labyrinth of sickness

Poems by Karan Kapoor

‘Labyrinth of Sickness’ by Shubhra Rathore

Will She?

Only after my grandmother is taken
to the seventh hospital, I think of her death

with certainty — its cold, so incredible,
so close, my bones shiver as I enter her

room, scared. If she dies, this room will
always be empty — silence of the walls

screaming — rebellious tears pouring —
her television eternally shut black;

her temple, unkempt; the gods
collecting dust, losing their powers.

I turn off the only blue bulb burning —
hung over the god of light — the dark

engulfs. I sit on her bed, and wonder what if
she never returns, like her father who went

to the war. Will she return? It is the toil
of darkness to wipe the profanities

of the sun. Will she not?



Dying lasts forever until it stops

My grandmother dangles in the sky
like dusk — abandoned
by the day, unaccepted by the dark.

This world is no place for the aged
and the diseased — I never thought
it could happen to her — her

of all people — her body is lost
in a labyrinth of sickness — looks
as if she’s already died a dozen times.

Never sleeps, not a wink — watery,
sticky, constant eyes — how can a kilo
of tissues equal a kilo of tears?

Her impossible pain, like dusk —
with no possible place to go — stretches
out its limbs and lies beside her, still.


Today is Tomorrow is Yesterday

Life, with or without desire, passes us by.
Lying swollen in your hospital dress,
is today the day you die?

Yesterday was February, now it’s July.
Time plays its trick, is ever ready to oppress.
Life, with or without desire, passes us by.

Look at the earth as the rain falls from the sky.
You’re the bearer, I only a witness.
The sky says today is the day you die.

Try if you must you can hold nothing in your eye.
How many times do you want me to stress:
Life, with or without desire, passes us by.

I feel your pain. No, that is but a lie.
It is impossible to touch another’s illness.
I can only pray today is the day you die.

You do not need a sky to look at the sky.
Time is a luxury. So is timelessness.
Life, with or without desire, passes us by.
May today be the day you die.

‘Labyrinth of Sickness’ by Shubhra Rathore

Volume 09

clay | chlorophyll | crimson

Grass is green where you water it. LC’s words float along over Misch’s guitar. It’s a phrase that feels so obvious, and I’m sure those who tend to gardens know this more than most, but it seems to land more than before. The impact noticeable, memorable, echoing through my being. Perhaps we’re ingrained to think it’s greener elsewhere. This patch is the problem and not whether we’re watering it. The key is in the watering. How we go about this practice is what defines our patch of grass. No matter where we go, our patch is, perhaps, the same. Some attributes and characteristics have been changed but the essence is the same: Us.

Stepping into Volume 09 of imprint, marks our third year. I am learning that this patch of green that we have been tending to for the last several years will mould, shift, and sculpt. This depends on how we water it and allow it to take its own shape. It has already happened in wonderfully unexpected ways. There is only so much structure or shape we can predetermine. Beyond that, it will absorb what it needs and reject all that is unnecessary. And perhaps, in this practice, we are changed. Our grass is watered as we water that of our writing, our image making, our practice, our magazine.

From light to dark, rigid to supple, new to old, there is so much in between that is bright and vibrant and unexpected. The practice of our magazine has focused on being open to what we receive; being open to deeply listening to what is shared; being open to work taking us to new journeys. This volume, and this year, will be no different. We will continue tending to it as we have done, learning along the way, from past seasons and present ones.

And yet, I know it will be entirely different.
But still.
It will be watered.