a day spent at the beach

right after when Egrets infringe; a span of wings permeates in peripatetic nothingness;

Pelagic- An adjective related to open sea seemed far more relatable to a story;

gospel calling; a soliloquy; a passive surge of condolence melting in the ocean—

shores are romantic lovers accepting each thing that travel along the silver lines; staggering undulation both saccharine and poison; 

caprice composed in shells; dissonance in carcasses; eloquence in luminous planktons; waves tend to follow coast with a screech so as people;

A husband cutting broccolis for our last breakfast; fox faces staring through rimmed glasses mapping over skin folds between a women’s thigh—pointing towards anchor world drops on these spots and so as him;

I swim inside my body intending to know—how wind escapes the mouth of a non-aquatic mammal; through the zero origins where the axes of a system intersect of this floating parchment flows a plane—a perfect square—square spaces as significant as the presence of curry leaves in South Indian cuisine; strictly two cardamom pods crushed for grandmothers masala tea recipe; the mandala of temple architecture impedes strength of a sitting idol; 

when my mother asks to bring two glasses of rice—I do; saffron tinted stories hover in our kitchen; inside the dough, her fingers sculpt tombs; guiding through the remnant; black patches beneath her eyes meticulously mentioning about boundaries; fancy fences standing tall at the edges; before the kewra water could delude our tongue she hands over a present brought to us by lineage— the porcelain full of ghost pepper

weather report

Between palms hold the spine—unfurl it;

read through them; speak a word—

watch the papillae weigh a landscape;

somewhere inside the cavity of the throat—

from a hearth, the forger pulls a machete and 

acres on the Earth gets wounded.

for the shores oceans are loquacious entity—

venting into pebbles; gates open for shells; 

waves opus—the tattering fins 

sonata; decorative velour oil-sludge; 

a floating chunk of cities and the lull of sea creatures;

among sleeping men khamak reverberates; dotara strum;

Bauls(folk men) sing about icicles loose tapering over birches;

in between; stuck after calving ice shelf or sheet

while we were busy stuffing cotton into ears—

kept this world architecture on 

oracles; elephant tusks ; 

horns and stolen furs

away from our children.

If you slit the throat of my mother

If you slit the throat of my mother

only blackbirds would leave her chest;

incoherent sound clearing the gut of the trumpet

 million flaps in the sky; besides the river

from an urn ashes ingress air; grey sieve filters

particularly this one from rest; 

quaint ornamental flower my mother’s heart slumped on 

the poking fingers of a tree, suspending between 

how maternal side had fortuned her ways and her bottom

decent landing over swing tied to Mahogany by her husband

puerile, isn’t it? if only you could know the backdrop;

Act I (thinning of my mother’s bone)

at the age of 10: along with cloves, ground black pepper; cinnamon pods

grandma grind her in a mortar; 

for grandma, she was a holy cow to be milked and worshipped on goddess Name.

Act II ( vermilion )

at the age of 17: her husband’s family members chilly sharp tongue;

cutting action; my father’s ignorance;

her paled body; roasted home and silly vermilion celebration.

each night; onto her lap, my hair-tendrils met the lake; 

blue froth ripples; shivering mountain; melting roundness of a moon, floating sage green in sombre subterranean; tiny stone throw to break silence ; through her ribs–my excavation–the valley and across it; puncturing dogs bark, high pitched growl and a try to get heard. 

when; I was young, she asked me to find her in winds whistle over mosses; tatter of wilting loblolly bay and often closed my eyes with both her hands and talked departure in sunset’s amber glow; dew-drenched Lili cha; cacophonous laburnum twiddle; earthy smell;

until; only after 10 years ; 

beside the lake; the willow bow

weeps and

bury her.

jewel speaks to us.

The water, I can not dare to touch is probity

broiled in wind; In north raising from the Himalayan locks of Shiva 

and in south batter through the gut of  Krishna; 

humidity divulge the guttural of spirited beings;

for years the dulcet of their anklets were eaten by mist;

the gallops of their critter lisped by battle torn-air.

let’s make the miniature of a monstrous theme when spring jostles 

the flame-trees; after men’s head cleaned by swords;

along heads gleaned wives were looted from skin to skin.

After thousand years;

Think of loot turning gold, amber-lush tailored zardozi, carnelian silk for 

bride; even letters in her mouth are red—

they say red is a colour of fortune so as it meant to bleed—

the breathless flight, listening to hymn of machete besides the neck 

to handle vengeance to their lord of tomorrow, to nest unfledged darkness 

for nesting. 

beneath vermilion, glossy veil is a buffet exchanging spring for winter chisel

; a glass of pounds for diamond-dusted steel blade;

to cut gem and glue it on the top of groom’s turban; 

to get blinded by its charm and status; 

to let the grip of bangle tighten on her wrist and watch her wag-tail on each bone 

thrown over her face.

on command, the Mangalsutra—a bridle that makes house trot on her canter; the holy quivering bones, Tumeric, scented Heena get washed in the pool of body,

this pool of body take a mouthful bite from an ocean;

consume toxic fishes from all wrong places and 

an out of season the doe gives birth

while sun its vermillion glow and bindi sink between eyebrows.

Shilpa Bharti, pen name- Rose was welcomed by the world in the year-1996 . She holds a BA degree from Jawaharlal Nehru university; new delhi and currently  serves as the editor in chief of the Open-leaf press review literary journal dedicated to haiku/haibun/free verse/ art. She had her work published in failed haiku journal; poetrypea journal of haiku and senryu; creatrix haiku journal; neo literary journal; narrow road literary journal(young voices slot); ode to queer journal; howling press; forthcoming work includes poems in the SAHITYA AKADEMI and Her Artwork has managed to appear in several art journals.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s