Editor’s note: In these introspective and evocative poems, Preetha Sreekumar Menon reflects on the fleeting nature of hope and renewal, the landscape of memory and loss, and the passage of time, employing metaphors that will stay with you.  

In the afternoon, from the ashes

of hours yearning for shadows

extinguishing themselves 

my questions were answered fully

in the freshly washed floors,

tinted windows overlooked 

the setting sun

approaching territory of walls

in the background of buildings

covered with dust

I was not surprised to meet

fresh green leaves 

fighting with overgrown weeds

I wanted to laugh thinking of

parades in the temple festivities

that ended a week ago

skilfully performed rituals of poojaris 

and the familiar crowds

who praised my singing in concerts

I pledged once more to choose 

the poems to read carefully

you knew it better living in streets

you could never live

if you don’t accept you’ve won the race

in the middle of the night, I was again

chasing a broken pendulum

hung from my open palms

 

After I have my coffee and toast

I meet some boys and girls

hoping to date

their face drift 

for the better

kids collect green apples

from the orchard; 

I pass them

loving their chatter

bury my gardens

near the ivory gate

a north wind 

I listen

walk towards porch

to find the family commute

in a clear sphere

shadows pass 

it’s late

And I accept the blue sky

Tomorrow he shall invent he thinks

sleeping stones some lingering ones

copies of her fingerprints

her poems she wrote while

playing Scarlatti forgetting

a dead blood bent to tombs

a greyness in darkness to replace 

her darker eyes tasting a thick black coffee 

in a dismal December

now he’s back home where a brown rice waits 

his damp calendar indifferent 

the same fence alert to drag away rancor of dogs 

from some dried footprints and blood 

mistaken for her blush 

a blueish milk spills and he follows

a nakedness where her face hangs wet

listening to a ringing telephone

they were falling

mistaken for 

dead branches

by some childhood 

chewing a cruel juice

telling tales of

a frog who is eating

the moon

some rainbows

fit so well

on their nights

in love with

daylight

a tender wish

spills

on a dish

she folds 

a designed mirror 

he fears

of being born

again

windless hills

wavy willows

comfort life

desires safe

fall into place

hoping 

they had tears

with memories

in mirrors

windows relax

 

Voices batter

changes resonate

zones converge

wings float

 

refuge or refusal

 

Blue air shrugs off

through a furnace

 

and

 I

miss myself

so quietly