“Time is not linear but a deck of cards that is continuously shuffled.” -Paul Tremblay (The Pallbearers Club). After those long nights have been stored for another day and relegated to the back of the closet, there’s nothing to fear, save that the moon is turning away and the night will be at its darkest….
Tag: poetry
Ducks in a row
The night is bored, the black it wears, torn at the shoulders… forever painted bleak, bringing in the darkness night after night with no other colour it ever wore. The evening listens to the song of the last koel that called and went and waited at the temple steps crossed legged, but no one returned…
Home?
I have no idea where the days are slipping, when it is night; the diurnal circuit fulfilling itself and time is just a tide. My time is watching little faces as they speak and move the human circuit grinding along where words have no refuge. Am I home, I ask myself is this, then, where…
Tomorrow
You smell the same, a combination of Old Spice and talcum powder, The fragrance I know but never remember Weaving into my thoughts as I ponder. Like the letters I wrote but never posted Like the letters that returned “Address un-known” I am that person, that unknown girl That I already have grieved but walks…
colliding worlds
I took a stroll on paths we walked Stopping now and again to stare They have added some bunnies And colourful birds and ducks But the duck I searched for Was not there. That duck was never here This pond was never her home But try explaining that to a girl Who somehow, magically Wishes…
back to basics
Every pore of my body, every spore, craves water As I stand in the shower, hot, cold, hot, colder, When on that hospital bed is your daughter You do not care for much else, the storms mutter Continue unabated, but you are not there, no matter What. If you asked me why not, I would…
Our worlds
we turned midnight into dawn out of ceilings carved with music we made atriums out of our souls, setting them alight in crystal wind-chimes hung them from rooftops so they appeared to float mid-air. We turned baby teeth into bracelets wore the Milky Way on our wrists and the planets danced just for us our…
Thoughts from Eucalyptus Avenue (HQTC)
In this oasis, the eucalyptus trees are petrifying to stone. The stumps remain, exposed to wind and rain, a reminder of that which was. Has been. And is gone. Once, far away from here, we ran and played ’neath trees like these. (They eat the soil, or so they say…) Mangoes graced and lit the…
The last time.
If my grief has lost it’s bite, what will I write about? Will my words have guts and grit, will they make you cry? I got the colour palette mixed up, the hues lost in words I never wanted to have to say. I never did find the knives that were pulled out of my…
Mountains of missing…
We wrest from the Earth what we cannot possibly return, the rocks, the Rhododendron claiming it to be our own; a sad little goat tied to a pole, bleating for a mother, a ghost long slaughtered. Any stretch of land, we strip and tar and pave, get a shout-out for this impudent achievement. People throng…
the mountains, the mountains…
These are the mountains, the misty mountains where the rocks wait, to sing in chorus, frowning music into a scar. Here there are mountains, closed, misty mountains they do not care if we aren’t. Or are, for that’s how it is and always were. For in the larger scheme of things, life is not life,…
ipsita banerjee 