Sunday, 8 July 2012

remembering Dilip Chitre

sunday morning. grey skies. picking up a book
(contemporary indian poetry) opening it with excitement
i see your name
and i remember, sun shine,
tübingen 2003

then, too, i did not know where to go
from there

flipping through to the back of the book
(black cover, night rain) notes on the authors
your name again, born 1938
and died
why did nobody tell me
where was i
december 2009


nobody told me

but who would remember those days
when we sat there, alte aula
after your talk, i think you came twice
in between you went to other places
die liebe katrin
stirred, disturbed, questioned by your words
i had just graduated as an indologist
an indian omlet
your phrase

your smile was there in the old walls above the river
so many have written about it
i remember your hat
it was the year your son died
and i never made it to pune
my work became a poetic scramble, bells on toes
this poem is for you, Dilip
i never saw you again
(but maybe we will) says Tuka

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