Sand along the shore
whistled of majestic yesteryears
bells in the city
echoed deceitful nuptials
cold stars in the water
reverberated dead love
dusty rays of moon
staled with anticipation of change
wind tripped aimless
amassing prayer for all
Like poets
poems need to breathe
publishers jail them
in small boxed columns
poems die like poets
they need to breathe
[The idea for this poem was born from a discussion (with my friend ‘A’) on how poems are published in small columns. ‘A’ helped me ‘tighten’ the poem.]
[My friend ‘A‘ questioned me about the mention of cigarette in one of my poems. I explained and ‘A’ thought it was very poetic. So ‘A’ suggested we write a poem collaboratively, prompted by cigarette. Over facebook chat, me with my coffee and ‘A’ with a cigarette typed lines after lines to fill in the others blank. So here it is — ‘our’ poem. The last line is from TS Eliot.]
I hate the ads
I hate the manufactures
But I love it when he watches me smoke.
He never loved my curls,
But he desired the smoke that curled up my red wonju*.
Now,
a devilish grin curls his lips,
when I blow an ‘O’ –
proud of his protégée.
He used to tell me,
“It’s only with the ‘O’ you beat me. And that’s why I love you.”
And I smoked to get a perfect ‘O’
so he would love me more.
Three years of ‘O’
Now —
for him here’s a perfect ‘O’
but I hate the grin that curls up his lips
when he says, “Oh baby, once again.”
I inhale deeply
‘O’ my mouth; blow an ‘O’ at him.
I get up and leave
as he struggles to come out of the ‘O’
I look back; a devilish grin curl my mouth.
But his eyes, runs to me,
curls into the warmth of my smoke-stained fingers,
and tells me once again,
“Let us go, then you and I”
*wonju, one of the four pieces that make up Bhutanese women’s National dress, Kira. It is worn inside a tego (a kind of jacket.)
It was in the middle of the road
smashed like no one’s business
quizzing, I stared at its splashed juice for long
to take a snap of its orange flesh and white seeds.
I conjured stories about it
the reason it was there
not in someone’s plate
why a passing animal didn’t feed on it.
A man and wife going home from the farm
had a cat fight, clawing at each other
the wife hit him with it in anger
in-turn the man smashed it on the road.
The beggar’s son stole it from the garden
only to be seen by the farmer
who chased him heels on with a stick
in the process threw it at the farmer.
The rich man’s daughter was given it
lovingly she carried it home to cook
until she met her father on the way
who threw it away saying rich don’t feed on it.
The man shopped according to his wife’s list
put the loot on the back of his scooter
and having had it for all meals in a day
decided to smash it making it look like an accident.
Or maybe it happened to be there
just like I happened to be there
at that moment, just by chance
it was no one’s business to conjure stories about it.
WordsWorthMillions 