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
[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*.
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’
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.)