Poems | Nivedita N

Photo : Gb

The bonfire 

Chintu's father died the night he turned thirteen.
He couldn't cry; he was too naive for that.

His mother kicked him out of her troubles
with her cracked heels, yet, they spent
a miserable life together.

She bought him fancy t-shirts from Shoppers Stop
but re-stitched her old salwars;
His teenage was spent on the steps
of our apartment's corridors, crying his heart out,
listing troubles that were partly true.

He loved his mother in an unusual way.
He never massaged that back that carried
a bag pack of problems or rubbed her weary feet
that were tired of walking alone, but he blew away
his first salary on an expensive spa.
She was too happy to be annoyed.

The friction in their relation never died;
though it produced bags of heat.
At twenty four, when his mother died, Chintu tied them up
and sat beside this bonfire of memories.

JM Barrie to Sylvie:

Your hands as smooth as cotton candy;
warm as a freshly-baked cookie.
I touch your index finger
with the edge of my thumb--
Spools of thread wrap your
finger nails.

I let go when you pick your
needle to stitch
another navy blue sky
with tiny sleeves for the stars

Sun rays that seek refuge
 in your cheeks, slowly settle there;
as you break the white thread
between your tea-stained teeth,
the reflection of Peter flying out his bedroom
catches my eye.
I leave the cane chair to chase him.

When I return, I look at the sky
and my eyes blossom gaping at
the needle work you have perfected.