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The Poetry Issue 2022: Ganga Arti and other poems

The Poetry Issue 2022: Ganga Arti and other poems

‘I like my poems raw’


Writing poetry is so much easier than writing about poetry! As far back as I can remember, poetry has always been my natural form of expression. One of my mother’s favourite stories is about how as a child of eight, I out of the blue recited these lines: ‘We of the garden dream of the day when we can have our freedom and go our way.’ 
I write when I am moved/disturbed. Poetry is no doubt a cathartic process and from darkness comes light! After turning 30, I wrote a whole bunch of love poems. They kept coming to me like the raging storm. That was also when I compiled my first book of poems. My poems are almost always first drafts. I like them raw. I am aware they may become finer poems if edited. But I believe they will also become something else if tampered with. So I let them be.  I am nearing 40 and have calmed down. But yes it continues to rain in my world.


Ganga Arti 


The Ganga is as I imagined Her
Breaking free of His matted locks
She flows
Mighty
Swift
Free 
Even as He destroys
She creates
Who would not worship this wild woman
This life force
The little girl on the banks of the river
Sells gram
She needs clothes to survive the winter
She insists the gram I buy
Must be offered to the Ganga
For Her blessings
The worshippers/performers are colour coded
Red vests and cream suits 
The fire in their hands burns fierce
The wind blows harder
The chants grow stronger
Even the crescent moon plays sport

It is true
The only way to live 
Is to transcend the real


Leech


Leech- like you cling to my breast
Bloated
Drunk on my blood

There is this pinch of salt
That I salvaged 
From the ruins of my kitchen

There is no place for insanity in war
But there can be poetry
In revenge 


Poetry


Poetry flowed over pebbles
Stumbled over rocks
Crashed against sand banks
Dallied in nooks

You failed to hold it

There exists a communion
Beyond the grasp of wordsmiths
Where Poetry will find
The resting places it deserves

Till then these words
Meaningless

Listen
I can never leave

It makes no difference
That you were never there


Poet


Outside my balcony door
It rains
A drizzle catches sunbeams
A thousand splendid rainbows
Trees sway
Dancing the dance of the fettered
Drops turn into a downpour
Wetting my mud
Flooding my backyard

I watch
I am a barren field
Where no word births

Then I close my eyes
And there is enough hurt in me
There is enough anger in me
To birth a thousand poems 



Silence


This is how people die
Conversations become monologues
A monologue becomes a sentence
A sentence a word
A word a groan
A groan a murmur 
Murmur 
Silence 

If I do not climb on this wall
And scream out loud
If I do not shout 
Till the last breath of air 
Leaves my lungs
Silence will strangle me
I too will die

The essay and the poems are part of our Poetry Special Issue (January 2022), curated by Shireen Quadri. © The Punch Magazine. No part of this essay or the poems exclusively featured here should be reproduced anywhere without the prior permission of The Punch Magazine. 

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