It enlightens them
Can I not suggest that I'm
A little confused
Considering i sense anxiety trembling in any walking soul these days
The fangs of everyday labour
The constant fluttering banners
The hysteria at tragedy
To be not anxious
In these days is infinitely impossible
And delightfully blissful
But, unless there's some magic
I cannot consider anxiety to be so absent
That silence is to be distanced
Muses surround your minds
Because sound is the ultimate muse
It reminds us of the now
And sound sensed like a branch inseparable from the tree
Throbbing and living
In it, through it, and with it
But, i maybe wrong
In that case my anxiety may be false
But then I begin to be anxious about my alienation from my anxiety
And could you write something about that,
Something sensible
Worthy of putting to memory


-Travel blog, touching sky, India Mike
Go there, huh! Where? Take a hike
Click, Click Clickety Click

The path less travelled
look I got a thousand hits
With my high res pic
Click, Click Clickety Click

Oh! I should have snow-n
Bad weather, must postpone
Bring that milkshake
Summers here, gotta wake
Click Click Clickety Click

I need a break
If there's one to take
But, my backpack lost a zip
Just flipkart it bro
Click Click Clickety Click

Click Click Clickety Click
Streets are mine
On google maps
Click Click Clickety Click
The signals weak
at the peak,
but still…

Click Click Clickety Click

Who are they?

Three score and a little more,
An intrepid folk wrote lore,
Whether we is the essence of I,
And thither they left it to dry

Next morning, we all awoke
Fresh from freedom's stroke
To find them grabbing the crown
In front of the silent town

Who are they? We thought
'US'- we were taught
In discoloured rooms
Alien to brooms

Sitting in paid wagons
We bowed before these dragons
Venom coagulating with fire
Justice always for hire

Then another day came along
When peasants broke into song
And dreary workers ill-paid
Decided to blockade all trade

But, potbellied soldiers marched
Asses and chests were searched
Thousands waited for more
While the rich whispered it to be a bore

And the fences were planted
The slogans demanded
The dragons coughed and cried
Their tears soaked and dried

The story goes on
Victory awaits anon!



Jayanta Mahapatra: In Conversation with Sachidananda Mohanty
Sarojini Sahoo: In Discussion with Kavita Arya

Deepali Yadav: Divakaruni’s Oleander Girl
Disha Khanna: Mahesh Dattani’s On a Muggy Night in Mumbai
Hampi Chakrabarti: Punctured Conscience
Koushiki Dasgupta: The Poetry of Mallika Sengupta

Book Reviews
Atreya Sarma: ‘Mystic Warrior’
GSP Rao: ‘Tapestry Poetry’
Jaydeep Sarangi: ‘Exchanges with the Thinker’
Priyanka Kakoti: ‘On a Wing and a Prayer’

Ambika Ananth: Editorial Note
Abin Chakraborty
Amreen B Shaikh
Ankush Banerjee
Charles Thielman
Jhuma Sen
Lora Tomas
Neelam Dadhwal
Rafiul Rahman
Rittvika Singh
Rob Harle
Rohan Dominic Mathews
Shanta Acharya
Simon Perchik
Sunita Raina Pandit

Shernaz Wadia: Editorial Comment
Anirudh Kala: ‘Mr Haq’
KL Chowdhury: ‘Tenderer than a Petal…’
Madhuliika Ghose: ‘Inspiration’
Prashila Naik: ‘The B.A. Pass Groom’
Sunil Sharma: ‘Dream’
Vempalle Shariff: ‘A Point of Nails’

Copyright ©2017 Muse India