Showing posts with label Shikha S. Lamba. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Shikha S. Lamba. Show all posts

Poetry: Shikha Sawhney Lamba

Shikha S. Lamba
This is How I Wait Out the Day, On Many Days 

I claim the rip in my skin,
the ache in my spine,
my back rounding to a perfect defeat.

Here’s the thing, I demand a retraction
from myself on days I see the world 
spreading its ochre decay far and wide, 

blistering lives as its rot escalates. 
I can’t witness each fanatic on a mission, 
decimating the very skeleton of our existence.

Take a rendezvous, my heart says,
take your skin and the hope it houses
as far from this gravity of grief as you can,
at least for a while, at least for a while.
***


Erased Migration 

“The majestic Siberian cranes will never come to India again – it's almost confirmed now.” 
- Deccan Herald 2015

The Siberian crane from the Ob marshes has taken a long pause, 
no longer visiting Bharatpur, the land of the Rajas. 

An escape from the Siberian winter is no longer necessary 
for the birds now well rested and warm in the afterlife. 

They say, the path of the birds is “war-ridden”. They say, the birds 
are exhausted flying halfway to a place that no longer welcomes them. 

If you had asked me about wetland drainage last week, 
I would have been baffled and confused. After all, 

we humans are seldom taught about the disasters we create, 
least of all reminded about how much we drain, dredge, encroach, 

convert, extract, and facilitate the natural world for our own gain. 
We demand so much from the world, it has no choice but to 

gradually extinct itself bird by bird, creature by creature. 
People say, they are attempting to revive, breed, protect, 

transform, conserve and monitor. People also say 
for the India bound cranes, death is now irreversible.

***


The Nature of Devastation

Tragedy doesn't knock when she enters. 
No, she will make her entrance boldly – 
like a Matador, richly dressed 
in studded gold. 
She doesn't sneak in or invade gently 
like a dark mist seeping in. 
She bellows her way through,
demanding attention and a captive audience.
***


Bio: Shikha Sawhney Lamba is a jewelry designer and poet living in Hong Kong.  She is the co-editor of an online magazine, Coffee and Conversations. Shikha has contributed poetry and visual art for publications in Hong Kong, US, UK, Bangladesh, Indonesia, The Netherlands and India. Her poems and photographs were nominated for Best of the Net in 2023 and 2024. She is a 2023 Pushcart prize nominee.

Summer 2024: Shikha S. Lamba

Haiku
1. A Gentle Morning

A tranquil morning, 
a thousand reasons to glow
when kissed by the sun.

2. Blossom

Soft folds, gentle skin,
a hesitant blossom holds
her delicate breath.

3. Different Points of View

Different points of
view, a conversation stalled, 
parched throats look away.
***

Micro Poem
4. Frangipani Blooms

Frangipani blooms
against blue skies. 
Sorrow disintegrates
into fine sand.
***

Shikha S. Lamba is a jewelry designer and poet living in Hong Kong. She is also the co-editor of an online magazine, Coffee and Conversations. She has contributed poetry for various publications in Hong Kong, the US, the UK, Bangladesh and India, including The Madras Courier, IMPRINT Hong Kong Women in Publishing Anthology, Ambidextrous Bloodhound Press, Indian Periodical, Prachya Review, The Bamboo Hut Journal, DREICH PLANET # 1 INDIA Anthology and The Yearbook of Indian Poetry in English Anthology. Passionate about raising awareness about women’s health and mental health issues through her writing, her poems often touch on themes of feminism and social injustice.

Shikha S. Lamba (Voices Within 2023)

Shikha S. Lamba is a jewelry designer and poet living in Hong Kong. She is also the co-editor of an online magazine, Coffee and Conversations. She has contributed poetry for various publications in Hong Kong, the US, the UK, Bangladesh and India, including The Madras Courier, IMPRINT Hong Kong Women in Publishing Anthology, Ambidextrous Bloodhound Press, Indian Periodical, Prachya Review, The Bamboo Hut Journal, DREICH PLANET # 1 INDIA Anthology and The Yearbook of Indian Poetry in English Anthology. Passionate about raising awareness about women’s health and mental health issues through her writing, her poems often touch on themes of feminism and social injustice.

 

 

A Time for Everything

 

The view is blurry, and my wretched lungs

cough up an opaque vision of this world.

I could try harder, see the sky translucent and fulgent,

and think of the air as impossibly sweet.

I could listen harder and hear the music playing

itself into each day, feel the harmony vibrating in

the palm of my hand and champion every note

hanging by its tender thread, resisting turbulence

as it faces this world.

 

But there is a time for everything,

and today, I stop myself, deliberately

before attempting to fall in love again.

 

 

See What Happens When Fear Robs the Spirit

After a line from “Resident Heron: After One More Loss” by Tara Bray

 

Oh calloused heart,

smudged abstraction

of joy,

steal back your wonder,

your curiosity.

Wrestle out this despair,

this panicky disposition

parcelled within.

The dry acres of your contours,

the bruised bark of your skin,

the hollowed out pit of your elation

desire a sprinkling of exhilaration.

Craft your origami of emotions,

your infinite assembly of dreams,

be a lustful companion to the unfamiliar.

Find your certainty in a mirror.

Your life grieves your absence.

 

 

Hopeful Gardeners

 

There are days I imagine my Dada, strolling through

the sugarcane farms he managed post partition.

He never spoke of Abbottabad or Mansera,

only of how he relished dipping jalebis in hot milk

for breakfast. Hamira was the unexplained new home,

we would hear in between stories of fresh cow’s milk and

malai on toast, and how we children of then “today’s day and age”,

only darkened our skins with overboiled chai.

 

There was so much we never thought to ask, undress the

history of our grandparents, spending our summer holidays

year after year with them in their Mussoorie hill-top house,

which they named after hope.

They built their kitchen gardens, planted roses and

dahlias, snapdragons in purple and white, pansy bedspreads,

stocked their storeroom with enough rice, varieties of dal and

sunflower oil, drank Indian tea like English people, and

sipped Black Label with the evening news.

 

My dada died at 99, not a wrinkle on his

“far too white for an Indian” face.

We said our goodbyes, while he lay, ventilator, air tubes and all,

a pale semblance of a man who foresaw a divided country.

She followed a few years later at 95, gently easing her breath,

her last spoken word, pani. I imagine them now, building new homes

in the afterlife, naming each one “Hope”. Storing steel canisters

of glassy sugar, mounds of Darjeeling tea leaves sealed air tight.

And roses, always roses planted where they can be seen,

looking over a hot cup of tea.