Tuesday, February 2

Your Poem

I hide behind the poet’s block
The muse is constipated today
I proclaim. I crouch behind her.
I know. I know one quirky day
that will start somewhere else
and lead me somewhere else
like a nice poem, one such day
I will pick up the pen to write
about the red of luscious lips
I will instead write about you.

In the poem, titled “.you” I’d
Tell about the stars. Not how
They lend their silver to the
dark night. But their seamier
side. Full of deceit.

I will write about our fates
intertwined like snakes. I
will write about the oil lamp,
with you, bent on its side
and the deer shadow, I made
with my dancing fingers on
the wall.

In the poem I will allude to
the comfort of hot water
in our shared periods. And
the warmth of your giggles
at the knot of my yellow
sari worn to welcome the
spring.

I will contain the fear that
Stuck to you like a leech
My hand that felt the moist
of your tear soaked cheeks
on a sleepy winter morning,
The morning, when last of
your dreams had died.

Here, perhaps here I will take
A pause, a poetic pause. A
license to evade the truth.
And tangle the poem in the
Black web of you hair, color
it with the red of your nail tips

Perhaps I will take my muse
Elsewhere. I will write about
Paragliding. Poached eggs or
the anger of roasted chickens.
I will be consumed by mundane.
I will sprint away from you.
But I know this race is on
a circular track. Sooner
or later, I will face you again
And then I will have to write
About you.

1 comment:

shikha said...

aaa...aaahhh...someone is back with a bang:)