9/17/20

New | Poetry | Sukla Singha


 


rain, city, lovers

 

i

 

some rains have stopped hitting our insides

 

at midnight. They

f

a

l

l

in straight lines

in the emptiness of

our hands

without touching

our bodies

 

we fumble for             bad words

beneath the sheets

 

some rains aren’t us    anymore

 

 

ii

 

afternoon rains

tilt their transparent toes and

stir

the corners of our square yellow

houses

 

we lift our skirts

smell each other’s sweat

count the polka dots

on our thighs

as we go on long pointless walks

in the room

 

outside,

a rain-girl sips lemon tea

on the wet street

 

dimlights and water-gods       watch her in silence

 

iii

 

on rainy nights like this

we suddenly find ourselves

playing kuk-lotpi

 

in the middle of the night

like a laimu chasing a laishaabi

 

 

you adore the brownness

of my skin

that melts in your mouth

 

 

on rainy nights like this

you adore the brownness

of my skin

thatmeltsinyourmouth

 

 

 

iv

 

evening pounces on the ugly flyover

at Nagerjala

 

we come home late

fatigued, indifferent

 

we speak of useless things

and people

teacups, traffic, tantrums

we don’t make any sense

we don’t look into the eyes

we don’t smell the skins

 

our bodies are dead flyovers

our bodies are cold flyovers

our bodies stretch

like flyovers

 

but we aren’t forgetful

we aren’t loveless

 

our numbered days

burst like clouds

to sing songs of rain

on empty rooftops

 

we’re rainmakers in this hopeless city

 

 

 

 

kuklotpi: a game of hide and seek

laimu: an evil spirit

laishaabi: a virgin maiden

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

jaamun

 

is the colour of

childhood

 

that hangs

like pegs of memory

 

little fingers

stealing

crushing

mixing

 

a handful of ripeness

a purple river

 

deluging

my youth

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

silkworm

 

butterfly patterns

on the wooden loom

 

a butterfly sits

on her head

 

a smoke of desires

rises

from her mud-oven

 

like children sleepwalking

to catch tadpoles

in rain

 

she’s never

woven

a silk saree

 

her starched cotton inaphi

leaves

marks on the skin

 

like silkworm

feeding

on mulberry leaves

 

 

 

inaphi: a cloth to wrap around the upper body

 

 

 

 (Artwork: Vincent van Gogh, Rain, courtesy Wikimedia Commons)

 


 

 

 


No comments:

Post a Comment