Thomas, the disciple

I had looked forward

To a world, where

Light passes through

The heart of darkness

And melts the core of granite;

Every heartbeat is a blossom

That bids the other to come closer;

Every word is a balm in the ear;

Every creature a fire in winter.


The winter entered my heart,

As the Master lay in the tomb:

His miracles buried with my dreams.


My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me!

Golgotha trembled in dying hope

The heavens thundered in vengeance

The veil in the synagogue parted

And the tabernacle said, “Take and eat!”

Your body lay broken – and your spirit?


I am thirsty!

Where are the loaves of bread and the fish?

Where is the spring

Of living water?

Where, the Master?

Where is your kingdom?


I saw your surrender,

A candle-flame in a twister,

A swindler on the right, and

A swindler on the left,

One pitying and the other cursing,

Hope dying in the horizon, and

Terror gripping the soul.



The women kept vigil

With oil in their lamps.


The dawn shone on Golgotha

The heavens looked radiant

And light passed through the tombstone


Peter had not sold his dreams:

So he borrowed a net,

Went back to his trade;

Sweated the whole day

Breathing the salt-tang of the water,

Feeling heavier in the heart

With each casting of the net;

Until he cast it inward

And caught you:

An unbearable lightness within.


Between you and me glares

The mark of a lance.

Bury me deep




Poet’s notes:

1. First of all, I’ve given up writing poems and fiction.  Poetry and fiction demand too much of imagination and my imagination is killed.  This poem was written more than ten years ago.  I am putting it up now because of the Holy Week, the week that commemorates [celebrates, should I say?] the death of Jesus.

2. Survival today means playing games.  I feel sickened by the games. 

3. Thomas was one of the disciples of Jesus.  He was the sceptic.  He is the prototype of the perpetual sceptic.


About matheikal

My more regular blog can be accessed at
This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

4 Responses to Thomas, the disciple

  1. Raghuram Ekambaram says:

    You have implied that poetry kills! And, I have heard this from elsewhere also. Then, why write poems? My problem is simply, “What does a poem give that an essay cannot?”

    I know this comment is not relevant to the post here in a direct sense, but please bear with me. If I want to try to understand first and then apprecaite poetry, then I am psychologically disposed o find out why it exists.

    Raghuram Ekambaram

    • matheikal says:

      Raghuram, you’re placing a very onerous task on me. I don’t think I can fulfil it. All I know is poetry does have a very meaningful function in life. The moment Maggie finished reading this poem she said, “The conflict in the last lines is not Thomas’s but yours.” My reply was: “That’s what every poet does.” The function of poetry is quite that, I think. A vicarious projection of the poet’s inner conflicts.

  2. Aditi says:

    I would have liked to recommend this poem, Matheikal, but could not find a recommend button. :))

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s