Friday, 23 May 2014

Fading henna




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 :)










6 comments:

  1. So beautiful this poem for your love,deep and meaningful,enjoyed reading it

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  2. Love henna, the smell of it makes go crazy. I was smiling through the last two verses. Saving it for future use :)

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    1. That lime juice-sugar syrup that's supposed to be put on piped henna helps with the smell :) thanks for reading

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  3. All poets are conflicted, aren't they? :)

    I really enjoyed this poem. It almost struck me as song-like.

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    1. You nailed it Trisha, perhaps they are :) thanks

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