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.
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.
Time 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.
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.
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!
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.
a requiem half-remembered
an autumn-winged bird
contradicts the monsoon sky
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!
dark monsoon night-
a drunken moon
slips on the balcony tiles
in my bed a sleeping moon
and an empty bottle of wine
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!
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.