Flowers on the bedspread

 

                                                     Flowers on the bedspread 

I used to be a certain way. 

The flowers on the bedspread were mostly unnoticed,
Ordinary yellow blooms with a fold here and there, 

and crinkled petals on days when the bed was left unmade.
They lay scattered in disarray,
and there never was an incessant itch in my veins
to pluck them out,
order and align them, like military men in a parade.

In rows of horizontals 

and columns of verticals, 

'Wouldn't they look fine?'

The leaves erect, would face the west 

while the bright petals opened to the east.

Uniformed soldiers in yellow, 

marching in stillness, rooted to the cotton knots in the mattress, 

hidden underneath the duvet.

Look closely now.

In a circle, they could make a lovely headband,

strung together with beads of pearls

Or maybe a condolence wreath for this sorry fool 

that wishes to discipline the flowers on her bedspread!

Sitting in the midst of it,

Hair knotted up in a bun that cushions a mosquito carcass;

A muffin, a pile of books, chocolate wrappers and a lunchbox 

encircle her on the bed..

begging to be put away.

But no! God forbid those flower patterns should mock her !

This woman of poise and wisdom

strives to arrange the flower patterns on her bedspread,

those rebellious blooms spread across in every which way!

PC-Picasso's Guernica

Frida

It was a hot summer day, 

I had dressed myself up as Frida.

A bunch of flowers I knit together into a wrinkled headband 

And joined my eyebrows with some Kohl!

I draped myself in vibrant colours 

and a dash of red lip colour to go with the lace of Gold.

And here I sit and gaze outside my window 

Ghosts paragliding look back at me 

I blink twice in awe 

and squint my eyes .

And my, oh my! 

They smirk and spin,

Twist and turn into spirals 

Knotting themselves into a little girls' bow.

The heat draws a sweat 

on my forehead.

Yet, I force a smile, draw my chair closer and take a seat.

I fix my band as my eyes catch my reflection 

These clowns of smoke

seem to mock at me!

It dawns upon me then,

These ghosts are familiar indeed!

They have crept out of her paintings, 

To jeer at this silly  

imposter's misdeed!

I laugh out loud and pluck out the flowers in my hair.

Their petals stick to my forehead

marking my incapacity!

My strenuous attempt at recreating her beauty

I toss out the window and sit cross armed in dispair.

Frida calls me out from her grave, 

That shrill voice,

 with words that bear the scent of the Mexican soil 

Pinch my ears and question my grit.

"You did not understand what I am. I am love. I am pleasure, I am essence, I am an idiot, I am an alcoholic, I am tenacious. I am; simply I am ... "!

Picture credit -self portrait by Frida Kahlo 

Fly on the wall

 

My love-a fly on that wall,

 It is idle now,

 resting beneath the blinding light of the tube,

Looking at you engrossed in work.

To you , a speck 

on this giant canvas of a white wall.

It hangs  here,

and merely exists as it is supposed to,

dangling against gravity

Digging deep into the pores of the white plane!

My love, a giant fly!

 It is not silent,

 There are mating calls

 and an incessant buzzing.

You glance, you frown at the Big black blotch 

and the bulging eyes against  

the serene white expanse of the wall.

My love, a fly on Your wall

 And this distance that looms between us,

as near as the flutter of its plastic wings,

And as distant as your frown, those empty stares and the round edges of that coffee ring

that rests underneath your mug,

 beneath the weight of that bamboo lid.

You gently push aside the lid 

Sip, sip you relish your drink..

The bulgy eyes watch you wipe away the coffee stain from the corner of your lips,

Sigh ! sigh..my love rests here 

Like a fly upon any wall!

(Painting-Portrait of a woman of the Hofer family)

Burning candles

 Burning candles

It was a quarter past seven,
when the lights went out.
With the candle lit
its flame made a flicker with my sighs,
I sit here, at the table,
My head bent low,
And now begin to write...

I feel at home,
And here lie the objects that
hush down that crimson silence,
growing within my soul...

Father's comb holds a few grays,
He has aged
Why...it seldom occured to me,
Must I blame his childish grin that's there to stay...
In this room it echoes
in crimson waves.

Mother's kettle, with its broken spout
Still pours us tea every morning,
A gift received on her wedding day
it paints a portrait of her marriage.

And then those nitty gritty bits
that make living better.
A sausage pan with tea stained cups,
Delineate the events of that day...
Father rushed with the cup in hand,
"The tea wasn't brewed with ginger" he had complained.

These objects,they belong here,
and have aged along with me,
But it's this dying light
that cast their oblong shadows in my mind.

And as the candle light dies,
these objects disappear into the night.
I'll see them tomorrow as well,
But tomorrow they will be things of yesterday..
Until a crimson glow from a candle flame,
makes me write about them
yet again...

writeandscribble
Poem- Burning candles

It was a quarter past seven,
when the lights went out.
With the candle lit
its flame made a flicker with my sighs,
I sit here, at the table,
My head bent low,
And now begin to write...

I feel at home,
And here lie the objects that
hush down that crimson silence,
growing within my soul...

Father's comb holds a few grays,
He has aged
Why...it seldom occured to me,
Must I blame his childish grin that's there to stay...
In this room it echoes
in crimson waves.

Mother's kettle,with its broken spout
Still pours us tea every morning,
A gift received on her wedding day
it paints a portrait of her marriage.

And then those nitty gritty bits
that make living better.
A sausage pan with tea stained cups,
Delineate the events of that day...
Father rushed with the cup in hand,
"The tea wasn't brewed with ginger" he had complained.

These objects,they belong here,
and have aged along with me,
But it's this dying light
that cast their oblong shadows in my mind.

And as the candle light dies,
these objects disappear into the night.
I'll see them tomorrow as well,
But tomorrow they will be things of yesterday..
Until a crimson glow from a candle flame,
makes me write about them
yet again...

The Mirror

 

The Mirror

The rusty frame contains a million bits, gathered in broken corners,

 Never reflected in the mirror,

It's a mute spectator to the woman you were and 

to the woman who gazes into the mirror today,

Tracing every wrinkle, the greys

and every little hair out of place.

 The rusty frame; a Monument,

 It must contain the soil and dust from that suitcase,

the one in which it traveled all the way up here!

It must have been a steel suitcase then,

Like it always has been shown,

in those movies that have aged along with you..

The steel box must have been held by Grandfather

And the mirror must have rattled around a bit in the journey...

 It embodies the man and the father he was.

Distant like most, 

But then, he remembered to pack for you this mirror;

His acceptance of your journey into womanhood,

 And his reminder for you,

To neatly tuck your hair, and line your doe eyes with Kohl.

Something he used to do,

Before dropping you off at school.

I wonder what you must have felt... 

Your young 21-year-old self,

dressing in front of this rectangular frame!

I wonder if you felt the pride of surviving this strange city,

Its language and people welcoming you with Dandelion garlands. 

Its winters , cracking your skin,

And freezing the coconut oil that Grandma had made!

I wonder if you knew 

That decades later,

Your daughter would sit here,

 Trying to trace within this rusty rectangular frame,

Even a quarter of the strength that you've held for decades.

I don't see it now, I don't think I ever will...

Your reflection mother- a mirage, spilling beyond this little space!

Rainbow hibiscus

 

Light dribbles through red blinds, 

And auburn strands carpet your floor 

The door ajar, a book in hand

your head swings to a pensive Bollywood tune.

A strange silence,

Like one that follows a heavy breath

 on a cold winter morn

descends upon this room.

This room, your space 

 with these empty shelves, scattered books,

A mattress corner peaking from the crevice between the balcony and that door,

Is etched into my mind screen.

It comes alive now,

Like a garden baked to almond hues ,

And you,a rainbow hibiscus  

With petals fused, 

A trumpet of  chaos and life,

Stifle this deafening silence, 

scatter these notes of gloom,

A rainbow hibiscus,a rarity born,

I'm afraid though, 

If I look long enough,

You'll crumble into this almond garden,

 Your rainbow petals fading into a monochrome.

Shy

 

Shy
I'll turn towards the wall
my eyes tracing the edges of that brick..
You pick your palette
And let  your paints soak this form,
Woman enough, a responsible muse
My hand, I'll lay there..
You tuck that curl into my scarf,
And with a gentle pat of the ferrule
you set the chin up straight.
The brush follows a trail of these edges,
The earlobes, surrender to your arrogant haste.
It slides along the curves with an unburdened ease
Firm fingers twitch and pause at  certain frames,
You say you smell my skin even through the opaque scent of your paints.
And you'd kissed my hand
Before you placed it on the table here,
And yet, I'm shy!
My eyes glued to that wall
Refuse to be laden bare 
A note of apology, I'll hide under that tea coaster
But on  your canvas,
you may hang this empty stare..
From your beloved muse and at times...your lover!