Gauri Lankesh- haikus in tribute.


  Last fortnight’s frightening murder of Gauri Lankesh truly shakes the democratic foundations of our nation. Tales of someone being shot down for saying things contrary to the majoritarian belief harken images of a dystopian autocratic regime such as China that restricts and wipes out any word of dissent and requires our voices to come out even stronger to prevent a worse situation.

 

She broke away, a

distributary at the gap-

ing mouth of Ganga.

 

White snow flowing down,

from mountain pedestal to

burning plains’ grassroots.

 

Her blood, now a river:

tributary to the quiet

trickle of dissent.

 

Ref:

  1. http://www.thehindu.com/news/cities/bangalore/the-brutal-murder-of-a-firebrand-journalist/article19628762.ece
  2. https://cpj.org/reports/2016/08/dangerous-pursuit-india-corruption-journalists-killed-impunity-Introduction.php
  3. https://scroll.in/article/828018/taslima-nasrin-can-be-threatened-and-bhansali-assaulted-because-intolerance-has-pillars-of-support
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Floral Floundering


This poem is part of a series titled identity. 

The first piece in the series is Strip.’ 

The second piece is Strut(Walks).’

The third piece is Jazz Hands.’

This the fourth and final piece.

I hope one day to hold a rose and kiss it,

to kiss the thorns on its stem and cut my lips- blood

tastes good.
I wear roses on my body-

I wear roses to hide my insolent hips from swaying too wide;
I adorn my long, droopy arms with sunflowers and yellow 

if my blood isn’t warm enough at least its flowers are;
My back is laced with lilies and jasmine-

its scent masks the trace of fear that blows 

like a wanton wind;
My chest is the mantle to the tulips that rise into my throat, 

stifling thought, stifling expression, 

isn’t it beautiful to look at?

I wear pink on most days, brightness attracts attention– is that what I crave? 

The world is looking for something to make blue every day– is that what I’m asking for?

Well I’m no florist but my body can grow pretty things quite well.

Sweet Sensation 


Check out The Litwood Plan, an art journal for literature, movies, visual art, music and more.

Your words are like hummingbirds 

hovering across the blushing flowers on the sides of my head, 

the flutter of their wings echoing through my auditory passages;

the sound flows across my nerves 

like honey curling around the thumb of a beekeeper 

as he softly squeezes the hive, and your tongue 

presses against my mind releasing oxytocin like pollen: 

and you vapourise clouds of powdered sugar 

into the air around us with your pirouetting eyes that skirt my gaze, 

and like rivers they feed into my ocean; 

oceans that were sitting on the sills of their windows 

looking out at the setting winter sun, 

but are now falling, 

feet first, eyes looking up, 

down, past earth, 

into wells that ran dry only because they were too deep 

to have a bottom — 

and storms rage in their turbid waters, 

fed by rivers flowing through valleys with hummingbirds and bees.
[PS: Wednesday posts seem to be back for now.]