Micropoetry in all its glorious forms is the essence of communication – succinct, layered, seductive and beautiful in its soulful brevity. Am going to be posting micropoetry every day, all through November. Thought I’d warm up my blog with a couple of tanka I posted on twitter earlier. If you’d like to write micropoetry with me by sharing your poem (in the comments section) or link (using the Mr Linky widget), do let me know. Who knows, it might be a fun journey – saying little, saying a lot, travelling far.
after long weeks
the grey monsoon
packs its clouds and leaves-
the turmeric sun
smiles like a stranger
a boy with a kite
was just that-
a tethered dream
writing haiku on empty cerulean
Say hello, share a poem, join the conversation!
What colour is a fallen leaf in the dark? I watched him measure
libations of water and sesame seeds, chanting under his
breath. It was Amavasya, the period of the dark moon, the time
for sacred rituals for the dead. The silver spoon trembled in his
wrinkled hand. How many times had he sat there at the appointed
hour, remembering grandpa, and great-grandpa who wasn’t even a
photograph, just a pixelated memory of a twirled moustache and
great coat, a man who had predicted that the British would not
last the summer. His son met my eyes from a row of framed pictures,
an almost frown, disapproving of my slouched incongruence. The oil
lamp spilt its liquid fire on brass bowls of vermillion and turmeric,
stark against his snow white hair. When had he aged so much? When
had the carmine and gamboge hues of his fleeing autumn become so
cold to my touch. What colour exactly is death in the morning?
You come to me on salt crusted knees, your green
eternity throbbing against my cold ephemera
as my vision moults in a reverse alchemy
that corrodes your gold to velvet pitch,
you bring your unending pretensions to
godliness, you question my faith, what will you
be without my perception, how will you measure
your foreverness without my fleeting gaze,
who leaves and who remembers, who bears more
the visceral rub of the changing moon, know that
I am the child of an imploded star, a burst of
causal consciousness, yet you who swallow
rivers and corrupt rain, you who bed the sun
and awaken time, who will wait for you on these
naked shores when I am gone, who will tell you
what your wetness really means?
Published on Visual Verse
I am the new autumn that will not disrobe my trees,
what perversion requires such debauched rhythms?
What new life must be wrought by denying the old,
can’t we tempt the sun to adopt our bespoke rituals?
Remember the spring we dreamt up unseen colours and
our rainbows wore more than seven bands, what
happened that you now denude that spectrum and crave
bare silhouettes pressed against silent nights? There
are still hues beneath my fingernails where they dug
into the painted flesh of that last summer. I am the
autumn that cannot let go and face a monochrome winter,
why does love have to change and fall before each rising?
My poem, Two Suns, has been published in the second issue of the Parentheses Journal. Many thanks to the editors, Sneha Subramanian Kanta and Harshal Desai.
In the evening,
from the steps of the temple tank,
I watch him scatter the yellow light…. read more
The fifth edition (October 2017) of The Cherita, Volume 2: “When I can’t sleep” has two of my poems on pages 129 and 141. Many thanks to Ai Li, creator of the form and editor of this issue.
Was it not Vishnu, as half man-half lion, who disembowelled
evil, at twilight, neither day nor night, on the golden threshold,
neither inside nor out, held on his lap, neither on earth nor in the
sky, his sharp claws and teeth, neither alive nor dead. Does good find
a way around corners, over walls, through the wind? I stand on a
precipice, at the intersection of a whisper, neither sound nor silence,
on the cusp of surrender, neither mine nor yours, one foot in the
air, neither staying nor leaving. There is tea bubbling on a stove
somewhere. Sweets are laid out on silver trays with a bowl of moon
neither empty nor full. I try them on, strapped to my back, eagle
wings, the colour of freedom, neither dark nor light. The clouds
make way for me, half god-half bird, eyes wet with stardust.