Teesta Review:
A Journal of Poetry, Volume 2, Number 1. May 2019. ISSN: 2581-7094
Algorithms of Assonance
We spun like atoms
In the blond tresses
Of slanting sunbeams
As they rippled over
half the world
Scattering their
glinting graces
In the careless
profusion
Of cosmic dyes.
What brought us together
In time and space
In that spot between the
eyes,
In the hallowed here and
now?
Sharing a tight-lipped
smile,
The raised eyebrow,
Shaking history's hand
In memory's murmured
greetings
And answering fate's how
do you do…
In the twilight zone of
no man's land.
Were we in that moment's
meeting
Waltzing motes thrown up
By preordained plan or
random chance,
Or by the algorithms of
assonance?
Fever
The monotonous whirr
Of the ceiling fan
Above the bed
Smelt of fever
Circulating in the
darkened room,
Slackened currents of
that feeling
Of not being able to get
up,
The dizzying sense
Of a floating apartness,
Between mind and body
And self and others,
As the world went its
way.
Suddenly you are more
aware
Of the voices around
you.
The timbre and tone
Of everyday sounds
Doing the rounds
Acquire a new meaning
In a conspiracy of the
far and near.
Bird chirp and cheep
In furious squeak
Beyond one's window
bespeak
An avian colloquy,
Never really noticed
before.
The ice-cream vendor's
shouted cry,
The groan and grunt of
vehicles
Far from spry,
Dialogues of a city
In a decadent dramaturgy
Impinge on the melting
tarmac
Of a hot, tossing mind,
Memory's viscous, spongy
rind.
The smell of medicines
And fever warmed
metabolism
Meanwhile, invade the
nostrils
In the predatory foray
Of a beast rampaging
Through a weakened
system
Lying at its mercy.
Crescent Smile
It was one of those rare
photographs
Where she was smiling.
It was a thin sliver of
a smile
That hung from her lips
Like a crescent moon,
Wan and white, with its
horn tips
Curving inwards,
irradiating
The dark sky of her
face,
That was full of
misgivings
At this thing called
living.
Dejavu
The ribbon of road,
Unravelling before me
In misty metonymy,
Holds secrets untold
Felt in the blood.
The smell of tar,
Acrid, black, molten
flood
Of poignant pungency
In me swells
Fills my veins,
Like burning molasses,
And in my cells releases
Olfactory associations
That take me far,
Far back in the spool of
time.
Where in its coiled
entrails lie
The rudiments of rhyme,
Waiting to spring
Into poetry
With alacrity.
That slight nip in the
air,
Strangely familiar
At this time of the year
Lingers somewhere
In memory's lair
A mystical essence
Wafting pine fragrance
From altitudes above
Into the dawn's cold
alcove
Where all journeys
start,
And loved ones depart.
The ribbon of road
before me,
Freckled with shadows
Greening into foliage
And split with birdsong
Before long
Answers to some call
In my being, primal,
And returns to haunt me,
Again and again
Like the notes
Of a strain elusive
That refuses to live
Or die
But tantalizingly
resonates
In the singing bowl
Of the soul.