Wednesday 29 October, 2008

She who cannot write three decent sestets

Winter is in the twin city,
although you can only tell
by the slivers of white on your skin,
the embarrassing crackling of smile lines.
The sun still sizzles in the sky,
an old dog with an old habit.

Between Karkhana and Lingampalli,
sweaters sheepishly hang on roadsides
waiting to be bought,
while even old Hyderabadis laugh to see such ambition.

In the irrepressible smog of Diwali,
you realise the shortcomings with a start:
You are not a consumptive poet waiting to die by the sea.
You are a little bit of your parents,
a large question, round parantheses
surviving behind the refuse of Karkhana.

Surviving, in spite of yourself,
with a little October shiver, sparklers, someone else’s poetry
and asthma that is entirely your own.

7 comments:

longblackveil said...

Bzzzz. Season's greetings.

Anonymous said...

Really liked it:-brilliant stuff

Anonymous said...

Fantastic poem. The last three lines are three of the best I've ever read.

Hope you're well!!!

Anonymous said...

no post for such a lonng time:-

wendigo said...

where are you, brilliant one? yappy noo ears

Anoopa Anand said...

Longblack: Sooo long back. Love and misses.

Lost: Thank you. Sorry, have been injury-ridden and writers'-blocked. Soon, soon.

Liam: Thank you. :)I think you give me more praise than I deserve. All well? xxx

Wendigo: Happy new fears, miss! :) All well, I hope. Will write as soon as the world stops acting like an asshole.

Carl Savio said...

Super!