I didn’t notice things – the
colours of lipstick
for instance - she wore a shade
between peach and brick;
dotted in her scarves too, the
whole range of orange
woven in her skirts and art, and in
her magic.
She wore the deepest henna, that
burnt tangerine
between her fingers, on her
knuckles; dark, crushed green
staining her palms pumpkin-warm,
climbing vines, blossoms
on her pulse in light apricot, and
nectarine.
She fed me ripe oranges, taking
them apart
tenderly in her palms, like
segments of my heart;
she prised my world, eternity and
each minute
wide open with her hands. The taste
of that tart
sweetness remained, each segment a
sunrise transferred
from her lifeline to mine. The
fragrance remembered
as first sunlight flames on
water. The formless gains
shape as darkness ebbs. Undying
preciousness, coloured.
In her rooms the walls are orange
blossom, rugs gray
rainclouds, an ancient magazine and
the doorway
fall open like her hands. I shut my eyes, notice
the shades of orange in rust and
dust, mild decay.
This is the final version of a poem I created for one of the prompts during the MOOC I did over July-August. (Did I tell you there's talk of an anthology being compiled with some of the works that were created there? Watch this space)
The assignment was themed on Elegy and Memorial. I thought I'd post it here today with thoughts for the families who have lost loved ones to terrorism in all the places that touch my heart, and life.
The season's changing out here where I am, though the temperatures remain high, they are slowly softening. Much of this region of course has two seasons - hot and less hot, but my brain and body are still attuned to the Indian six. There's a cleaning up of the skies back home about now, lots of fluffy clouds chasing off the heavy dark monsoon ones, the festival season starts in less than a month. It's a particularly beautiful time of the year. 'Sharat' we call it in Bengali, there is no English counterpart available, it's not autumn yet, a pre- or proto-autumn is more like it.
Here too, the plants which had been singed to cinders during the summer, are greening back to normal. Flowers have their happy faces on, the leaves are plumping up. I have been writing more, learning more, blogging a little less than usual, but the blog's going to green itself back to normal as well. Things are changing outside and inside. My year so far feels like an adventure and a gigantic blessing, which I suppose are synonyms really.
I hope your year, and month, is going well too.
The assignment was themed on Elegy and Memorial. I thought I'd post it here today with thoughts for the families who have lost loved ones to terrorism in all the places that touch my heart, and life.
The season's changing out here where I am, though the temperatures remain high, they are slowly softening. Much of this region of course has two seasons - hot and less hot, but my brain and body are still attuned to the Indian six. There's a cleaning up of the skies back home about now, lots of fluffy clouds chasing off the heavy dark monsoon ones, the festival season starts in less than a month. It's a particularly beautiful time of the year. 'Sharat' we call it in Bengali, there is no English counterpart available, it's not autumn yet, a pre- or proto-autumn is more like it.
Here too, the plants which had been singed to cinders during the summer, are greening back to normal. Flowers have their happy faces on, the leaves are plumping up. I have been writing more, learning more, blogging a little less than usual, but the blog's going to green itself back to normal as well. Things are changing outside and inside. My year so far feels like an adventure and a gigantic blessing, which I suppose are synonyms really.
I hope your year, and month, is going well too.
