PoemsIndia NaPoWriMo2024: Featured Poems (4/n)
Here is the fourth set of featured poems from NaPoWriMo2024. Enjoy reading!
Self-Contradictions by Nameera Anjum Khan
The wires in the sky don't like my face, They cut me, bone to spine, ear to mouth; I taste myself mixed with the gravel- Each piece is a choice, the leftovers, The scream building between my fist And the blood-red cracks on the wall. The lines on my palm find my hands too empty, They leave like the religion in a palmist's prediction; Like the big empty house filled with laughter- Filled with ghosts for people, and ghosts that live. We wanted a nail hammered into a wall, One went missing, then two, three...all- There are frames of hanging in my throat; I'm a room where they party- too high to Find their way home, and whiskey is piss And the beer does nothing and the stars Melodramatic- I'm a room with no space for myself. I am the sun, but I burn too much, I am the moon, but I don't like being a poem- No, let me hide behind my words again, Let me exit the room, you should live. Each body part was a choice, But fell like her Fig Tree- I was her Fig Tree. I microwave my feelings for dinner, I fall for the forks and spoons that are there for me, I love my plate and the napkin on my lap; But I'm too regular for them, was I ever enough? I breathe like a country's falling GDP, I live like an inflated balloon flying out of a child's hand; My stomach feels like a swissroll when you sing, I should sleep and I won't, I shouldn't love and I might.
Weathered from Culinary Battles by Banashri Sengupta
My mother sealed open her vessel of rawness, which had a flavor reminiscent of her honeyed-words engraved on my tongue, At times I savored the pungent taste, earthy and blissful and at other times, I soaked in the sourness of tears of her unsettling grief on my fresh loaf of bread as she filled our individual lunch boxes with sorrows and souvenirs as seasonings. For Baba, she simmered it plain Rice, steamed in the residue of last night's arguments Fresh lentil broth, his favorite enhanced with a dash of onions sliced to the length mirroring the span of the receptacles of their marriage and simmered vegetables, nurturing his fading vitality, which no longer danced with the flamboyant flavors of opulent feasts. Yet she still cradled him like a cherished heirloom, nestled in the gilded cabinets of her heart as if tending to his metamorphosed body was the doctrine of her religion. For my sister, she pulls out all the stops- chapati dough kneaded with milk, ensuring they remain as tender as whispers, accompanied by a blend of tangy pickles and decadent chocolate muffins— each bite a testament of love, pouring forth like a river's unceasing flow, Utterly oblivious to the fact that chapatis were never her favorite, still she always devoured her meal, like unyielding duties, responsibilities and everything in between. I grasped her index finger, weathered from culinary battles with pots and pans like a sailor anchoring hope to the unwavering glimmer of an ushering star. The hue of her skin, reminiscent of the sourness summoned a rush of her aroma, obscured by the fragrant veil of lentil broth and pickles. Infused with lavender whispers, a house of symphonized flavors: a fresh bread and butter concoction, cascading into the molten molds of her kitchen supplies as I lingered in her shadows, tucked beneath the folds of her dupatta, while she prepared our lunch boxes.
Poetry-Fiction by Tamanna Bangthai
I've a tender notch in my mind where there must have been the love for poetry. When I write, it's not for me rather the persuasion to be myself. I fear the fear of being everyone else would reign over my walls before I recruit words in its name. I fear the loss of language itself like a father fears for his daughter. I layer my acne of dissuasion with metaphors, mistakenly borrowed but adorned with jewels of my own imagination. I don't write every day but when I do, I write like a captive at gunpoint trying to fit my jargon into poetry so everytime I can't, I feel like a traitor to my own business of survival. Every other night I build a bridge of broken idioms and demolish them the next morning. "Burn the bridges that don't lead you to the right places", I believe someone said so, (I hope) because I tend to live by that. I've burnt hundreds of them and built a new empire on their ashes. Sometimes I think I'm an illicit occupant, nit picking about a domain that isn't my own when I should really be minding my own business. But what even is my own when everyone seems to be seeking validation, a word of praise, a flower for their personal catharsis, a finger pointing out their singularity rather than revised reproduction, or in more euphonious terms, poetry?
The Patience of Ordinary by Dewang
There is no historical evidence Of how people started cooking for each other, I think of the first person Who felt the want to cook something That feeds not just them but also others. Scientists might associate it with motherhood But the poet will dig the nascent feelings out, Like the first piece of bread that came out of an oven During the time of french revolution, That fed an entire nation left to die by the rich aristocrats. The Patience of Ordinary Comes from their extraordinary history, When a small kid was bullied for talking differently He tasted blood in his mouth before he saw another punch coming How we detect taste faster than we blink, That bromidrophobia is the fear of body odours And maybe the scientist who found it Had a colleague who was afraid of body odours. When Van Gogh told people He could hear colours No one knew it was chromesthesia, And a passionate kiss can cause the same chemical reaction As skydiving, I imagine a world out there That keeps becoming bold and extraordinary A history that grows at speed of my fingernail. How my mother’s recipe that fed a house of four Was passed by her own mother, And even if people are forty or four That taste remains the same. If someday this world breaks all your spirits Know that human skeleton renews every 10 years, That your heart can beat louder than a passing ambulance siren If the ambulance is headed for your own home. How otters hold hands to not float away Or there is still someone gathering day’s food In war stuck Ukraine or Palestine, Or your mother chopping tomatoes As the television in the front room Plays a story about a man Who has walked barefoot since his wife died as a meditation, The way ordinary things have a story A tale that can be told as a lie or the ultimate truth, How a piece of cake won’t mean anything to you Would change the world Of someone who never had a taste of it. But that’s not all that exists, It escapes the tastebuds How a cook sautes his onions or doesn’t fry them, How one straw at a time and constant observation It takes for a bird to learn how to fly or make a nest, The details of life are the patiences of the ordinary.