Skip to main content

To the dog who tore my heart

indolent, half-lifted eyelid.
A tail wagged drowsily.
A half-whine of acknowledgment.

A limp, reluctant handshake
and taunting dejection
on not getting the promised biscuit.

A quiet, piercing stare
as the clock strikes six
that hour of his business.

An ambling unconcerned walk,
immune to tugs on the leash
and no interest in thrown balls.

Fingers clasped firmly in teeth,
a demonstration of power
that was right now not being used.

Hungry, innocent eyes
pleading for dinner, not counting
the meal consumed minutes ago.

The quiet snore,
teeth half-exposed in warning
to let sleeping dogs lie.

Just like the quiet vacuum
unfilled by furry memories
of the dog who tore my heart.


Aayushi Mehta said…
This is the second post about dogs you've written, anyways, loved this, it almost tore my heart too!
Unknown said…
Romi, the poem is so good...shows a beautiful picture of him...miss him so much...want to hear his impatient bark for his ball one more time. or his glares if he is not taken out on time!!
Ozymandias said…
To the very end of our lives, these are wishes that will never be emptiness nothing can fill

Popular posts from this blog

She's complicated

She's complicated. She'll charm you with charts, statistics and that corporate smile. But look into those eyes, they're fiercely bohemian. She's complicated. Her chatterings seem to resonate with happy sounds, but listen with the other ear, to an unhidden lament. She's complicated. Her silences agonise, her voice echoes in her absence. And yet there is a mild dread as her name flashes on the ringing phone. She's complicated. Sometimes she's a poetess, shallow, romantic, trying to hide a sardonic, world-weary wit. She's complicated. She could be a spiteful Fury, wrath unabated, but that's just to hide the lamb-hugging girl within. She's complicated. She's an enchantress, a fool, a tyrant, a nurse, an imp, a priestess, but she's generally a good friend. She's complicated. Published in Making Waves - A Poetry Anthology , ed. Pam & Bill Swyers; Swyers Publishing 2011. ISBN: 978-0-9843113-6-1.

Nellie, 1983

Very often the sun rises in warm, golden rays on opening buds, birdsong and dewdrops, and the stench of stale death. Very often the sun rises Upon mutilated men - blood drying over their eyes and gore-caked machetes rusting in their abdomens. Very often the sun rises over hyaenas fretting over the carrion going waste - they can eat no more, nor can the vultures. Very often the sun rises on a day already defeated - shrieking, screeching, screaming, demanding that it go back for there was peace in the night. Published in Tranquil Muse 2018.

The Flying Scotsman

Yont   brattlin  clood an seelent glen Tweetlin a-lood the ingine skirls this noisome train wi lanely men hame-comin whaur thair lassies birls whit lends thay awe, an whit dets thirls whit ailin mam, whit seekly bairn thair dreams forby the train-smeuk swirls bi new gless tour or auncient cairn thay ken nae sang, thaur herts made airn thair mynds full o the twalmonth tack regairdless o loch, pen or tairn thay anely think o whit thay lack ay but thinkna muckle o it ye an a, we're an aw in it Published in Amaravati Poetic Prism 2017 ed. Padmaja Iyengar, Cultural Centre of Vijayawada & Amaravati