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".]

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".]

 

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.

©

Golden Hour

Chinmoy Biswas, West Bengal

It’s that hour when sunshine falls on a lean River Matla. The rays brush up her delicate contours. They sweep across her banks and naked riverbed. The landscape is aglow as the river turns into molten gold, its aura lighting up the traveller’s trail.

[This microtale was written for the above photograph, which was shortlisted in the Greenstorm Nature Photography Contest 2020, and was published on the Greenstorm Foundation website.]

Breath

Yercaud Poetry Festival 2021, the fourth edition of the series, was themed on "Air". The title of the event was "Breathe Poetry – Reclaim Life". "Breath" is one of my poems contributed to the anthology of the same title. This video is a souvenir of the event.

Breath

The world is equal, you said. Like all blood runs red. But that’s truth distorted. For some, it’s red. And for some, it’s red black. Like a binary tree, it gradates from red to black.  For, they have bled. They have bled for long, and their wounds have clotted.

The world is equal, you said. Like the sun shines on all. A tale nothing short of tall. On some, it shines light. And on some, bright. So bright, now there are dark skins and black lives. So black, not a ray of hope can pass.

The world is equal, you said. Like all are made of elements. With dimensions. Of time, space and substance. Well, that’s naïve, if not dense. For, the world looks through some. As if they are empty spaces. They might as well be fragments.

The world is equal, you said. Like the air is for all to breathe. Now, if that isn’t falsity! Air breathes white lies into some. And then black lives cease to be.

Your law kneels
Way too hard on me
I can’t breathe!

©