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Shruti Sareen

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Shruti Sareen : Four Poems





Making Love

I want to make love.

I want to make love 
To the glittering, frosty edged moon
That cuts through the cold, nipping air
Like a curved sickle. 

I want to make love to the full moon 
I want to worship this purnima, I want to gaze
Longingly at this white misty dream forever
As it plays hide and seek with the clouds.

I want to make love to this lone tree at night
when its bare branches make love to the moon
I want to hug this tree, and rub my cheek
Against its grizzly trunk.

I want to make love to the whispered secrets of the forest 
Aflame with pink, yellow, and orange
I want to make love to the firy red leaves
Of the fall, the hidden violets,the thickest green verdure

I want to lose myself in this green and make love
To the rhythmic beats of the barbet
To the golden notes of the koel, the red of the bulbul
To the magpie, the hoopoe, the jays and the squirrels.

I want to make love to them. I want to make
Love to this river, it speaks to me in meanders
Reflects my dreams and the leaves of the trees
The waves frolicking, carrying me, playing with me

And I want to make love to you
I want to worship you, I want to hug you
I want to touch your hair. Softly. 
Making love to the trees and the moon, 
The birds and the river was after all only 
A way of making love to you. 

I also want to cry.


Red – a sonnet 

In a riot of colour, the lawn is ablaze
The red silk cotton tree seen half a mile away
Hanging brooms of bottle brush scarlet sway
The waxy crimson poppy petals glaze

My aching-breaking heart bleeds passion red
My angry jealousy burns all flame and fire
My impish wickedness jumps, plays, never tires
And I mourn the loss of something dead.

Red is the knowingness of menstruation
Jane's rebellious rage in the Red Room
Anne Shirley's red haired temper when it fumes
Little Red Riding Hood's cruel deception

Red is intensity of a passionate kind
That which I lost and yearn to find.

Nasturtiums

The curves of your leaves
ache 
for ripples of water to reflect them
... They contemplate escape from pots
They dream of the memory of the pool
they must have surrounded
when Narcissus looked into its mirror
and fell in love.
They wait eagerly
for the orange laugh of blossoms

Lost in your house

My mind went a-wandering
into your house
it peeped through curtains
spied from behind doors, scuttled
on the floors, flew like an airy spirit
into your hair, tried to invade
your mind.
My mind often lives inside
your house, sometimes
even you're not there.
My mind often lurks nearby
hides, and sometimes, it
catches you unawares
comes face to face, no,
mind to mind.
At times, I have to summon
my mind to come back to me.
I take an evening walk
in the direction of your house and
hope to find my lost mind
midway

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