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!