by Pallavi Tripathi, Durg
Better half of self
In search of bread and butter
The better half of self gets
Neglected, the part that wants
To dance in front of mirror
Like a diva, with all the vogue
As if nobody’s watching
That part hides itself from the
Parent who’s telling you to complete
Your everyday task or the sibling
You’re competing with.
That part comes out when your
Sibling is about to make a lifetime
Decision of bonding with a kind soul
In whom he has found pieces of himself
That weren’t even missing.
In that short nostalgia
The better half of self
Completes itself like a jigsaw puzzle.
______________
Sound of Silence
Whenever we write
We are in constant
Conversation with
Poets of past. Be it
Hilda, Dickinson
Moore, Whitman, Pound
Keats, Blake, Wordsworth
Shelley, Bishop, Eliot to name
A few or the beat gen
Poets who talked about
Giving up consciousness
And let the trance guide
Your poems. The question
Really is are these conversation
Worth having? Or should
We like the space occupy
Silence! What was there
Before the big bang!?
Too much noise or
Pin drop silence!?
______________
Postponing Oblivion
I’m just postponing
My oblivion with
Words that’s hard
To find in the times
Of inner and outer
Turmoil, the shaking
The cracking voice
That sometimes dies
Before it comes out
And sometimes it
Comes out so loud
It shakes the entire body
An ache to touch lives
At least a few with my
Own life, my voice
A quest to be significant
To stay relevant
Despite shortcomings
As human being
Is a never ending battle
______________
Midnight Musings
As I lay dying
On my bed
Trying to mimic
Kafka’s hunger artist
A wannabe artist I
Observe that even
Though inside of me
Multitudes has changed
Outside is still the same
I can’t find anything worth
Eating, people go on delving
Deep into their appetites
As if there’s no tomorrow
I pray to god let there be no
Tomorrow for me
Only to realise life is
Worth living, eat even when
You can’t find worth
Nothing worth liking
Because there’ll be moments
You cherish if you just breath
Like Sylvia I may have a call
But I’ll receive it only
Air isn’t free.
______________
There will be time
And the poet said
There will be time
For murder and create
There will be there will
Be time. Yet the numbness
I felt on my fingers doesn’t
Seem to heal or the promises
We made of forevers
Have gotten us busy paying emis
There doesn’t seem to be time
Enough. Even though women
Still come and go
Speaking of Michelangelo
The passion with which I kissed
You the first and you reciprocated
Has turned into frustration cleaning
Your laundry and the dishes
It is romantic still, I want you
Drench me with a pipe
Doing laundry than skinny
Dipping on swimming pool
But what I want the most
Is you reading my poems
Someday and put Rose
Or touch-me-nots in your
Favourite lines.
