To fall now would be something.
To plummet into the sky like an eagle
In the glories of the hunt; it’s wing
A crescent under the sun. To fall
Now would be a marvel, like death
Screaming out of the blue, awaiting
The tiny shards of life flying apart.
To fall now would be a homecoming
An April shower on trees both alien
And alike: where fear is the falling
And love is the spike.
Category: poetry
Settling Scores
Only 1 less than adult, just 1
More than teen. In between.
It’s a better place to be tonight
Than 20 20 at middle age
Staring at the empty page
With perfect hindsight.
Little Love Song
When the day is done and everyone’s asleep
And the TV blips and bleats like a barn full of sheep,
Images flicker through my heart, where I keep
My little love song for you.
I check my mail, I chat with friends,
Try not to pretend too much or offend.
There’s one conversation that never ends –
My little love song for you.
Not laundry, not dinner, not homework done,
Not bills, not leaky faucets, not scrambled eggs, none
Of what we talked about all day, silences the one
Thing with words that is true:
My little love song for you.
Take it and leave it
The things I take and the things
I leave, escape the webs
Of the words I weave. The waltz
I trip on iambic feet
Rips it’s skirts on the sharp and neat
Box edges. Such
Is the nature of much
Of departure’s detritus
And wedges.
It annoys me that things escape –
So assertive in their heaviness as
They are. This past I leave and
This past I take – it, too, dashes
Through separated clauses; gaps
Left ajar. No matter. Just a few more
Boxes. When I go, I’ll just leave this
Tacked to the door.
Love Poem 3
Everyone’s writing love poems
Love letters in the sand
Crossed out lines, rhymes
Underscored. Everyone’s writing
About loss and longing
Mines of lust, bodies unmoored.
Me, I think my love was written
Many lives ago. Poets wise
And wise men smitten have
Wandered this night before.
I look at you and the words that fill
My mind are tried and true.
Content to be their song until
We’re both unmade anew.
91 Days
91 days, and still
my dreams are full of leaving.
Just a few nights ago I dreamt
Again, of that last box
That needed to be packed
After all the rest were done
Hundreds and hundreds of boxes
All reduced to this one.
And yesterday it was a suitcase
The last, on the final day;
And in that dream I found
Patent leather shoes, deep maroon,
From maybe twenty five years ago,
As good as new. So I put them
In too. And strange letters of farewell
From earlier goings away. But then
I had come back, to stay.
Night after night I sort through my things
Frantic not to leave anything important
Behind. And through the day
I ransack my dreams, searching
For that desperate something
That escaped all those boxes
Sleepless, to find
What it is that
I’ve left behind.
Love’s Grace
I don’t know how to be
Anything other than this mouth
That you kissed. I don’t
Know how I’ll see
Anything other than
Your face. I wished
Once that I would be
Loved beyond love’s grace.
Now I don’t know how to be
Something less than this.
“If on a winter’s night”
They say the Grey Wolf
Brings hope with its return. They
Say, she brings clean
Waters, clear skies. That they mate
For life and kill to protect
Their own.
If the wolf were at my door, would I
Raise my hands to provide her prey
Ask for Spring my soul to save
Or step out and pray for the joy to dance
With the night and shiver
On a silvery howl. A giver
Of stars in the forests
Of chance.
“Ah love, let us be true to one another” – a love poem on the occasion of the Blood Moon of a lunar eclipse and a close encounter with Mars
If I said I was mad, would
You cast your face in my shadow?
If it were all I had, could you
Bring back the waters, inspire
And breathe back my madness
To me? If all about me, a sadness
Brought the War God into your arms
Would you stoke the storms with desire,
Ransom your blood to dawn?
If I were the sun that stole your light
Would you still dance with me under
Cover of night?
The Unhappy People
The unhappy people leave their beds
Neat. Covers flat. Corners straight.
It’s not like they would falter
In their aim when they throw
Early morning water into their eyes
To bring themselves awake.
If it were me or you, we’d never see
The crumpled sheet
The pillow askew
After all, the shoes we hurry on
Our impatient feet
Are used to having
something new
to wake up to.
Giti Chandra 