Poet’s Note: ‘Poetry is how the world moves through me and how I make sense of it’
To me, poetry is intimacy. It is how the world moves through me and how I make sense of it. It is also how I process my own disquiet; once it finds its way to a poem, sometimes I can set it down. It comes from many places; impressions of people I observe, the natural world of trees and plants, mountains, rivers and rocks, creatures, big and little.
Though I studied English literature at University, I have perhaps not been the best student of form and architecture in poetry, for I frequently write in free verse, though I do relish the cadence and symmetry of a well-structured, well-mannered, rhymed poem or sonnet on occasion, if the subject of my poem calls for it.
I first stirred to poetry through Shakespeare and his sonnets, the work of the Romantic poets, Browning in particular, Rabindranath Tagore, and my eternal favourite, Ogden Nash. When younger, I read a fair bit of Emily Dickinson, Edgar Allan Poe, Oscar Wilde and e.e. cummings, from whom perhaps I inherited my indifference towards capitalisation. I have enjoyed Maya Angelou, Langston Hughes and Ezra Pound. Vikram Seth’s An Equal Music, particularly, was a revelation, and his mastery over the poetic form has drawn me back to the book several times over the years. I do feel my lack of exposure to regional poetry, which has so much to offer in richness and depth, and in recent years, I have begun to explore and appreciate poetry and translations of poets in India who write in languages other than in English.
I suppose poets of every age have attempted, in some way, to hold a mirror up to the times they have found themselves in, and in our times, with the obscene inequalities, the violence of greed and power, the many violations upon human beings and our environment, there is no dearth of inspiration to draw from. I too write about things I see that move me deeply, although my natural predisposition is to bring through my poetry more of what I would like to see in the world. So, in dark times, I find myself often writing about love, or intimacy, or the beauty and truth I find in nature. Perhaps each of us has our own path, and I’m glad poetry has crossed mine.
Peanut Shells
Let me bite softly into your desires,
they taste of an apology I do not need.
We will gather these faded,
yellowing dreams left tethered to the bedpost too long;
That silent hesitation in your eyes,
look.
A little tendril wraps a promise
around the iron bars at your window,
that squirrel you see every day,
scurrying across the parapet,
an oversized guava between its teeth,
there is still time.
Meet me on a sunny winter afternoon,
up on the terrace that opens to the sky,
the blue above belies the chill in the air,
the sun is yet to concede.
I will roll your dreams off the folds of my skirt
and lay them down on yesterday’s newspapers,
so they awaken.
Soak in the sounds of the streets below,
the sanguine sun gently stokes
their forgotten fire.
Neat rows, next to the amla drying,
sliced, quartered and salted,
eaten, well before it can be bottled.
The heady tartness and salt will cling
to our tongues and lips and fingers and then,
that unexpected sweetness
when our mouths are at the tap,
lapping in relief like thirsty summer puppies.
I will find a place to sit cross-legged as we used to do
as children, and sing you a song of death
in a language you do not know,
and you will crack warm peanuts open
and feed us both.
And then,
among the scattered shells of the past,
we will teach each other forgotten things,
and in this little corner of the world,
all things will be possible.
Reckless
Life does not apologise,
before tipping over a hot cup of tea on your startled lap,
or for a car that won’t start,
not even offer a by your leave,
before you kiss your mother’s hand for the last time.
Does it ask politely if you’re ready for winter,
if you’re sure you’ll be warm,
or look even a tiny bit contrite,
before handing you a fracture,
at the shin,
the day before you’re to leave on holiday?
Does it want to know,
for instance,
if you can withstand your heart being broken,
three times before breakfast,
just glancing through the news?
You owe it no apologies then,
for a moment of mirth,
for a giggle with a friend,
a warm bath, a reckless day ,
spent undercover with your lover,
while your work messages go to voicemail.
You owe no explaining,
for the swing in your walk,
the coral lipstick you bought instead of sensible shoes,
the afternoon you spent,
alone,
walking through the museum, lost in time,
gazing at sculpture, at art,
at moments frozen behind ‘Do Not Touch’ signs,
that made you feel,
things that were hard to explain,
so you never tried.
You owe no explaining why,
in the middle of a day that is exploding,
all around you,
you find a corner to surreptitiously search for a poem,
scrolling through your phone to find
a paper bag to breathe into,
yes, here it is;
‘Hope is the thing with feathers
that perches in the soul...’
Breathe, breathe in deep,
you are not alone.
She Said No.
A muscle needs flexing.
Teach your daughters when they are little girls to practice saying no.
Let them know that they can.
Let them feel that they will be heard when they say it.
That what they say no to,
will not be forced onto them,
regardless.
That no is not a placeholder for an eventual yes.
That no does not need to change when it meets cajoling, convincing, begging, threatening,
violence.
That no is not maybe,
I’ll think about it,
or could you make up my mind for me.
That no is an expression of their truth.
Their truth matters.
Teach them this: No does not make them difficult, moody, rude, arrogant, badly behaved.
No is not a failure to adjust.
No is not a stamp of disobedience on their bodies.
It is simply, no.
And it is theirs to apply, to their bodies, their lives, their spirit.
Teach them,
for it is possible that the world will not.
Want
crop circles on skin
a finger trails through time.
open palms dredge the night sky,
a mouth swallows stars.
forever is a remembrance too,
a circle without end,
did we meet first, as one?
did you leave, or did i?
the day grinds on, incessantly,
my breath catches on a moment,
you release me,
i float.
come for me.
The essay and the poems are part of our Poetry Special Issue (January 2021), curated by Shireen Quadri and Nawaid Anjum. © The Punch Magazine. No part of this essay or the new poems exclusively featured here should be reproduced anywhere without the prior permission of The Punch Magazine.
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