Summer without the heat: just sunshine and glory
Every bunch dripping with molten gold, chandeliers
Lighting a delirious dance in some glad apsara’s story
I’ve read of many Aprils now, cruelest of months
Or sweetest, depending on your poet. My ears
Have become tuned to its many songs, a daily
Epiphany, you might say, when each small, mundane
Thing beckons you to its lay. April is the Amaltas month
Each poem an exploding bloom of the secrets of the day.
Tag: April
April is the [your poem here] month
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.
An Amaltas Song for Anannya
April showers us with
Many things but mostly
Songs sung to each other’s
Muses. You could say, April has
Its uses, but mainly, the May
Flowers it brings are the gold
For which we sing.
Giti Chandra 