Whir in the Orbit

By  K.S. Subramanian


The fans' blades are still. 
They sense they will swing
only when I want to warm up,
be ready to set about my day.

When still they look like Yogis,
In evanescent reverie, 
unblemished lotuses in the pond,
Untroubled or undismayed by
the coagulating dust on their frame,                                                     
Any more than shrivelled leaves 
Eviscerate the lotus in the pond. 
Time breathes on them,                                                     
leaves no moss on their being.

The day comes alive only 
when they set on their toes. 
Else they are as just vivacious 
as the whir in the orbit. 

 K.S.Subramanian, a retired Senior Asst. Editor from The Hindu, has published two volumes of poetry titled Ragpickers and Treading on Gnarled Sand through the Writers Workshop, Kolkata, India.   His poem “Dreams” won the cash award in Asian Age, a daily published from New Delhi. His essays and blogs can be found under his name in

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