Henna as
it fades doesn’t look pretty
the depth
of colour washes out too pale
maybe these
hands can’t hold their complexity -
designs
that bleach out and colours that fail.
I’ll recite
the words this time too, dry-eyed,
knowing
that no colour lasts on any palm;
whatever
the motifs scrolled, slurries applied,
however
high petals travel up the arm.
Rare the symbol that can match shade for shade
the real thing;
and rare, my love, this love that
you bear
for me, too intricate to be made
a fluid dark
green paste in cones and piped pat
into
peacock feathers. And no colours stand
for my
love too, no symbols, nothing in hand.
Love the traditions of henna; dislike marital symbols that only women are supposed to wear. I know, I am conflicted like that :)
So beautiful this poem for your love,deep and meaningful,enjoyed reading it
ReplyDeleteGlad you enjoyed it, thank you.
DeleteLove henna, the smell of it makes go crazy. I was smiling through the last two verses. Saving it for future use :)
ReplyDeleteThat lime juice-sugar syrup that's supposed to be put on piped henna helps with the smell :) thanks for reading
DeleteAll poets are conflicted, aren't they? :)
ReplyDeleteI really enjoyed this poem. It almost struck me as song-like.
You nailed it Trisha, perhaps they are :) thanks
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