shrikaanth – The Poetry Marathon

Shrikaanth Krishnamurthy
shrikaanth

I am a doctor from India living in England. A trained vocalist and a composer in Indian Classical Music, I write in several languages. My haikai writings appear regularly in reputed journals and anthologies, and have won prizes. A former editor of Cattails (senryu), and former proofreader for journals Cattails and Skylark, I am now the Editor of Blithe Spirit, journal of the British Haiku Society.

Hour 24- view from my window

so many vehicles
honking their way through
the shady trees
trickling into my window
dust and birdsong

Hour 23- what I miss

browsing through
a mile of second hand books
on Sunday morning
holding hands with a friend
as I haggled
over the right price
all the dhabas
with their competing aromas
as the air fills
with the azan from the mosque
Ah for a day in Darya Ganj

Hour 22- ekphrasis

Portrait of a Lady

alabaster skin
against a mermaid gown
in black velvet
as easily cast aside
as the slaves
that helped her into it
breath held
she steadies herself
on the society
that put her in a corset
to keep her in her place

Hour 21- exaggeration

Her Cup Runneth Over

My friend’s wife ever so kind
she is certainly one of a kind
her teeth that stick out a mile
they will have to do for a smile
an hour she made me wait at the table
before giving water from the stable
The dishes stuck with jewels
of ancient crusts and drool
The sweet a thoroughly cured stone
that shook my teeth to the very bone
the pancakes that landed splat
even looked like flattened cowpat
The mice that ate them died in a pile
And those that didn’t ran a mile
I decided to just eat some buns
And for three days I had the runs
And she said I was welcome anytime
And I clearly heard hell’s door chime

Hour 20

hop on hop off
a crow crisscrossing traffic
for the squished rat

Hour 19- space

space explorers
on the hunt for
another bubble

Hour 18- Table for Two

Table for two

how different
my voice sounded
the first time
I ordered a table
for two

not long
before we were asking
for a high chair
onto table for four
and child menus

how my voice
didn’t make a sound
the first time
our son offered
to foot the bill

now we are back
to a table for two
our voices
excited at the sound
of the phone ringing

and now
alone at the table
the quiet
broken by the scrape
of spoon on plate

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The Poetry Marathon