Thursday Poem

The Priest’s Son

these five hills
are the five demons
that Khandoba killed

says the priest’s son
a young boy
who come along as your guide
as the schools have vacations

do you really believe that story
you ask him

he doesn’t reply
but merely looks uncomfortable
shrugs and looks away

and happens to notice
a quick wink of a movement
in the scanty patch of scruffy dry grass
burnt brown in the sun
as says

there’s a butterfly

The Butterfly

There is no story behind it.
It is split like a second.
It hinges around itself.

It has no future.
It is pinned down to no past.
It’s a pun on the present.

It’s a little yellow butterfly.
It has taken these wretched hills
under its wings.

Just a pinch of yellow,
it opens before it closes
and closes before it o

where is it

by Arun Kolatkar
New York Review Books, 2005