Poetry: Jindagi Kumari

Jindagi Kumari

1. Rapoem

Rap(e)presenting rape-age
Rape-news
Rape-page; rape-break
Ra(m)p(e)agnt
Rap(e)ository of rape-story
Rapacious, rape-kill
rape-death

Rape-city
Raps
Raprotest
Rape-march to rip

The rap(e)immunity of
The rapesick
rape-culture;

Rape-country
resumes
routine rape.

Gang rape
old rape
young rape
told rape
read rape.

Re-rape,
rapetrap tap tap.

Rapend?

HAHAHA…

Rape-clap clap clap…

         

2. O Delhi! 


O my foggy city
Your smogy crown
enveloped in the anguish
of the  teeming lodgers you are stretching your arms for.

Multi-limbed, multifaced and conjoined
you are suave and sick,
grand and ghastly.

Clad in corduroy
you speak little.

You  rush
and crush,
scan,
escalate.

Mercurial and harsh
You freeze, flood, furnace.


O detached
your derisive look

but mind
I will find myself
in you, oneday.


3. My Balcony


My every morning claims
a view of sky
above the endless stretch of multi-storey pigeonholes
and greenery
streaked in the trees at each side of the road;
and the pruned bushes along the pedestrian lane
and remains of stratospheric histrionics;
rain, thunder, dust
daily whiff of Delhi air.
my Balcony
my halcyon space.

4. Soul-place


O bricked, hedged and foliaged
why do you visit me each winter?

Why play peekaboo as I stagger between absences
and crowd of kin;
when tears stay in labour
and die in womb.

How do you find me every time
I become a nobody;
neither the inquisitive prostitute
nor the mute goddess.

Do you desire to make me or  to unmake?

O airy, sunny, dusty: o gone
can you be the companion of a flesh and blood?

What part of my soul did I leave with you
that you wish to return?


5. Memoryland

A drop of tear in the offing
mirrors your wrinkled arms
encircling my adolescent shoulder.
The aroma of your ancient love
seeping through each thread
of  your worn cotton saree.

On the patchworked bedspread
upon the winter special
strawbed
how you lit the  path of my dreams
with the shiny pearl of your story treasure
in the pitch black cold night.

My love you still live
in that time of our time,
in the melancholy street of
my memoryland.

1 comment :

  1. Poems are a poet's anguished protest covered with delicate touches. love them from heart, dear poet.

    ReplyDelete

We welcome your comments related to the article and the topic being discussed. We expect the comments to be courteous, and respectful of the author and other commenters. Setu reserves the right to moderate, remove or reject comments that contain foul language, insult, hatred, personal information or indicate bad intention. The views expressed in comments reflect those of the commenter, not the official views of the Setu editorial board. рдк्рд░рдХाрд╢िрдд рд░рдЪрдиा рд╕े рд╕рдо्рдмंрдзिрдд рд╢ाрд▓ीрди рд╕рдо्рд╡ाрдж рдХा рд╕्рд╡ाрдЧрдд рд╣ै।