Sunday, 10 October 2021

Lamppost


Bharati Varrier



I could see the light
in the night, but not the way
and I went astray.

© 

[This ekphrastic haiku was first published in Spillwords.com. The photograph was clicked by Bharati Varrier somewhere on the streets of Goa.]

Sunday, 3 October 2021

The Still Thirsty Crow



 

The crow hangs around the eaves today. Just as he had done the last morning. Yesterday he had slipped his beak into the rain gutter to take a sip of the previous night’s rain. Today he’s prancing along the trough to see if there’s any water – here, there or just around the corner. Well, no. Today is not his lucky day.

He flew in to this neighbourhood just a few days ago. It's a kind of homecoming. He had flown away from here way back when the pigeons had taken over these roofs. Strangely, the pigeons are nowhere in sight these days.

The crow wakes up from his reverie. He slants his gaze into the eaves trough once again. Could there be some drops caught at the corner? Or near the spout? Just enough so he could throw in the much-fabled pebbles? Then the water might rise a bit. It just might! But, no, there’s not even a drop. For, it had not rained last night.

Strange are the seasons nowadays. They used to span the year. Now they come and go as they please, every day. The rain was pelting the roof just the other night. And today the entire trough is dried up. Now where can he find some water to wet his throat? Wherever the pigeons find it, perhaps. Where are the pigeons, by the way?

Fall was yesterday
Summer had its way last night
It might rain tonight.

©

Sunday, 26 September 2021

The Room Next to My Room

 

Bharati Varrier

The room next to my room

is a wee too perfect.

Bed is made,

pillows fluffed

to good shape,

everything well in place.

No clothes are in disarray

nor books lolling open

or closed,

no bags half unpacked

or packed

in happy repose.

Wardrobes are a surprise,

all in perfect order,

tidy too,

curtains are quite drawn,

no laundry overdue.

The gadgets are amiss

and their crazy complexity

of cords – 

a network on their own, 

a tangled web of sorts.

The room next to my room

is flawless,

or almost,

like a nest

of small chirruping birds

that grew their wings and left. 

©

[This poem is an excerpt from "The Attic & Other Poems".]

Thursday, 23 September 2021

Sunset


The sun slowly sinks
and the night falls at ease,
still the sunshine clings
to the golden rain trees.

©

[This poem is an excerpt from the collection of poems, "Fireflies".]


 

Thursday, 16 September 2021

Backpack

 

Krishna Raj Warrier

The journey is long and the baggage is heavy. One finds it difficult to lug around. Yet one's reluctant to put it down for good.

Backpack


Wayfaring

from place to place,

gathering stuff

from here and there,

discarding some

on the wayside,

my backpack

is loaded, heavy

and stretching

at its seams,

my journey begins

as I pick it up

and stops over

as I put it down,

the road speeds on

                slipping off my feet

as I tote around

                my belongings

from one place

to another

and yet another

until my bag

flops flat, deflated

…and empty.

©