Category: poetry

April is the [your poem here] month

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Disastrous as it was, it happened in April

Insignificant as it seems, I saw it in April. Cool

As she always is, I met her in April; fun

As it is each time, this time it was done

In April; breathtaking as it appears in the mornings

This morning was a morning in April. Myth-making

Sense-waking voice-breaking choice taking

Tree-shaking leaf-raking only happens when every

Branch gifts a leaf in the pages of poetry that

Pile at your feet that you scatter with your

Pen in the verse-shattered sheet that is April.

The Curious Case of the Incident in the Kitchen

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Such a good word, ‘supine’. I 

Thought about that, sighing, as I 

Felt the bones uncrack, the muscles

Unscream, the nerves unjangle, 

Stretched out my crumpled spine,

Happy to finally uncurve my back. Of

Course, that is when the kitchen chose

To attack. First I heard the mixie whirr – 

The younger was there pottering and I

Seriously thought it had helicoptered away

With her. I ignored it. The demand on my

Supined Self was high, and I couldn’t afford it.

Then came the shrieks and squawks, the splash

The spill. I mean, forget explosive, we’re talking

Chernobyl. 

Long story short, it was everywhere. Banana mango

Ooze on counter, cabinet, oven and chair, gloop

Underfoot and glops in the hair, and the wailing

At the loss of labour and shake too much to bear.

The family wonders now why the kitchen is shining.

I wonder what happened to my plans of supining.

Lullaby for whoever needs it (to the tune of ‘Greensleeves’)

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Anxiety, you do me wrong,
To task me so discourteously
For I have shunned you, oh so long
Undesiring of your company.

Deep sleep is all I want,
Deep sleep here in my bed
Deep sleep would be nice right now
So please get out of my head.

If you think you and I are friends,
I can’t say that I blame you
But this is where our friendship ends
Don’t make me up and shame you.

Anxiety, you’re meant to be
A sign of dysfunctionality
Anxiety, oh don’t you see
No fun is had in your society.

So Anxiety, farewell, adieu
There’s other words that I won’t use
But one begins with an F and you
Will hear it if you refuse.

Anxiety, if you were me
You’d find someone else to do
And I would find somewhere else to be
Anxiety, if I were you.

A Song for Venus

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She rises and sets with the sun, her brightness

Second only to the moon. The one 

Woman among the nine – or eight if you 

Consider size –  born to bear life, like Earth.

The wings of Icarus fell like the borrowed 

Feathers they were; the body of Venus tells 

The story of every woman who ventures

Too near the light, every blasted rock testament

To the fierce and fiery fight. Like every

Woman’s skin scorched and blighted, Venus’s

Face frights the timid-sighted. For pity

Of man’s eyes, a mantle drapes her livid scars

And so she blazes briefly in the skies, defying

Sun and moon, in a sisterhood of stars.

Mr Joe the Therapy Cat

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Generally concerned, but in particular, that

When a choice is offered of laptops

The troubled hoomans prefer to hold

The one that makes them frown and groan

And flail about and droop and drop. He wishes

They would simply do as they were told

And exercise their digits on his back and

Chin. One can see his patience is running 

Thin, in fact is almost gone. He would much

Prefer their laptops to the ones that

He is on.

My Art Will Go On

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“You know”, I say, as I tuck my fingers between hers,

“My teacher put balls of crumpled brown paper

Between mine.” She grimaces, part ai-ai part

Ew, but her fingers figure out what to do.

She fans them out, positions the bow,

And launches into the famous Titanic ballad. Slow,

Painful, amid much cracking and clattering,

I hear the music emerge. That is how I know

It goes on. This feel of the wood singing

Under the fingertips, forgotten so long

The urgings of the kid bringing the old 

Joy surging back into the veins. The art

Strains the wrist, but the heart 

Has little respect for middle age’s aches 

And pains. And goes on. 

A Hundred and One Nights of the Falcon

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Where I come from, no gift comes in round numbers. No ten

Rupees is ever given, it is always eleven, a token

Of not finishing, not ending, the extra one a harbinger

An invitation, a wish, a granting of plenty, of more

To come. Auspicious, we call it. A bringing to the fore

Of a promise for the years before the young. Where

I come from there is a tale of a clever woman who staved

Off death with a thousand tales, each one saved

For another night won, a full thousand and one. Where

I come from, legend has it that women sat vigil not 

One night or two, not a couple, a handful, a dozen, a 

Few. Stories are told in hushed tones of a full hundred 

And one, every thrower of stones has heard it, every 

Wielder of guns. Songs are sung of the women of the night

Who spread their wings, became falcons, and took flight.

Flowers in One Sitting

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Pabbi would buy flowers whenever he could.
At home this was an expensive and not often
Done thing. Elsewhere the very streets beckoned
The colours were rich and the prices were good.
Mom could take anything green to her heart
And in her hands it would bloom just to please
Her, and on her table it would blossom into
Art. The kids, one summer, brought bunches
Of wild lupin, blue as ceramic jugs, home
From their wanderings. Their grandmother
Found bowls and vases and white watering
Cans in which they lounged, nonchalant
In their riotous glory. You could say
It’s a family story. My inept floundering
When it comes to things beautiful and bright.
It’s a good thing I get the shadows right.

Courage #9 – Still Life: A lockdown poem

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The trick lies in the highlights
You set them in strong. Pure
Dazzling bright whites. To shoulder
The weight of the darks. Take care
To register what you see only. Not
What you know is there. The shape
Of all seen through each, shapes
The sense of all.
Stillness lies in the eye of the beholder.
Things move apart to come together again.
The beauty is all in the transitions
The glow the shimmer the shine the glitter
The overlay of time on space. And when
Memory is all there is to work from
There is still life still colour still observance
Still courage in grace.