You know you can’t blame the Japanese for their precision
But I can’t lock my shoulders on a key board, measuring
31 syllables to sum up what my mind wants to say!
I’m not going to say Thank you, Tanka, even if it expresses love.
I am not exactly a failure at expressing love in calculated rhyme,
But I am no mathematically creative genius. I am not responsible for
inventing the Swiss watch and I wouldn’t believe Time is a measurement,
because it gets confounding to be told that the Universe is 13.4 billion
years old and the universe has expanded over more than an area of 90 billion years!
And does light travel ever so faster than space-time then? If your fourth
dimension was all an illusion that makes relativity shake up the grassroots
of gravity. I look out of the window on a warm sunny day and think my vision
is only a Tanka, an iota, may be a Haiku, a speck in space. Even the sun is
cornered in the glutinous milky way, that, itself, is like a mug of milk in your large
kitchen. Would all the souls of the world take my Tanka and make it a Renga?
I am just going to contest that my love is no Tanka. I felt it from the onset,
unmeasured and humongous, sizeable even for the Universe; and duty to love
and courage for it, take up all the existing space, if there could be anything left
after that! We all have our limits of measurement! Would Albert Einstein, who, himself,
came from the stars, measure where he’d go after his death? Or Stephen Hawking
for that matter? Uncertainty is no stranger to us? Could the perpetrators, who stole
the Universe from God, measure it as it expanded? Is there any poetry in existence after that?
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