Skip to main content

You

it is still too early to say
what memories will crystallise around you
for now it is the bedpan not emptied from last use
and your room smells of ointments and pills
and your damning of the whole world

but once my tears have dried
and the puja flowers withered
perhaps you will freeze

i will put in the black and white photos
on a boat in a lake in a cheap hill station
when you first let me down

and the mundan of the first-born
where your mother made such a fuss

and that stupid photo from a middling age
of the reception of some cousin of yours

and yes the shaadi ka video and the cassette
guiding our kid reciting nursery rhymes

certainly all the unrecorded fights
for you never earned enough and drank too much
and never bought enough flowers

and that never do well son you gave me
who lamented loudly at the funeral
and your sisters
let us not talk about your sisters

no I will not make up a box of memories
because you know I would not myself be reduced
to an 8 by 10 frame with withered flowers

(Longlisted by the RaedLeafPoetry-India 2013 Awards)

Comments

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