“0”

Once I knew someone who knew everything. I thought I would be as wise when I grow up.

What happened then?

I simply grew up.

Am I of any help to these children, in this very very real world?

In this realm of pain, hurt and loss,

as real as waking up from a dream,

the world that hits them like a “No”.

The pink teddy bear looks at you. You may now want to interpret its gaze.

Shut up, will you?

It’s just ridiculous. Isn’t it utterly foolish to make any meaning out of anything, anytime?

How do you save these cuddly little children;

from the meaninglessness

of everything?

spiral love

Amidst uncountable people

You and I.

In malls, eat-outs and vehicles

We two everywhere,

All those strangers,

Became us.

We bought dresses

for each other,

Did you know then?

those local brandless pieces of cloth

turning into delicate monuments

to be handled with love,

After these long long years.

You speak of rose buds,

The swaying pale green leaves underneath,

You call them with our names,

I saw the bud nodding to you.

Similes are your slaves,

Master of love!

*

(First published in Saranga)

We, the rain!

Remember?

The last time it rained

We were conversing

with our bodies;

You inhaled me as you would draw

the last puff from a cigarette.

Wasn’t the ambience just perfect then?

A festoon of wild flowers,

scent of

pure tea tree oil and

a handmade paper,

red and yellow leaves pressed hard on it.

We spoke of umbrellas,

children walking in gangs

and

our lost lovers. (I was afraid

of this one too)

A drip of memories

drenched in desire;

We

spoke:

wet corridors

slithering steps

our feet together.

Remember?

Last time when it rained

It poured on us,

Kisses and moans.

(published in Saaranga web magazine, June 2020 issue)

 

Life comes to you

Just then

I am composing a poem

titled “meaninglessness”.

The wild wind roars

Outside the closed windows.

It’s just dark,

dark

and almost dark everywhere.

With a brief intimation

unacknowledged in my mobile

this lady appears at my door.

A woollen sweater covers her all-over

hot vegetable soup comes with her.

Chatting while I eat

she hurries up to get back home.

The carrots, greens and spices

in my steaming bowl,

is the sight of love to me.

My head feels light

by the time she leaves.

I sit back in my bed,

retitle my poem “Thankfulness”.

 

21/9/2020

Not to be?

and then

The second half
Of the night
I was typing
Backspaces
In your chat window

7/9/19

Post siesta

I sit like a bean bag

My mother
serves me tea
for one millionth time.

The memory
of her unwrinkled hands
Spills over.

7/9/19

Absence

As I remember how
you would not settle for anything
but
absolute nakedness –

my body aches.

Of all colours
in the heart shaped wooden box,
No single pen writes.

The door bangs into me
without prior notice.

This place feels quite lonely, and
my head shrinks with emptiness.

I Know how
my poems become vapour
before you read them.

Even this very sentence
looks like
the last from me.

19/09/19

At 2 A.M in the Inpatient ward

Nothing philosophical about it.

Empty corridors;

duty nurse curled up
fast asleep in her cozy counter seat
still alert for emergency calls.

A junior doctor mumbles to herself
taking quick rounds
“This boring job, wish I could travel.“

In Room number 101
A semi-old body
still resisting
to get used to a brand new cripple;

His wife’s mobile blinking
somewhere in the room,
the text message says
“Mother, can’t do my turn tomorrow.”

The amplified noise of ECG machines
In 24/7 air-conditioned rooms:
Always voicing the hopeful heartbeats.

A mosquito flies onto the window sill,
no pun intended.

‘Weekly off’ for
the elderly sweeper lady
not able to wink
eager to visit her grandson.

Life goes on
for some.

3/3/19

Muse

I brush my hair in the golden morning sun.
Wafting around me the sweet scent of jasmine.
I hum that song of lament once again
as I make the pleats of my silk Saree in line.

Frustrated, I break myself free.
Holding tight the birdcage within, I roam
with some loose words in my purse,
leaving moonlight and butterflies far behind.
Life is a distant memory, Love is not everything,
just a mere ghost that haunts me all around.

Late that night, I call you.
It could be any other night, too.
You answer the phone this time,
how unusual!
Not knowing what to say, I stutter “Did you eat?”
“Uh… yes.” I pause. You confess.
“She cooks lamb well.” Honest as always.
Like when you skipped your vitamin tablets,
like when you slept with that other woman,
or something as silly as that.

“How are you?” you inquire as if you have to.
“Wonderful! Got all these lovely flowers and
adorable pets. It is so heavenly…”
I go on, not hearing
the clinking of ice dropping
in to the glass
or the giggles
of your friends pouring over it.
Or, it could be just her.

You don’t know what to say either
and you make meaningless sounds
hoping to mean something.
And then you burp. Loud and long.
You still don’t excuse yourself.
I hang up.

Now, here in this adorable heaven
amidst all these pigeons and parrots
or kittens or peacocks or mice
I begin to write after a long time.
That sour alcohol burp of yours
gave me a poem.

 

(ఈమాట ఫిబ్రవరి 2019)