In verse: Confession

Ma, I think I found a name
for that sharp feeling welling up in my bosom
when my friends narrate stories of their fathers:
resentment.

In verse: PET scan

I see a horror movie, a skeleton
with bones that glow bright orange.
(they call it cancer.)

I can't put a colour on the pain.

pome-let.

When I die, my dear,
think of me,
a flower that bloomed
along a quiet path.



---
I wrote it about this time last year.

In Verse: To Dad

Written on 6th April
The tube light went poof today, daddy.
I climbed chairs and tables, and played tinker,
just like I remember you did, so many moons ago.
I remember, we'd stand by the switchboard,
jiji and I, and we'd get to play with the switch.
On. Off. On. Off. On. And then it glowed.
How did you do it, dad, how did you coax
light off it? Well, you are gone now, and all I have
is finger-dots on a dusty, distinctly unhappy tube. 

In verse: To ma

Written in April 2011 

To ma (or why I got wet this evening)

Do not look at me so, mother, I truly hadn't intended
to get so drenched. Only, I was outside
when the raindrops came calling on our hibiscus.
It was all stiff and formal at first,
but then, they began to play this light, bouncy tune,
and the stems an' leaves danced so spiritedly,
I just had to join in the merriment.

In Verse: To Dad

I.
Every night last winter, I covered you with a warm blanket,
and as I watched you sleep, sewed a patch onto my memory-quilt;
I knew it would be far too cold when you'd be gone.

II.
The fire goes out. Goodbye.
That quilt lies buried in nothingness;
I float in the cold.

In verse: To Dad

I switch on your old radio; 
     its tunes wander 
into all the corners of the house  
          you aren't there.

In Verse: To Dad

I cannot seem to find a poem
in that quiet sense of belonging
when we'd all sat down for tea one evening.

---
Not that I was having tea, no. I was flitting about the house while ma and dad had theirs.

In verse: A summer morning

Poem written in April 2011.

A Summer Morning

     Sunshine dribbles on the leaves of my hibiscus,

     and a warbler hops over tender stems in search of worms;

     inside, I breakfast with my family.

I once wrote that Home was ma, dad, jiji, and me. It still is.

In verse: When we were little

Written sometime in April 2011

When We Were Little

When the clouds ran out of raindrops,
and we were all chastened, dried
and changed into fresh frocks, we'd run out
again with paper-boats, place little dreams in 'em,
and set them sailing in little oceans on the street.

Unseasonal

( The first three were written last April)

Unseasonal: 

1.Diagnosis

The monsoons retreat, and my home is flooded

with visitors come with fruits and scripted conversations:

There is nothing wrong with my father, they say.

2.Treatment

A lackadaisical winter sun bears witness

to electron beams scorching cancerous cells,

and anything else in their path.

3.Uncertainty

I walk in sync with birdsong, side stepping a dead leaf.

Once upon a summer, I’d have quarrelled with my sister

to crunch it, but now, my own father is a dry leaf, singed

by cancer.

4.Death

I know not when spring breezed in,

but there are plenty of flowers to choose from

to adorn the frozen memory that is his photograph.

Sounds Of Rain

It rained, early this evening; we were all in Jagruti's room, and the wind blew a fine spray into the room. #delighted smile#


written in April 2010 

Sounds Of Rain

Uninvited, a gust of wind wanders into my room, 

sending my chimes tinkling in Raga Malhar.

*According to the legend, Raga Malhar is so powerful that it begins to rain when sung.

When it rains: Part 2 (of 3)

There's somethin' ridiculously nice about sleeping to the sounds of rain. Perhaps, it is the assurance, that when you wake up the next morning, the day will be green, and fresh, and happy. 


I got it in my mind to continue the idea of whispering raindrops:
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Sleep now, little one.

When morning comes, run along with breeze

to where green grasses dance,

and wild flowers bob curtsies to a robin

that drinks from water-pearls on vines. 

Skip along, little one,

to where a butterfly flits about,

and if you coax gently, she’ll come to you 

and sing a faery song.

When it rains: Part 1 (of 3)

During NaPo '09, jiji wanted me to write a poem on the rains. I daresay this was not what she was looking for, but she (and I) was delighted with the result nevertheless:

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Rain

Raindrops whisper

to puddles, to leaves,

and to the rusted garden shed;

if I listen carefully, daddy,

I’ll find out the secret message

the sky sends the earth.