Tangled (Featured poem)
a body on the edge still
cell
wary of cell
jaws
clenched
mouth closed
over words and weary yawns
memories gathered
in grey circles
around
fading
pin-points
of light
a forehead
finely
etched
with
the demands
of past
old
dreams
in a frizzy
halo
a
torso sagging
beneath
the weight
of
lives
lived
unlived
almostlived
limbs falling
over
themselves
panting
screaming
for air
desires
once
carefully stored
in
airtight ceramic jars
now congealing
at
the back of the calves
fault
lines
appearing
out of nowhere
widening
on
the landscape of
fingertips
:
a
lifetime ago
some
tectonic plates shifted
and—
the body has memory.
Ennui
burning itself down
a troubled sunset sky
smouldering in purple embers
twilight waiting on the wings
breathless, eyelids twitching
with unuttered words
balanced on glistening wings
a wearied water bird
still on her vigil
scattered by gathering darkness
the shrill voices
of restless children
frying to a golden brown
thin, evenly sliced pieces
of attempted motherhood
:
i wipe off
on the kitchen mat
the remains of another day
Fragments
1.
silences that lengthen
like evening shadows
slivers of past conversations
crunching under the feet
furtive words lurking
waiting to draw blood
desolate
this landscape
2.
waiting
for the night
to pass
the dawn
gently gathers
shard by tiny shard
the brittle shadows
of forgotten dreams
meanwhile
another thin blue silence
falls on the floor
and shatters
3.
heady the fragrance
of leaves crushed
by loving fingertips
tender
tender this death
4.
noontime thoughts
browning at the edges
words in hooker’s green
undulating out of reach
fluttering past on fragile wings
some pale yellow memories
it’s summer
still
outside in
5.
the colour of life muted
the whisper of dreams
dying inside glazed eyes
bright blue feathers
fluttering in the wind
ghosts
of what once was
Lockdown: The Honeymoon
Under the feeble patio lamp,
A ginger cat gives birth.
A distressed twenty-year-old
Strokes her back.
"It’s twins," he calls out,
His voice the colour of relief.
:
Note: For better or for worse, another cycle of life has begun.
:
Across the corridor
My neighbour's 56” tv clears its throat:
“Friends, indians, countrymen
Lend me your ears.
I come to praise doctors
Not to bury you…"
:
Note: Hands clap, plates bang, and there’s frenzy on the streets.
:
Panic travels at the speed of light
And detonates in urban slums.
Hunger, fear and black despair
Homeward bound on streets.
Elsewhere, death whistles past
Exhausted bodies asleep on tracks.
:
Note: 'Extreme anguish’ has been expressed
over the incident.
:
Worn down feet and empty stomachs
Wait on their haunches by the road
For hazmat suits to arrive in vans
With hosepipes full of disinfectants.
“Turn your back and close your eyes
It’s all for the greater good!”
:
Note: ‘Forgiveness from the poor of India’ has been sought.
:
‘Crimes against Women Spike During Lockdown’
April-May 2020 - some relevant numbers:
716 (molestation)
176 (cruelty against women)
215 (cyber crimes against women)
120 (murder attempts on women)
:
Note: Stop reading the newspaper.
:
All you need are walking shoes,
And yoga pants, if you have.
A towel, perhaps, and a water bottle.
"Now, straighten your shoulders,
Tuck your tummy in!
See how easy it is to walk a fast mile?"
:
Note: Keeping physically fit is important in these difficult times.
:
Why not plant some vegetables here?
And pots of herbs by the steps?
Glass bowls in macramé hangers,
A wind chime or two.
Some concrete stepping stones,
And guppies in the pond.
:
Note: Social distancing is mandatory for self-preservation. Leave a gap of at least 6 feet between yourself and what’s happening to those outside your family.
The Great Indian Tragedy
:
:
:
:
:
:
:
:
No one was raped.
Mini S Menon is paired with Yamini Mohan, visit Yamini to see more of her works.
Poet
Statement:
Unprecedented. Challenging. Troubled. Testing. Excruciating.
We are soon going to run out of adjectives to describe the times we are living in. The tidal wave of the pandemic has brought with it unimaginable devastation. In India alone, millions have been rendered homeless, the economy has hit an all-time low, and unemployment has quadrupled. Migrant deaths have become old news, the tragedies of a valley and its people have been erased from our collective memory, and Shaheen Bagh has been done and dusted. The virus has seen to all that.
As death toll rises, so does fear, anxiety and depression. This long period of forced isolation has taken many to the edge of the abyss. Suicides are on the rise, and so are crimes against women.
At a personal level, I feel that keeping oneself alive and sane has become a job in itself. Every morning, I wake up to another day of bleakness and confusion, which makes the struggle to stay afloat complex, multi-layered and very real.
Even that, I know, is a privilege denied to many.
Writing, they say, is therapeutic. But for the past months, writing had mostly been just a physical act - of typing, deleting, rewriting and deleting it again. A job I did in between other jobs like cooking, cleaning or getting provisions for the house. I did it like I did weeding, or mixing concrete to fix a crack on the wall.
I honestly thought that words had abandoned me.
‘Ignite’ has given me the impetus to write from the heart again. I’m grateful for having got this opportunity to work with Yamini. The fluid yet striking lines and the undeniable earthiness of her sketches have struck a deep chord with me, urging me to place word upon word, and then arranging and rearranging them until they managed to say what I wanted them to.
The poems I’ve shared are vignettes of life as I’m living it.
You can reach Mini S Menon at:
Blog: Shoes 'n Ships
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