Ok.Honestly,Ive been into poetry since I was 9 or 8.
Ive written some of the best ones when 15.
But then somewhere down the line I suffered a severe and serious handicap of creativity.I lost em.forever.
But I satisfy my creative lust through prose.
I did discover something.
Nothing can ever take the place of poetry.
Not music.Not singing.And definetly not prose.
So I bought myself a book of poems by Anita Nair.
Yeah,you heard me right.
Anita Nair.Who knew the woman wrote poetry as well?
I didnt know neither.Until now.

Here are some bits and pieces of her work that I really enjoyed.

"The debris of light;
The density of a starless night.
My forefinger my brush,
Glistening lamp black my paint.
When your eyes meet mine
In the mating pool of the mirror.,
My hand falters,
The line smudges.
Woman,you do not know what you do to me."
Woman,let me match my longing with yours.
Let me sear your lips with mine.
Let me burn your flesh with my hunger.
Why then do you evade me now?
Is it that you smell the savage?
Is it that you fear who I was?
Lord of the Universe
Master of destruction,
I stand before you
Unwilling to be cowered.

Have you ever felt
The bones of your child prod your palm?
Have you ever heard
The piercing wail of hunger?
I sell space,
Mortar,brick and
aluminium sliding windows.
Flats cost 960 per square foot
making telephone calls and
endless calls:
"Hello,can I help you."
Travel faceless in buses,
wrapped sandwich-like in
college election posters.
My belly pinched,
crab claws grip and tug.
I search for a face,
beady eyes,
several pairs meet mine:
bastard,I swear softly.
No one hears me.
Suffer in silence,
the shame of it,
for being treated like a fair
piece of flesh.
The conductor has no change
He likes my face,
gives me the ticket.
The man behind me growls in disgust.
Privilege and pain
come together.
Love and aching
are the Gemini twins.
This is for real
the weight of this hand
that gathers me to the curve of a hip
and so as I lie
in this nest of bed clothes and slumbering flesh
I tell myself
this warmth is content.
The rest-
the foolish leaping of a vagrant heart
at a look exchanged
across a room crowded
with people and objects;
the feel of fleeting skin;
the ripening of hunger
will not trangress into tomorrow.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

So Mundaaaaaane....
yet so sensuall...
Okay ya ya very nice...