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Camellia Paul |
Coffee
House
Walking
down College Street, I lit a cigarette
as I
availed the turn that pulled me into an
overcrowded
Bankim Chatterjee Street,
further
pulling me closer to you, and there you were,
in your
favourite “peachy” shirt (I guess you have a lot of liking for it),
waiting
to, well, pull me close (one never ceases to be hopeful
even
when they are tempesting their way through life)
with a
smile I could not help but return.
It is
insanely unnecessary to fight the self with the self,
chucking
the body and mind in a state of gruesome delirium.
One
only ends up inconveniencing their entire mentalhood,
and
this has never really done anybody any good.
So,
standing there with you and letting my cigarette burn out,
I
wondered if I were to touch your hand,
or your
dishevelled hair, or to look you in the eyes.
I felt
like a goat tied to an invisible lamppost
with an
invisible heartstring, waiting to be “scaped.”
And
that was when my cigarette heaved its last sad sigh,
and
rushed into the gutter; and we rushed into Coffee House.
I don’t
know why you were so inclined to go upstairs and sit.
The
whole point of Coffee House lies in its chaos, confusion, and cacophony.
It is
true that carrying out an important, or a private conversation gets
difficult
in such a surrounding, but then…
why
come to Coffee House in the first place?
Well, I
went there because I wanted to sit by the window, smoke n cigarettes,
stare
at you sitting opposite to me, as I’d starve myself through lunch
(while
at the same time protesting if you tried to do the same).
But
things don’t quite pan out the way they are p(l)otted, now, do they?
So,
that was that, and we had to sit where we did,
looking
down at the dismal mess on the asbestos
that
threw my mindstate right back at me.
I had
to make myself appear busy before I would melt into a cup of tears,
made to
blend with some real smelly and cold milk, spiked with
some
sugar and coffee powder, served with or without a straw and cream.
So, I
took out the things I had to tend to, along with those
I had
to give you. I looked at you, and you sipped me away.
***
Sunday Skyprint
Sweeps my heart, leaves me alone.
Traps a hornet, drinks her sting,
Drops her with a chartreuse wing.
Stains the dappled walls cerise—
Ogles the flush of dotted breeze.
Returns to its nonchalant start,
Printing skies with nettled art.
***
Sleep
Tight
You
woke me up with a start,
Sweat
beading your brow;
Your
lips amid those grey ol' curls
I
couldn't but kiss right now.
I
pressed that puff right up your cheek,
Bit
your nose, like I do.
Your
creamy eyes, spoonful of milk —
With
drops of honeydew.
I
pulled you close to cafun├й,
You
could hear my heart, you said.
Skin to
skin, and beat to beat
Entwined,
we lay in bed.
Mellow's
died, there's a nip in the air,
That
fan — you switch it off.
You’re
running a fever, and I'm a bit off-colour,
Sleep
tight, my sweet, auld prof.
***
Bio: Camellia Paul has completed her Masters in Comparative Literature, from Jadavpur University, India, in 2019 with specialisation in Canadian literature and translation studies. She currently works as a Senior Instructional Designer in a multinational e-learning and professional services company. Prior to this, she has worked in print media and publishing houses of international repute, and been part of various academic translation projects. Her poetry and short stories have appeared in Livewire, Third Lane, among others. Her letters to the editor, art, and photography are regularly published in The Telegraph, Kolkata. She has designed academic book covers and posters for international conferences, published by educational and research institutes, such as Sahitya Akademi, Jadavpur University, and Ashoka University. As an independent practitioner of the visual arts and photography, she has extensively worked on the interface of narratives from the everyday in a pandemic world across rural and urban spaces. Apart from being passionate about art, owls, and anything purple, Camellia loves reading, photography, and exploring cultures. Contact email: casperpeace@gmail.com
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