Friday, 2 April 2021

Poetry

Wordy kaleidoscopes 

Into that otherworldly 

dusk-light, tributes to 

a Jasmine-haunted 

lucent late evening 


Our now-cimmerian

story just being poured 

out letter by letter as though 

by a poet from the clouds


Poetry is that purple saree 

hanging from our ceiling

fan; yes that same one sold 

faulty by a thrice-greedy 


salesman in the shop, whose

name sometimes flashes 

into my mind at random 

prompts by jasmine


notes in brightly lit malls;

Dimly lit temples, terrible

Purple hues of party

Balloons; poetry is those


Sadly tangled syllables,

anklets round your feet

I held on to while a

purple knot on your neck


remained lodged in my words; 

These needless pages;

and all the holes that I ever

dug to bury all the whys 


Poetry is questions from my 

lost childhood, silent alliterations

to silence wordless whispers 

in the wind


If I were good enough: for you, 

for us and for all the poets

known and unknown, would 

kaleidoscopes still be a deep-purple


(As posted to a Facebook poetry group Singpowrimo under the title: what is love if not a lance to drain sweet scabs of purple pain)


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