Poetry by Anshu Choudhry

Anshu Choudhry

The Charity

She came a begging, or so I thought
Her wistful watch held me locked
Despite their wanting; and me of the giving

She dangled the little ape from over her arm
Throwing it towards me without regards for
Its limbs; its life; laments; lies; its anything

She then looked deep into my jumpy eyes
As deep as she could go there to find the guilt
That lay ashamed on the seat beside me, hiding, in the bag

She gripped the slit opening of the glass window
Her dark rough fingers dry, resistant against the shield
The lines on her palms firm and confident with hunger

She changed her look to an allegation
I dug, to seek my guilt and pass on to her for expiation
While the vigour of her stink, crushed my nerves, into garbage

She knew she was murdering me, with the poisons
 of her disease; she showed no mercy, the fun writ in her
Two broken teeth, whistling the last dirge for my funeral

She smiled now with reparation as she saw me dying
Her ape leered at my corpse, with her filth settling, to cover my grave
My guilt sunk me deeper, as I raised one arm above the marsh, with a tenner.


The Last Palace

They sleep on either side
of this path crossed
everyday, every night
the Royals
It is time to break
the fast, perhaps today
it is late, or never,
 not as early as four centuries before

Or it does not matter
 Anymore ?  Maybe
it is dispensable
 a hamam, drowsy in beds
They are woken rude,
the din of horns
 blaring uncouth
 in peace not war

Engines roaring fierce
these steely ghosts
frighten the ghouls
Concubines now dust
 touch them to rouse
they  bury further down
in the cold pits

When the sun is high
sending messages of warmth
they feel the dried blood
flowing again
Afternoons  lonely
the evenings as lively
as a mute audience
silent and still

to the drama for fools
Tragedies are the best
Now, it is easy to see
Their nightmares
the mocking dreams
of true selves,
these bodies of bones without flesh.


Height of Love

A fall is imminent
from where they stand; on the highest
point, the rocks are loose;

they are meant to be unstable
 as if by design; yet
 the capering here is the merriest
 dance a body with a soul could
crave for;

souls with bodies are not lithe
as without desires;
 it is known that masses
accruing actions gather

 and so indulgence  is not profligacy;
it is the need
of existence; the force of the will
 is the propulsion defying
 the laws of annihilation;

but the absurd believe in

 and its achievements; it is the drop
 that hangs on the highest point
at the taper of a leaf; awaiting its fall
 in the mouth of a marsh frog;