It rained again today…

As if life was found,            accidentally, when
we took a wrong turn from             death: a
shell lying on a shore               that

it shouldn’t, that

it couldn’t,

yet, within it, the            roar of the entire
ocean. Today, I held life up          to my ear, it’s
voice was wet like rain, it       wondered

if I should.

If I could.

Poetry Tuesday #4 – Blue

And for the last Poetry Tuesday offering this November, the prompt is ‘Blue’ – sky, sea, mood, music, sapphires, ink – blue is where poems begin! Blue was also the soul of my first poetry collection ‘Water to Water

Here’s my poem for the prompt today. Share yours using the Mister Linky widget below. Thanks to all those who’ve been part of this series with their thoughts and poems. Maybe we’ll do another one sometime soon!

 

 

On the other side of rain

The rain comes first and then the darkness,
then the fear, then the silence – louder than
the rain on glass and tile, darker than the
night, afraid of itself, holding me like a long
lost lover. If you were here, I would tell you
there are sixteen types of quiet. In fifteen of
them, I talk to you without saying a word. A
yellow chrysanthemum describing itself to
a moonless sky. Tonight, you speak and I
point to my ear and shake my hand, you are
too far away – on the other side of rain, at the
beginning of a protracted monsoon. Silence
breathes hard, holding my face in its hands.
Isn’t conversation easier when someone is
actually talking? The blue sky explaining to
the blue lake why they are both colourless.

Another Season

They said today, the monsoon will arrive in the first week of
June. Like it always does. We outlast summer because we know

the wet will come. We survive the rains because we know that
by Diwali, the clouds will begin their retreat. We get through the

festive season because the cold numbs our fevered brow. In April,
the first mangoes will ripen in the sun. There is always another

season. There is always another reason. One more transformation. One
more repetition. Our mortality is never in question as long as the variables

are constant. It is the unchanging that we fear. A forever downpour.
An endless summer. A predictable love. A world refusing to fall apart.

But Skin Is Different

There are indentations in the blue
porcelain like impressions on soft
wax where it was held softly, when

the tea was warm, for a while, and it
would not stop raining. We leave marks
on things that least expect it, on a passing

wing, on yellow afternoons, on the serrated
silhouette of leaves against a midnight
moon, on time standing on one leg, back

against the far wall, waiting. Truth is a
collage of careless fingerprints, the rain can
draw your picture from the way your hand

caressed the clouds, but skin is different,
naked skin can be cleansed, memory carries
the deliberate guilt of sieved pain. This tea is

cold, a level certainty in an imperfect cup, it
is only mid-June, the sun flattens like an
unleavened candle, and it will not stop raining.

Micropoetry Month: Nov 2017: #7

Micropoetry MonthTime for a Tanka, don’t you think. Always a massive challenge to get right, a tanka can be crafted in so many ways but I believe it works better if it says much more than the five lines allow and says it with subtlety, emotion and mindfulness.

Write your own tanka or any other kind of micropoetry and share it through comments or Mister Linky.

uneasy,
this monsoon sky
heaves inside my heart-
how can I hear his footsteps
in the pounding rain

This tanka takes me back to a poetweet (exactly 140 characters long including spaces and punctuation) I wrote almost three years ago:

A mango tree
outside my window
has broken into song.
Hush, I warn,
gather your boughs,
rein in your leaves,
tonight he may whisper his love.

 

Micropoetry Month: Nov 2017: #2

Micropoetry Month A quadrille (44 word poem) and a haiku on this second day of November! And yes, the monsoon is still on my mind and in my soaked shoes! After a record breaking season, the retreating NE monsoon seems to have more to say.

Join the party with your own micropoem- in the comments section or using Mister Linky. There are no rules- whatever the muse whispers!

(1)

somewhere an autumn
tumbles through the space
between bough and earth,
shrouding the sins of summer,
but what do I know of fall,
here the rain collects in
cloud coloured puddles,
the sky is giving way,
my face wears the mask
of improbable winters.

(2)

a requiem half-remembered
an autumn-winged bird
contradicts the monsoon sky

 

Micropoetry Month: Nov 2017: #1

Micropoetry Month I’m kicking off the Nov 2017-Micropoetry Month with a couple of modern haiku/senryu. If the poems or the theme or just the idea of micropoetry inspires you, then do join in by sharing your poems in the comment section or adding a link to your poem using the Mister Linky widget. Or just drop in, read and say hello!

(1)

dark monsoon night-
a drunken moon
slips on the balcony tiles

(2)

first light,
in my bed a sleeping moon
and an empty bottle of wine

Month of Micropoetry – Coming Up

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.

(1)

after long weeks
the grey monsoon
packs its clouds and leaves-
the turmeric sun
smiles like a stranger

(2)

before poetry
a boy with a kite
was just that-
a tethered dream
writing haiku on empty cerulean

Say hello, share a poem, join the conversation!

The Monsoon, Now Gone

For three months, the monsoon, now gone, was an
indulgent elder, pretending to listen to me while arm

wrestling with an impotent sun, the spot where we
sat on the back steps still dark, smelling of earth and

mothballs . I told him those stories about us, the ones
we have forgotten, but it grew wilder the nights the

moon tried to rise above the thick soup floating in
from the Bay of Bengal.  Oh, how she dances that one,

in hysterical discord, her breast a pale watery half disc
gleaming through the tangled mass of cloud and rain and

words that had stopped rhyming. And then I recalled
the day we walked, soaked to the skin, our one umbrella

broken, the roads like rivers, laughing because the night
had fallen into a tin of cooking oil and we couldn’t even

see our hands in the greasy black and it wouldn’t let up
and it wouldn’t end and I was crying and the monsoon

stopped combing his long grey hair, eyes moist, and that
crazy moon, she finally stood still, frowning, remembering.

Half Past Dawn

,saturday morning, ashen, as if this monsoon has stapled itself
to the sky and will never leave, the deluge will wash away

everything, even sins, even sinners, the levitating fear that
woke me up before dawn is still rising, though I’m afraid the moon

will be much too cold to touch, the numbness with which I greet
the news is surrounded by a hollow moat that aches as a flaccid

sun wakes, how much more, a woman is killed, a child is raped,
hurricanes line up in the ocean like planes waiting to land, maybe

if the earth opens up like an orange, so we can fix it wedge by
wedge, stripping fibre, spitting out bitter seeds, biting into

summer, remember the juice running down our chins, we were
laughing, not a cloud in the blue, the sky schooling us to cover

our blemishes, it is raining again, someone is gathering clothes
hung out on the line, blue jeans, wet as fear, the saturated ground

is refusing rain that pours and pours, the sea, filled with storms,
is refusing water, so it waits, turning the colour of absent light,

a bleeding orange, unwedged, how much more, the hollows ache as
they drown the dead, but we are laughing, wiping juice on our collars,

pointing at the untainted sky, the moon, wrapped in cloud, is cold
as ice, summer burning my throat, saturday morning, half past dawn,