Shell

Disconnection breeds    in the distance
she keeps from the beach
in full view, in fullness with people.

She notices             but stays away
doesn't participate in the play
in catching the sunrays.

The community of hope
and children
gossip and enlightenment       breaks.

He emerges 
from the sand, the sea creature on her land
of unwelcome. 

He seeks her out, shows her sea shells
water glistening on his hands which draw out 
a smile from her dry face.

Summer Storm

Diluted sky turns dark
visibility ceases gradual

the incoming storm smears the cityscape-
bolts of lightning straight out of 3D Marvel

the Romantic grosses out
in the eyes of those who don't
look up to see what shapes
nightmares may be

the rage of summer
unleashed
smell of earth released
natural bodies sweat and itch

We are invaded by beauty

terrible
unperceived.

April Sonnet

The roses left early this year,
but the frangipanis are here.
Bougainvilleas arrive too,
in sudden shocks of blooms.

Krishnachuras light a small fire
in branches with new leaves,
and unnamed bunches of bright pink
surround themselves with the darkest green.

Yes, they've come to surprise us with spring.
Is this what tropical means?
Is spring here to help us make peace
with summer? Come sing! By tropical means.

The hurt of darkness blooms-
a pink flower against man's fist, against his cigar-stained lips.

In Passing

The old man replied,

"You'll find what you're looking for if you keep walking."

"You'll find a temple near that place."

Stumbling through North Calcutta alleys,

gaping at colonial-era buildings,

I made it.

Someone had washed the temple steps

that pedestrians only used

in passing.

I watched where I put my feet,

but the water seeped in, between

my dirty toes and dusty sole.

I felt wet and muddy.

I looked up at the collapsible temple gate,

and there were too many idols on display;

too many to pick one and blame

my misfortune on,

or, to pray the muddy feet away.

I remembered what the old man had said.

I kept walking.

I was near that place.

Ghostscape

"What is a ghost? A tragedy condemned to repeat itself time and again? An instant of pain, perhaps. Something dead which still seems to be alive. An emotion suspended in time. Like a blurred photograph. Like an insect trapped in amber." - The Devil's Backbone

touch
do not touch
yet touching

it is darkness i enter
the skin touches spirits
in the dark, the love pours out unseen
invisible, no one sees
how i have decided
to become empty
of affection, of feelings

the pull of relationships,
the light of the living,
is far away, i live
without shadow
without surveillance
without the need to re-connect
with what has been

touch
touches
touching

ghost hands and
ghost fingers comfort me

It is you I have stopped craving.

Miranda becoming Sycorax

"But I prattle/ Something too wildly, and my father's precepts/ I therein do forget." - Miranda, The Tempest

(Naples. Enter Miranda.)
It is others' words I used
to cover up my own silence.
My head filled with snippets
of conversations other people had.
My dumbness evaded discovery
or even acknowledgement.
I travelled 
in other people's countries
without tongue, without language.
Some thought I was wife, daughter, property,
unpolished gem in the crown of a man's family.
Some thought I was virginal daughter, on duty
to an old man's misplaced sense of dignity.

But then I inserted myself
between words and sentences and songs
that hung from other lips.
I filled up the gaps
with my breath, my voice, my body.

So She.

Some think I am mad, unbecoming, 
my language decipherable to nobody.

"Letting the rank tongue blossom into speech./ .../ It was fool's play, this prattling." - Caliban Upon Setebos