Teesta Review: A Journal of Poetry, Volume 3, Number 2. November 2020. ISSN: 2581-7094
Diary
of a Captive
Dear
Phu-ying
The
darkness of the nights here are as bright as marigolds,
I
can see through the grey concrete walls the Hibiscus plant in the
wilderness
Their
necks snapped, their roots unwatered.
Dead
Dream
is not an anthem of the captives.
The
pain in my collar bone you caress and ease,
the
pain when the diabolical blow of the demented guard landed
on
my shoulder.
Now
I use my left hand in penning my thoughts
And
the words free my pain to the evening flight of flamingoes in a dream.
Through
the smile in your quiet eyes and the streaks of the blue roses in your auburn
hair
Glimmers
my hope
Brings
peace to my soul
And
shortens my captivity here.
Dead
Dream
is not an anthem of the captives.
The
cockroaches crawl on the muddy floor of my room five-by-five,
But
they are dew-drops of hidden fears fleeting away,
I
recall tapping my finger on your forehead
When
a five-year old was snared by high temperature at five in the morning.
“Marigold
Marigold” your deliriumed mind had cried out.
And
Marigolds did I steal from the florist
And
lay them beside your smile and gentle black eyes.
And
here it is the voice of your favourite flower which shortens my captivity.
Dead
Dream
is not an anthem of the captives.
Distant
Stars
They
won’t know how we battled in our own ways,
buffeting
against different waves of two different seas,
two
shipwrecked sailors surrounded with a flotsam of flowers
tasting
the brine of the common language of our existence
unknown
to each other
that
kept us going.
Now
we both can say it’s written on the mountain
A
line that never existed till now.
Your
handkerchief whispered the fragrance of the musk flower
as
you gently rubbed it on the wooden life of the table
where
the lines of my life were being written.
We
should have bartered your handkerchief with my lines
for
that is the only way we can know ourselves more.
The
dad you found in me, and I, the daughter in you.
Sleep
My Child
Sleep
my child of the flowers
inside
the fur of my song.
Dad
has a simple story laced without a strain.
He
will wipe the tears the stars in your mind weep
when
they converse with you
under
the shade of your looking glass.
And
though you sleep with lonesome sighs your footsteps whisper of,
and
rest your heart in the gentle sighs of a quiet sea
he
knows your sad melody
the
one you hide deep, deep inside.
His
gentle hand will rub off the creases of your day so hard and rough.
He
will tell you why the wind blows
with
uncertainty at times.
And
he will help you count the flash of glorious silver
coming
through the dark trees of depression.
He
will soothe your dreams and caress your hair
so
that, so that you may sleep a gentle sleep
nestled
in the brow of your pillow of flowers.
Sleep
my child of the flowers
inside the fur of my song.