I cry tears of bitter pain and sorrow: br One says you write prose and claim it is verse, br The other asks, is it only autobiography? br And one more accuses me of just recording br Good observations, nothing poetic whatsoever. br br I think of that Quarterly with Keats, br And of Shelley’s passionate defence — br Where is my Adonais? but I should die first! br br Separately, my verses, like Basho’s haikus br Undergo more revisions. br br Last week on tour in Delhi, I read br Modern Indian poetry, searing lines like br ‘Splashes a handful of moonlight over her body’ br And had to confess white spaces between my words br Look and sound more poetic than my words.