STIFLED by under currents

A long day at work

finds me a bowl of sevaiyaan

waiting at home with a friend

sharing her warmth of Ramadaan

We exchange smiles and small conversations

in the backdrop of a TV closing up

on spuming swears, stones,

ejaculating blood

             -         of a deeper red
my friend wears a kameez,

 enveloping her skintone and hopes

The golden zari

delicate like the strands of noodles

sugared and soaked in the bowl of milk,

shimmer a tranquility of the evening light

that would soon paint itself

in my diyas for Diwali

I sashay between this moment and

the ones gone by…

                …The cab driver feels his Taqiyah,

answering a call for his well - being

and the curfew

…those roads to Imambara

cloaked with elusive rumours

and hasty tracks

…the forgotten routes

and bangles of Charminar

An existence

on this road feigning normalcy

I empty furrowed brows

into the Muezzin’s call,

into the sacred conch,

into the cupped vacuum of the crescent moon

invoking smiles, conversations

and a hollow resilience

Under currents of religious factionalism never die. Do they?

diya: lamps we light for diwali

Sevaiyaan: Indian noodles roasted, and cooked in milk and sugar

Imambara: A shrine in the city of Lucknow, India built by Shia muslims.

Charminar: one of the oldest minarets in the city of Hyderabad, India.

kameez: Indian wear for women
Taqiyah: Prayer cap worn by Muslims.
zari: threadwork

For dverse Poetics where Mary tends the bar. This was an old piece and thanks to Abhra's twitter feed i got time to polish this. A bit more is required, well, revision is an on-going process. :)

DREAM CATCHER (inspired by Brooke Shaden)

(Photo Credit: Brooke Shaden; More of her at http://brookeshaden.com/gallery/)

You hand me five balloons

drawn on pink paper of dreams

Your teacher has listed:

1

2

3

of your matchless beauty leaving

4

5

for me – ‘THEY’ stare back,

...Mother knows best

weaving butterflies of your choice

flitting along your path of dreams

growing with breaths of spring

as you twinkle laughter in insouciant caress

of petal-like cut from the remnants of that pink paper

I wonder what could define you as unique,

bowing down to ticking pauses of seconds

shameful, unable

to spell the names of your colours – 

Mother knows best...

Don’t ‘THEY’ know?

You are an undisguised blessing – gift

wrapped by an umbilical cord

listening to my unheard footsteps,

while I beat the daily noise and

tie your feet in anklets for and of conveniences

often, shadowing them as call of duty

4

5

–What do I write about my harvest moon?

Poetics: Passion of Brooke Shaden. 

Post midnight here (IST). will catch up soon

Ganesh Chaturthi

This year

we make idols of clay mud,

sifting little stones

in the mud, I replace

 those pockets with my baggage,

moulding with touch-drops of water

in this dry spell

I let my excesses bind, concrete,

decked up  for a journey, sans foot-

prints, which would see

these idols to the sea,

they would be swept away by frothy gurgles

in this dry spell

the decorations shimmer ….

death rattles

pulling away those dear to me,

I make an umbrella for the idol, now seated

in the puja room

away from this dry spell

  

Linked to Harvest – Open Link Night.

 

Ganesh Chaturthi is celebrated every year in India. Lord Ganesh is one of the prominent deities worshiped in India. He is considered an epitome of success and any new beginning is marked by worshipping him. It is believed that once in a year he comes to visit his people, stays with them for ten days and takes away all their sorrows. After ten days, the idols are immersed in water.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

NON STOP.....

If only

I could possess a remote control

to flip through happenstances

as if

my thoughts could direct

the tides retrospectively

What if

I could govern the sands of time

churning for whimsicals

I wonder

if I would be perfidious

to my own being

only to

stifle these moments that count in

grace – every breathing second

ordained to

wait for the pages to unfold themselves

and reveal me in the passing lights of time

For Poetics – Time and Time Again

SCRIPTING POETRY

A pollen

seeds scattered thoughts

growing leaf, leaves

sprouting shoots, off-shooting

on a chalkboard

where I carry the wind along

whistling to whispered creations

As if it is for the muse to wonder
about a rainbow

while I ponder how much more

I need to walk this distance
counting molecular dew drops and

their spectrum of perceptions –

A journey

taken on those mackerel clouds

curves, unseen, bears down words

seldom chosen but reared

in a kaleidoscope of reflections

Each time my meanderings

find me a room and dear warmth

to sit, stretch, find my roots in a root offered

to knit syllables of my voice

into verses familiar amongst and

amidst people I know as poets

No longer alone, I continue…

So here comes one more of my irregular knocks raising a toast to poetry and poets. Happy third anniversary, dVerse. 

THE WHEEL SPINS

In a striped pinafore over a white shirt,

our daughter begins kindergarten

in a new school

She leaves behind the summer

her facets of fear in the swimming pool

With a back pack sporting Pinocchio

the milieu promises through her spectacles

She waves ‘have a nice day’ before

we lose her in a class of similar frames

Soon she would trace footprints

with her feet secured in laced shoes

She would drape her assents and dissents

often more than not

leaving a  s  p  a  c  e 

between us and her…soon

Soon…sooner than not

she will find the spokes

in the wheels of time

the then and now

mirroring

just the way we did

just the way we do

for OpenLinkNight – June, 2014 – summer is not so quite over but vacation is and dotty is back to school and with her we are back to the schooling ways! and hopefully poetry will trickle back again. Wish you all a happy break and hope to be more in swing for the three year celebs. 

as if there is a full stop to where words take me

Ripples

swell my contours

amidst conversations draped casual

as I envelope the events emerging

from folds of time into

a minute swinging the present and a past

How I steal

time to confront

when left to count the autumn petals

sowed in black and white snippets

The wind flutters

gathering the ‘news’ for me

while I succumb to dictated ironies

of my four year old’s innocence

Often more than not

I journey with words

and yet

fail to quantify or perhaps, qualify

(as if it can be done so)

How some are left

to drift

with that faraway boat

disappearing into the horizon

If only

I could paint the contrasts

on a window

halved to open and close together

the sunrise and sunset

the unseen void lives accepted

light streams in, nevertheless

MeetingTheBar ~ When words fail

I have drifted, let me confess. Began somewhere, went somewhere and ended somewhere. Too many 'news' in my family. i think it tends to trickle in.

MY FOLIAGE

How

I spend

fleeting moments

stretching to whisper, swaying

twittering through the dawn breeze

reveling in plush shades of green envy

Carving out an escape from a cloud patch

I seek to embrace a filtered sunbeam

to hide from dictated happenstances

Trembling in the morning dew

the pollen seeks new home

sprouting evolved offerings

of misgivings in landscapes

rising in sharp contours

of the day

melting

flowing

down my

spirit

I leave

footprints

cycling

through

fears of

excesses

spilling on

tomorrow

dreaming

petrichor

IF

it                   exists

another                        day

Poetics: Tree poetry

Thank you Abhra, Such a wonderful prompt! I have been running a hectic schedule and it seems it will be so for a month more or perhaps more. :) Will catch up soon with people on the trail!

I IN SELFIE - deFINeD

I got a name for ‘Who are you’?

Echoing my contours

MUCH before I learnt to see and hear

Now melanin sheaths

Wane and wax to morph

with choices, chances and discretion

Rippled views tune

broken phrases and unsung songs

as I wipe brushstrokes

of rainbow stars

in a rendezvous with the blood moon

The breeze soaks my parched dreams

cooling the pouches of tear streaks

proliferating accepted perceptions

What more could become of me?

What more could be unbecoming of me?

My catharsis
criss-crossing my palms

tickles to the touch of grass

rustles apprehensive to a dewdrop

Inconclusive, it continues - the journey

For a tint of grey for my hair, unseen

crinkle a bit of my skin - vestiges of memories

tingle the tear glands

to swallow a breath

Ambling to cuckoo calls and tweets

on cracked heels

I tick time till time ticks on me

Finding SELF

Till the soil finds me

So very meandering like me...

MeetingTheBar: Self Portraits

THE PROCESS

I listened

as she counted

the autumn leaves

crackling under her feet

and those still hanging

to the branch

painted green while

sinking into unison

with the night’s carpet

I listened

as she counted

the stars

refusing a moonbeam

exercising a choice

to wear down with time

into time

ticking, nevertheless

I listened

as she counted

the motley grains of dust

filtering inside the room

fathomed to cloak the dawn

gathering the leaves in slumber

into cycles of destined motions

I listened

as she counted

“two months, ten days”-

As the clock began to sync

with the re-defined contours

Draping her twilight

she counted

re-counted

I listened-

the least that I could do

was listen

MeetingTheBar– Emotion in poetry

COMBING YOUR DREAMS

(a pic in daughter's book; she coloured it)

Caressing the mirror

you bend your head backwards

wishing for your curled locks

kiss your knees

You wonder aloud if you could shade them

‘Barbie pink’

while I try to undo the knots

slow…

one by one…

You call out ‘Rapunzel!’

harvesting the tale in plush green shades

of your newly acquired vocabulary

Breathing azure, smiling sunflower

you weave scarlet dreams tinting the strands

spilling indigo hued dew

that shimmer fluorescent in your eyes

smiling in cherry red blushes

The vacuum in between the bristles

fills rainbow from your tresses

cocooning the shaft and me in you –

never-grey

All it takes is a brushstroke

to paint this naked journey

OpenLinkNight– March 2014

I missed the linky for the colours prompted by Abhra at Poetics last week. Though this was not the piece written for it, I am linking another one here based on the picture coloured by daughter in her book.

NOT EVERYTHING IS MORTAL

I count for folds of time

dusting old albums

blowing open sepia…

…The pedestal fan whirrs

noting the stillness, waiting

for seconds to tick the day

I cup the sunbeam

filtering in the room

through glass roof – tiles

sparrow chirps

break the noon silence…

…The pedestal fan whirrs

in semi-circle views of milieu

holding to tests of time, people

Through the bamboo blinds

I count the footsteps

pressing the sparkling grains of mud

waiting for an umbrella shadow…

…The pedestal fan whirrs

integrating me with corners

that house wrinkled journeys

Grandparent’s youth stays framed

in b & w on the old- white wall

present in seeming absence

of any acknowledgement…

…The pedestal fan whirrs

capturing the corridor miles

immeasurable in memories

Fanned by coconut leaves

the stone in the backyard remains

barred idyllic, standing with children

shuddering to grandpa’s admonition…

…The pedestal fan whirrs

seeping in a mundane routine

yet, not skyscraper(ed) pursuits

The pedestal fan whirrs

those summers noon

even today…

…That pedestal fan whirrs

no longer

For Meeting the Bar ~ Rhythm and Blank Verse 

some fond memories of my paternal ancestral home where I spent my summer vacation. Summer sets here in India and with every summer those memories kindle me with fondness.