24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Honduras’ hot sauce
nor
Budapest’s boat ride
nor
my inventions
nor
steps backward
nor
silence in empty spaces
hair folded over
steamed pores
wine over tongue
Vinegar and poison
flesh burning
hair smouldering
ears filled with noise
nor
this
nor
that
nor
barefoot
nor
naked
nor
nothing.
Philip V. Coombs 6-7pm
Worm Farm
Daddy bought a case, a half-slab circle
and filled it with dirt. He emptied the worms,
shook them from the container until they fell,
growing wings in ways they weren’t meant. They crawled
across the surface and then burrowed,
neatly tucking heads into the dark. I watched
through the side as they moved, slithered, snakes
into the unknown. Wanting more, I asked,
Daddy, when can we add the slugs?
being buried is
end to most things but
not really
come back years later
and see how everything grew
without you,
see how you paid tribute
to the very dust that spat
man out in the beginning
you may have been buried but
things still live
and grow
and thrive
and isn’t that
hope?
I never wandered enough through you, mostly keeping away from dryly lit lanes even under the hot summer sun, except
A couple of times when i wanted to ruin my name in your honour, in your lanes
I cajoled myself to collect faded paper tickets and plastic metro coins
As you hustled and bustled all over me, my existence shredded in the high rise offices that have their own smells
That nauseate. Not so much like the stench of urine on walls decorated by children for the world something day, belching
Uncouth paramours who wish to make you a Draupadi* in the bazar hoot and you remember
Ted Hughes taught by a broken voice on a rainy day in the glistening ancient heritage university where
You saw me gobble my lunch tersely while i waited for my first date with whom
I wandered the river that pass by you, never ever belonging to you creating an obnoxious
Reality that is twined with dreams, middle-class dreams, middle paths and middle everythings
Like your lungs that now douse the day’s acerbic dust with beloved poetry
For that is your soul.
*Draupadi: Queen of the Pandavas in Mahabharata
Hr. 10 Prompt 22, 2017
Picture Image: Madame Pierre Gautreau
John Singer Sargent 1884
she stands rigid
almost like a statue
balancing herself
steady and strong
while looking away
contradicting that strength
as if hiding
sheltering herself
Ode to my Telly~Vision
What would I do
Without you
My friend?
(Keeping me company
On nights with no end)
Your honor
I am not responsible for
The centipedes in the sink
or your lost dry cleaning
Third divorce
Or sixth affair
Your honor
I am not responsible for
The lost marbles
The clogged drain
or the guts on the rug
Let’s consult the
Purge conditions
The second juror from the right
Is looking rather handsome
in this florescent light
Your honor
I am not responsible for
my unshaven legs
My tipped kayak or your
Morning fender bender
It all ends in house arrest
I did this last year
scoured and scourged my mind and body
for the lines to play coda of this heroic symphony
I squeeze the last images for their finery
infuse an internal rhyme with notes
peppered with hints of revealing process
and referential specificity
I slap myself back to wakefulness
having taken a cat nap frommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
Oops – I lost myself to sleep again
if I sit like this there’s not way I could fall asleep again
Syntax slip
to surreal marmalade
in which float the crumbs
of the many snacks
I have consumed
on this day
Even the small muscles
twitching away in forearms
are rebelling–
rendering the labor
in these long hours finally felt
as a stone rolled
Soon, the sky will grow lighter
and I will run out of letters to jenga
then, and only then
will I relinquish my seat
for the crook of a soft couch
where I am bound to curl up like a cat
After much rest
after the mental debris settles
I will look behind me and notice
how much ground I have covered
In just one day
Being alone on a bridge in the night
and in the cold-what can be worse?
Maybe only feeling that lonely and scared
when being in your cozy apartment!!!
“Breathless”
I’m breathless.
You stole my breathe when you cried out for the first time.
I’m breathless.
By the discovery of so many unmarked graves!
Some were a similar age and size to you right now.
Some were never held by their mums.
My heart aches.
So much suffering and pain.
I’m speechless.
By the complete lack of an apology or attempt to heal.
By the world’s uncanny ability to ignore.
By the immature approach to meeting differences.
I’m ashamed by my pale-skinnedness.
I’m angry with the injustice.
Mindless pain and sufferings.
All because of what?
Fear? Hatred? A fucking “book”!
I hope you shred the pages that preach that incite such hatred.
And burn the parts that support standing by and doing nothing.
I hope you’re brought to your knees and grovel for forgiveness, only to never have it come.
I hope you have to face what you did.
What you’re STILL allowing to happen!
They were CHILDREN!
YOU were the adults.
You should have known better.
They deserved better.
WE must do better!