FLIGHT OF FANCY
Green and white,
crisscrossed by black
the tiles on the floor;
some drooping shy,
some free and wild,
spring-flowers through the door
to-
the staircase then
leading to when
they hopped over the fence
the cobbled snake
moved on to meet
a sprightly wilderness.
A look about
and furtive search
for rabbits in the dark
mushrooms and twigs
and berry things
not found in the park
climb up a tree
that doesn't know
its nature, name or fruit
hang upside down
and try to see
the world with wandering roots
the beehive or the weaver bird
don't spare a look or care
the clumsy vines,
the unkempt hair
who needs to stop and stare?
the frenzied brook
and the broody nook
with cradled rocks ahead
the deer, the doe
that briskly go
to the princely tiger's stead
then run askance
and leave behind
all glories
and the chase
if one would stop
to ponder much
they'd lose their wondrous gaze
hop, skip and jump
and lo, behold
the house is back in sight
what joy, what fun
in the winter Sun
and a chair-bound legless flight !
*****
WAIT FOR ME, TIME
I found my way back to this place, after a
long trek through mountainous terrain, sometimes treacherous but mostly
pleasantly tiring. Along the way, I met doubt, confronted pain, emerged
triumphant and resumed my step, trying to catch up with lost time, sailing
adrift a song:
Wait for me...
I’m breathless!
Don’t move so fast,
So reckless!
It’s a snaking spread
For me. For you?
just a darting spurt ahead.
I keep trying
t’ match your step
and just when
I think I’m dying
and barely up to speed,
with a teasing brush
of orchids
‘n’ spearmint
away you sprint
to another arduous lead.
I know you’re strong
don’t need to stop
at any curve or prong;
or even the coveted top;
what you have
I amply lack
the propensity of having
by virtue, vice or tact.
To travel light
like a mountain spring
or a string-less, hands-free kite
or a baby cloud
an empty shroud of
reflective, air-combs white
each one of these, a poet's muse
to the sky? -a wishful reverie
you never take
a walked-through path
yet beaten roads
are forced on me.
So, does that mean
that every walk
will be a test of strength?
I’ll keep calling, catching up
yet you will stay abreast?
Come now, my friend
call off this game
Go find a worthy opponent.
Henceforth, I give you not
any of you that’s mine;
you play with those
who have you none
and chase you so,
a-fleeting, O Good Time!
*****
MY
PINK, HANDCRAFTED CUPBOARD
In light
of assaults on women in recent times, these few lines are an attempt to relate
to the thoughts of a rape-survivor, who is trying to regain balance between the
trauma and her life prior to the incident.
It rings loud
and hollow
in its shiny
newness
my pink,
hand-crafted cupboard,
as I begin
to put in
one after
the other
vibrant
drapes
to adorn my
work and play.
Layer upon
layer
the shelves
and walls
absorb within
the clamour
of loud, soulful hues.
It was then
yesterday,
that I wore
on me
an apprehensive
thought
in rueful
blue
and paisley
yellow
as I ravaged
through
the pile of
clothes
from a brand
new cupboard
and straight
on to bed.
The void
inside
started to
grow
as the heap
on the bed
bled to the
floor.
The voice of
contempt
rang loud
and hollow,
like a void
hitting a
void;
guttural
sounds
running
straight into
a larger
empty space
on the
shelves now
and the walls
empty with
an emptier
nook within,
and hooks
and hangers
to put
frightful
memories on.
Was that
yesterday?
Some time
today…
…My hospital
bed
and the
white-washed sheet
is safe
because
an
unassuming apprehension
has been
replaced
by a
listless, sanitised calm.
But the soft
caressing
of cotton
sheets
can’t stop
my skin from
pricking
at the
recall of rough hands
like nettle
on unsuspecting skin
over my mouth
breasts and
thighs
engulfing
the memory
of my
father’s gentle fingers
and
brother’s benign wrist.
The hollows
in my eyes
stare at the
moment
that led me
to that space,
in which,
robes undone
mindlessly
lying
where they
didn’t belong
unclaimed,
unwanted
yet devoured
and relished.
I’ll take
them
To a tailor,
perhaps
or a
seamstress, that’s better
to darn the
gaping holes
or possibly
restitch
together
a patterned,
patch-work quilt
Would that
help?
The nurse is
not
a seamstress
She says she
doesn’t know.
I wonder as
I,
on this
hospital bed,
relive
in every
empty moment
thrusts
of ruthless,
mocking laughter
my body,
that cupboard
now a
gargoyle
for refusing
newer waste
Then and now.
Be brave
I’m told
stay strong
the only way
to be
Alive.
I am, always
was
and yet, now
I do not know
how to live
despite the
acerbic breathing
in a prickly
world
of
sympathetic stares
and
inquisitive cares
that dress me
like mouldy,
nettled fabric…
…I find all
around…
barter after
barter
trade after
trade
bravery for
safety
courage for
peace
comfort for
silence
blue for grey
red for white
And yellow
for an abysmal nude.
It’s
tomorrow now…
I’m home
and normalcy
rules
in the
corridor, lane, road
outside my
house.
And in the
loud
ringing
hollows
of my
cupboard,
I shall fold
the colours
to tuck them
away
in the
deepest nook;
I am now
learning
to refill
the emptiness
and order
the chaos
In my pink,
hand-crafted cupboard.
*****
ROCK, THE STAR
A rock can be a mountain,
and mountain becomes a rock
when shadows
come ahead of you
and the fiesty Sun behind
grips you at the ankles
it consumes
your smallness
that tallness
then purges
the mountain
and you, the rock.
At that step,
do turn around
and leave
the shadows behind
just run up to the Sun
through sweat and singeing skin
does that change the facts?
For some.
As the shadow then
gets to tail you
and before it
nails you
at the next pile of rubble
you have left
the mountain far
and you,
the rock
now, a hurtling shooting star.
*****
