The Spectre of Progress - Poems by Monika Ajay Kaul

Between Tomorrow and Yesterday

2 AM Conversations with the Shift:

The clock ticks louder at 2 AM,

a pulse in the still room.

An invisible metronome that keeps time

between the then and the now.

I speak to myself,

to the vintage ghost of a simpler life,

where oil lamps designed shadows

on the peeling walls,

where bread was baked by hands

that knew the feel of dough,

not the hum of machines.

Do you remember, I ask,

how the night spoke without a screen’s glare!?

I trace the arc of change

from letters penned in ink,

folded carefully into envelopes

that endured the heft of miles,

to the swift, spectral delivery of words,

vanishing into thin air.

What does it mean to live now,

in this unblinking age of artificial minds?

A question, unanswered,

clings like dust in a forgotten bookshop.

Does our creation outgrow us,

or merely ripple our ache of longing?

Once, the rhythm of life

was the creak of a rocking chair,

the whistle of tea on the stove,

the slow unravelling of an evening.

Now, a stream of algorithms

fills the cracks in our solitude.

Is this progress?

Or a redefinition of loneliness?

I hold onto fragments. Of nostalgia.

The orthodox, the relics of the past:

the smell of old wood,

the scratch of wool against skin,

the rituals of patience

carved into fading traditions.

They sit uneasily beside the future,

gleaming with its cold efficiency.

Self, I ponder,

are we losing something

in the automation of our dreams?

The texture of living,

perhaps, frayed at the edges.

The conversation spirals..

a Möbius strip of thought,

where questions refuse to end.

Yet, in this loop, I find comfort.

For change is not an enemy,

nor a savior, but a mirror.

And at 2 AM,

we are always asking it to look back.

The Spectre of Progress

They say we are gods now,

crafting worlds with keystrokes,

breathing life into the inanimate.

A new Prometheus,

whose fire sparks not rebellion

but algorithms.

And yet,

beneath the glow of touchscreens,

there is a hum.

A low, vibrating unease.

Do you hear it?

The silence of thought drowned by the noise

of infinite connection,

a web that tangles instead of frees.

I ask myself

what have we gained in this gilded age?

The clout of time reduced to seconds,

the depth of conversations

flattened into pixels.

We’ve traded meaning for immediacy,

a Faustian bargain of our own making.

Where do we go from here,

when the stars themselves seem closer

than the stranger next door?

When the earth beneath our feet

is no longer home

but a stage for curated lives?

The past moans faintly,

not in reproach,

but as an allusion of a simpler truth:

that to be human was once

to pause,

to ponder,

to sit still with the aching question

and let it remain unanswered.

But who has time now

for unanswered questions?

We are busy building answers

before we discern the significance of the asking.

Progress strides forward,

a faceless spectre

dragging us by the hand.

And we,

too eager to resist,

keep our heads bowed,

eyes fixed on the glowing path,

unaware of the abyss

just beyond its edge.

Icarus in the Cloud

Once, ambition had wings,

feathers stitched with wax and caution.

A yearning to breach the sun.

Now, it lies coded in circuits,

a lattice of ones and zeros.

Reaching higher than myth ever dared.

We are the new Icarus,

not bound by gravity

but by the load of data,

ascending the endless staircase of the cloud.

Our sun is not a distant star

but a blazing stream of enlightenment,

too bright to see the shadows it casts.

In this ascent,

we’ve shed the body’s frailties:

the ache of hands,

the tremor of lips forming prayers.

Now, our voices shrill in voids,

binary hymns to gods we don’t yet understand.

Do we still fear falling?

Or has the ground lost its meaning,

a relic beneath our digital heavens?

Perhaps the tragedy is no longer the plunge,

but the stagnation;

hovering in endless loops,

unable to touch what is real.

I wonder,

as we soar past the old boundaries,

what happens when there is no sky left?

When the infinite becomes finite,

the reach too far,

the ambition too hollow.

What wings will we craft then?

What story will we tell ourselves,

to justify the flight

when the fall is no longer an option?

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About the Poet:

Monika Ajay Kaul, originally from the serene valley of Kashmir, India, is a multifaceted creative professional now based in Delhi. With a background in Business Management, she is an educationist in her field and a passionate pursuer of the arts.

A multi-lingual poet, short story writer, and painter, Monika finds her inspiration in the realms of Poetry, Literature, and Art History. She is also an accomplished art curator and critic, frequently contributing insightful articles on Art History and critique.