Poetry you suffer
at the hands of pimps
and yet you blush
to the delight of your true loves
is it when eyes droop red and lactic acid does bleed
in your veins no blood is left that you be a beast?
On walls I paste, whose colors decline,
‘Wanted’ posters for those lost times!
I keep your belongings,
Our belongings; safe;
For the day we will reconcile
And thus it was that the Earth made light
Shine where it had been forever dark.
… in a warm July you lay Christened and smiling … While I, a guest in your green court, At a West window sat and…
That night, the veil of clouds; Torn by a streak of lightening Led once to the arrival Of that infant so born, To face the…
Stretched between wakefulness and oblivion; identity’s rebellion and sleep’s persuasion; I fiddled with the bitter cold star inside me. Dead star with dead dreams at its core….
a few meters away the church bells ring
and earthen lamps light a prayer for a son
daughters don’t get burial in this land
He remembered his father’s face,
Grey eyes, with a cold gaze,
His mother’s proud stance,
As she threw him a final glance.
She placed her chair so gently on the ground, so that it doesn’t make the slightest of sound, for he read his poem, in that…
Your memories will give me dull heartaches,
but that’s so much better than the shimmering agony
We fold mistakes like clothes,
keeping them alive for another day.
Errors turn into kettle-fossils.
Roshni Menon shares a poem that is also an acrostic reflecting on life.