Voices Within: Vinita Agrawal

Vinita Agrawal is an award winning poet based in Mumbai. She has authored four books of poetry. She was senior editor with Womaninc for three years. She has read at Kala Ghoda, Cappuccino, Ethos and Lucknow Lit festivals. Her work has been widely published and internationally anthologised. She was co judge for AsianCha contest in 2015 and judge for the RLFPA (international prize) in 2015. She is on the board of advisors for the Tagore Literary prize.

My Best Face

Here’s the face I created just for you.

It wasn't made in my mother's womb

but built instead, by tides of life

the way banks of silt and sand are made

at the end of a lonely beach.

A soft-cushion face

that absorbs dismantling

yet stays in shape -

this face is a face saver.

Almost a rose without thorns

a sponge soaked in water

a squirrel face

that hoards tears for later.

Oval neat satin

swab for wounds

unnecessary to be admired in the mirror

for the mirror shows nothing of the soul.

Sometimes I stumble over

the alien floor of my cheeks

slip on all the marble

skid on cold granite.

But when I recall the number of dawns

it took to sculpt this mask

the sum of shoulder-straightening resolves

it took to put it in place

I hold my chin up.

My journeys have ended on my cheekbones.

Each Other's Company

Lead me to where I need to go

A land of peace, a piece of land

Earth's free schooling in trees and water

A sanctuary of flora and fauna.

No more the hamster running in a treadmill

resorting to trickery just to appear accomplished

frantically covering all bases, to be everywhere

and later, cowering in a corner...

asking why do I cast my pearls before a swine?

I'd rather openly be a novice

fallible...prone to making mistakes

I'd rather be myself no matter what

before my ruptured tears start.

In a world filled with men, how can that ever be?

Men don't allow a woman's inner self to surface

They draw penis lines of yeses and no s

and turn women into shrews.

I don't want to end up as a tumour tale

pelting angry stones at the trees I love.

When spring carves blossoms in my yard

I don't want to sit crocheting bones of pain.

Give me a life of inclusion, my love

my partner, my friend.

Let us succumb together to the allures of a peony

our brows lush with a lust for togetherness.

Let our sun be tart, our rain floral, it's pollen perfumed

Our voices one when put to the monsoons

Our eyes - let them be audacious silver boudoirs

Twin masquerades of wicked joy.

If I want anything then that is what I want

Fathers are like Autumn Trees

reflecting gentle autumn warmth

in every strand.

and daughters, their ferruginous leaves

little boats sailing on gentle waves.

If you stepped inside a father’s heart,

a warm autumn equinox would bathe your feet. 

When valencies of seasons turn leaves to gold

cause green bowers to blush a bright red

trees hug the aching earth

and sigh softly as they let go of their bounty.

The burly barks

pepper silence with stoic breaths.

They bear the brunt of seasons - Fathers.

******

Sufi

Tonight I’m as broken as the night.

Is that a dead bird in the bush?

Is it just a shadow?

Is it anything?

Bring all the tides

of all the oceans

to my doorstep

so that I may drown.

My hopes are full of life:

they don’t me die.

Take the pitcher and drain this blackness

jug by jug into the pond by the village

which is dry anyway

it won't mind my burdens.

Else,

someone else might face

the agony of these narrow labyrinths

that make one pass through knots of water

and blind the eyes.

Odyssey from Home To Homelessness

  

Heads, we’d stay in India, tails - Pakistan.

Tails.

So we picked up a fistful of soil

and left our country

carrying in our palms

the nonsense of emotions

when they should have clutched at food

and water for the journey of no return.

The August monsoon

grated into our wounds

and poured like blood

from ravaged skies

Our breaths were tattooed blue

with the ink of migration

memories stung like bees.

The ashen smoke of disownment

rising from Partition ‘s pathetic fires

screened our tears.

Our bite-sized footsteps

measured separation

with a dysfunctional inch tape;

too many fold marks

for the road to straighten ever again.

Home was an empty caravan without scents.

Radcliffe's pen turned out too strong

the borders too gullible

dying became easier than living.

Till today we water the fistful of soil

we’d brought along, every dawn

and look for the slightest sign of roots

we’d abandoned at the flip of a coin.

Voices Within Complete List of Poets :: Setu, January 2019