Muse Poetry Contest 2008 - Special Commendation

1. The Doorbell

Per me si va ne la città dolente,
per me si va ne l'etterno dolore,
per me si va tra la perduta gente.

-Inferno Canto III


The doorbell rang softly.
Amidst the din of the night,
Half asleep in bed,
I decided it was a dream,
And began to pretend to sleep.
It rang again like an afterthought,
With the dying smoke of a cigarette butt,
And clung to me like a supplicant,
In dire need of help.

At my door was a traveling salesman,
Dressed in a winter fog.
An eager smile buttered his bready face,
And he promptly said “Hello,
The sun won’t rise today.”
I looked beyond him with doubt.
Yes, the sky was blacked out.
“Will it rise tomorrow then?”
He shook his head like a tree,
And with a grave voice he said,
“You haven’t paid your dues.”
This was bad news.
He left me with a leaflet,
And drifted away like a bobbling bottle,
In the middle of a wavy night.

The fluttering leaflet wailed,
An infant unattended in distress,
An inscrutable voice in every page,
That cried, I haven’t paid my dues.
The dues, the dues, the dues.
The futile sound of my views, your views.
The emptiness of a creaky swing,
That moves to and fro.
Swings higher, swings low.
The sun won’t rise today,
Nor tomorrow, nor the day after.
An eternity stares after a traveling salesman.


2. A Prayer

Aditi,
Make the leaves shiver with your breath,
Of cold numbness and frigid solemnity,
Catch the moon undulating in a pool,
Of gentle nuances and half gestures.
Hear the river bubble upon rocks,
And roar in agony at every bend.

I still see you standing there,
Knee deep in water,
Cotton clothes that smell of cotton clothes,
Duly soaked, washed, rinsed, crinkled,
And baked in the sullen, smoky sun.
Still see the fishes around you,
That kiss the watery surface of moss-coated rocks,
And the drowsy, dewy-eyed breeze,
Laden with frangipani, bunches of frangipani,
Carefully woven into necklaces, wreathes and bands,
And recklessly stamped.
Those whorls of hair,
Pleated, permed, frizzed, curled, crumpled, lumped,
Flowing in the wind, for miles and miles,
I felt them last night, while asleep,
Twisted the idle strands of hair,
Around my fingers, and smelt them.
Look they led me here to you.

Aditi, grant me this wish Aditi,
They say your fat fingers,
Can weave a spell around the crescent moon,
Send the clouds into a tizzy,
Bring them crashing into the mountains.
They say your big eyes,
Can see through the night,
And seek out the somnolent sun.
They say you charmed the bees one day,
And turned them into butterflies,
Or was it fireflies?
Aditi, Will you do this for me?
Please listen to me.
The long winding forest path upon the gravelly red soil,
That churns the day into the night.
Lost amidst the similar trees,
May her eyes seek me,
At every corner, at every tree.
Where the silence echoes and the sound is still,
May she hear my voice in the rattling leaves.
The wind gushes in through the windows,
Scrapes the flaky walls of the lonely house,
May she wait for me at the creaky door.


3. Fallen

Let my life now merge in the all-pervading life.
Ashes are my bodies end. Om.
- Isha Upanishad 

Hush, it’s the tentative tiptoe,
On a burning terrace. A sultry surface,
That singes every step into a muffled sigh.
Hop, skip, scuttle but before she leapt.
She stood at the edge and surveyed,
The cloudless sky for a hint of remorse,
A tinge of doubt, ever so slight,
Was there nothing in his eyes?
His head had sagged back like a punching bag,
Wagged like a tail from side to side.
She had watched it, trailed it,
Searched it for a sign.

“I give you these wings, you may fly.”
She spread her wings,
And noticed the world down below.
Those ants that race up and down the anthill,
Nameplates hang from their necks,
Faces are pinned to them and on their shoulders,
They bear a lonely burden.
She squished them too, with her thumb.

The gushing winds said that she had clutched,
At the sky. Her open palms revealed loose strands,
Of hair and a fistful of secrets,
That still clung to her hands and danced midair,
Like marionettes, to a melancholy tune.
She rolled, rolled, rolled in the air,
Like a cigarette rolled around her powdery,
Puffy soul. Roll some more.

Time would flow as blood from a wound,
That wouldn’t heal, but the blood had clot,
One day, when the curtains refused to be swayed,
By the plucky breeze at the windowpane.
Since then it hadn’t bled.
The kitchen tap still runs,
The saucepan is on a constant flame,
And the familiar smell still finds its way out,
To the inviting skies. As she fell, she smelt it too,
And rolled in her timeless feathery bed.
The wind was a conch shell to her ears.
He spoke of the patient sea and rows of,
Golden sunflowers and green paddy fields.
She closed her eyes and smiled,
When her fingers brushed the leaves.

She rolled, rolled, rolled in the air,
Like a cigarette rolled around her powdery,
Puffy soul. Roll some more.

(End)

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