I am coming back to my writing my poems after a while
a lot changed during these times.
(Pandemic- second wave)
My yellow tree remained un-watered all this while,
relatives, families submerged with tears/ fears
see my poem has started to rhyme, even.
Keep on reading
you will sense no sensibility
a bunch of lost flowers now
razor sharp like tongue of cries
bodies once warm now muted,
cold, without a twin flame.
the situation has become small and painful
like a setting sun, only that it is not beautiful.
I have not written here since last month. As you all know, India is dealing with the second treacherous wave of pandemic and somehow i managed this . While my parents are still recovering my heart goes out to every life lost, every soul that departed too early. It will take time to accept this loss. The body is in a state of archaic , numb loss.
This emptiness is a sullen sky
droplets of opaque women tears
with lanterns so bright, it almost blinds you.
next to my body rests a stack of another human forms
degenerated, transparent as the rain
with no family left, words lost
bruised up thigh, femur now disjoined.
next to my breath, is a women gasping already
for a husband, gasping for the open sky.
The surgeons of my city are tired, breathless and full of insomnia
they stammer and talk about open wounds
about lungs so swollen
screams of air- air-air across the hallway,
screams about ventilators, one more oxygen cylinder.
the screams are bluish tint
of fever so high now
almost strident with trees growing up in the sky.
The floors have gone mute,
the child is lost counting a mute, tongue less dance: left with nothing.
The tampered cassettes are stuck already
tethered onto something less painful.
Where does this merge to?
Where does this lead us now?
Shouts , screams and lungs still infected.
Time collapsed inside my mouth of fear.
How much is too much? Inosculate, squalid words on your sheet the layers that speak of my heavy mind are supposed to be easy to ingest? How? The air is as pellucid as my eye of misery. but the words do not stop here the words do not stick just to the head there is death occurring these days enough for me to write a lament a lament about this stomach this body this hour of existence. the hour that speaks of loss survival requires prayer hope and warriors who are we, I ask? the sufferers or the healers? The syntax is an old odium I refuse this hour I refuse the way you swallow my poetry my half- burnt mind is my solace and a tragedy. Disintegrated shreds of light.
Hi! The rise in the pandemic cases especially in India , in my city have taken a serious toll on my metal health and I am sure it is equally bad for the rest. This poem comes out from a place pain, misery. Thank you for reading.
Generally I would attach a link to my book, etc..but I do not feel right now so you can ignore.