PoemsIndia NaPoWriMo2024: Featured Poems (3/n)

Here is the third set of featured poems from NaPoWriMo2024. Enjoy reading!

Casual Forgetfulness by Anjum Amin

it’s chaand raat;
bai bailed on us. 
we understand this time,
it’s chaand raat for her too.

so we clean, in our frayed outfits,
wiping the dust, grime and soot of yesterday
that sits,
unbothered and indiscriminately 
on the surface of everyday’s trod
as well as the nook tucked in the space between the bed and the wall.

funny how wiping dust off tangible collectibles somehow wipes the dust off the reserves of our memory.
we stare at those recollections -
some of which are stowed away, preserved, almost untouched and
some of which have been forgotten ever so casually.

we squabble,
one of us was supposed to bring the kewra water from the bazaar,
both of us forgot.
it’s too late now,
the shops have shut down and so has our insistence,
but the biryani just won’t taste like dadu’s.

his recipes are dog-eared in those pile of diaries
that have collected dust in mountains taller than his wants ever were.

again,
we forget to check in his notes, 
if the eggs have to be boiled for twelve minutes or fifteen.
the yellow ooze thickens everytime and we sigh.
we sigh because we forgot,
we sigh because we remember he never did.

his recipe handwriting is not the same as the one he used on the envelopes he carefully slipped our eidis in.
on those envelopes there was always a heart painstakingly dotted on the i’s.
i read his words,
the ink has faded,
yet i can still smell his ittar,
as if dabs of it have dripped and soaked into the pages.

for a second,
for just a pause,
between then and now,
i hold his words,
and allow myself to forget
and pretend like he is still our chef.

A Farmer’s prayer for his Rose Bush by Khatija Khan

Your ancestors have a history
of travelling through Persian streets
in 16th century
and wafting their scent into 
the palm lines of the Afghans. 
They promised fragrance 
amid massacres and bloodshed;
remembrance through wounds and balms.

The Mughal Emperor Babur
stole your identity
to name his daughters.
You must be the mother of 
all the flowers.
How did you manage to stay the same
when everyone and 
everything else changed?

I am folding a few metaphors
into your sepals 
and winnowing all the honeybees out 
so whoever comes across you, 
tastes your nectar.

You are the bride of my crop field.
The middlemen remember me in your name.
The traders barter ittar vials for your sake. 
And the noses bribe each other for your smell. 

You are the Gul of Gulaab.
The Rooh of Rooh Afza.
You have no similes. 
You are incomparable.
I look for the loveliest of words to weave
this prayer before you bloom
to soak my field with poetry.

I have looked for enough substitutes 
only to become your diety.
I am no poet 
but do you know who you are? 

I had already bitten enough of my nails by Purva Dagade

I would've written everything,
mostly incomplete sentences 
vague structures and unnamed isomers 
as an epilogue to my notes on fingernails,
and to my surprise there are no notes. 
But it's not completely blank,
my fingernails are stained with 
2-naphthol aniline dye,
bright red,
that the color of heartbreak looks 
almost pale in front of them,
my fingernails smell of ammonia 
on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday
and on Thursday, Friday, Saturday
I would wash them with distilled water 
so that on Sunday 
I'm able to see their growth and 
cut them if needed. 
My fingernails have a vacant space
I'd call it a home to the residue 
mistakenly inhabited there,
and when I start taking off the particles 
they'd resonate stories 
of mine similar to that of my mother's. 

Which reminds me of how 
performing a chemistry practical
in laboratories is similar to 
my mother preparing meal in past 
when she lived in village. 
And waiting for the result is like the last leaf hanging in 
against the power of wind.
In fear, in stress, I bite my nails.
All the chemicals absorbing
on my tongue, my mother inhaling
smoke from chulhas. 
All the molecular love in our heart 
getting surrounded by the hydration spheres 
of poison in the transition state,
but in the end the only Prussian blue sky 
witnessed by her was handpicked by me 
to put the dilemma, the chaos beyond. 
So when I successfully synthesized
my first organic compound 
I had already bitten enough of my nails,
deleting the notes eventually. 
I started dipping my fingernails in organic solvents 
to make my non polar happiness soluble.

How much of me would remain by Subhalaxmi Panda

Some days I love my words,
So much so that I bleed poetry, 
Other days I forget I've a mouth to speak and a mind to think, 
Like a forbidden fruit in the garden of Eden, 
My syllables mourn.

Years of aches do not yearn inside me yet like tornadoes ready to swirl in the wind,
My words are double edged sword ready to fight.
Somedays I write to be free and just be me,
Other days, i forget the address with a nameplate called home,
I don't write i resent,
I'm homeless without my words taking it's own shape.

Some days I forget I've grown up,
I'd ditch adulthood and go back to summer,
Where i spent my entire childhood wearing polka dotted cotton frocks, holding balloons of different colours. 
They'd dance to the rhythm of wind, I'd run on noisy roads with a quiet mind.

Somedays I wanna forget,
That in their eyes I'm beautiful,
I wanna go back to what once was called simple,
To groom myself I don't need makeup brands,
I wanna paint my face with chandan kumkum using my own hand.

Somedays I wanna forget the dinner table conversation and go back to eat daal parval sitting on the floor.

I wanna forget dreaming of a royal villa facing the seashore,
And live in a little hut under the shade of cocoa nuts,
With towels, clothes hooked to it's wooden door.

I wanna forget that I forgive,
That everytime I give it's only me who gives,
And keep giving until I'm left with abyss of nothingness,
A vacuum in my chest that lingers to be filled, with happiness.

On days I forget to live,
I exist,
On paper
ink spilled
with different patterns
and crayons.

Becoming an adult and being me
afterall is too much of memory to retain you see,
And too many of moments to forget. 

But for once in my entire life,
I want to remember, me
And forget, what it is like to be me.

What it is like to be in pain 
and if I could really erase all these memories, how much of me would remain?

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