Monsoon wings


       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

San rock painting of ‘shamans of the rain’ ( !khwa:-ka xorro) capturing an imaginary ‘rain- animal.’ When it was killed, the creature’s blood and milk were believed to fall as rain. The fish and eels indicate that the ‘trance-event’ is taking place in an underwater spirit realm. Lesotho. After Stow 1930: pl. 67a. Copy made in the 1870s. 

San rock painting of ‘shamans of the rain’ ( !khwa:-ka xorro)

I went to buy some eggs
and I saw a winged ant sparkling upon the white lap
of a woman who sits.

I told her
popping fear-delight,
of the company she had,
and all she did
was cluck her tongue,
and say that they die, after the rains.

Of lately, my sweet dreams
in restless jaws
but with calm odors of the ground
my flesh-reap
I am riding an Aladdin lamp,
to moth to flames
and oh so clearly, I see the clouds
upon my tongue
a purple night–
We’re born again
if only to die.


A sublime affair

A space overcomes me


I was sitting beside the lemon detergents

When I slipped by my elbow

and found myself upon a cotton tree,

long killed by one milk-selling municipal lady


Upon the highest branch,

his hair became the dark of the clouds.

a sullen autumn around, afraid I looked.

Two hushed stars in his bottomless eyes,

and he said,

it was summer still.


Upon a grain of thunder, he sprawled like an ocean current

And gasping like the roar itself, gave out his steep palms

Out of which a waning lily coiled out,

a ladder escaping from his fingertips,

as if the guitarist’s chords

tied up by the hair of heaven


I gave my heart to this man who was no-man

But a space, that overcomes me.


Every rainy night,

as they say,

I forget to breathe

And in me lays the flower, finally awake.


When he falls

It is when he falls with an aroma
Pint by Pint
Into a berserk ocean
It is then I arch my back
for my body to live in harmony
With its own self.

I sit in a lullaby car
It has both emergency headlights on
A sketchbook flying within,
And there is drumming on the gorilla glass

He conspires with two sets of mercenary whales
And seven distant-eyed oval monsters on my window
marked onto a horizon, nibbling
And gasping like my opening throat.

I close my eyes, I open them
I am the glass pane now.

Do you ever get this desire?
To be not you
And to be in fact nothing,
Only a strand of wind
brushing past the squinting mustard beams of the street light?

And to be a smell
without adjectives
Beyond colors
Or even words
In a night where moon is purple and the sky white

And love is made

with the rain.

Qutub Minar and Summer rains

On very rare days, I feel I can look  into the eyes of an untamed bird and believe that we are capable of not scaring each other.

In this sandy weather, with an empty and painful stomach, I look across the heavy skies. The view from a 7 floor building is not breath-taking but intriguing enough.

The trees finally look like a group of mystical dancers and not melancholic individuals nodding in solitude. They are emerald and not to mention crisp with dusty bombs of hard rains. They move their heads in circular motions and concrete buildings began to appear as a confinement which stops them from just flying away like my head is keeping my brunette curls from flying away into the sails of nimbus sky.

Far in the sails, I see a minaret hanging. And not just an ordinary minaret, mind you. World’s tallest one of course. Watching the city like a king’s guard. Taking lives now and then. And then, suddenly, we are prohibited to see from his eyes any more. Because of the lives it took. Some say people die while climbing its (379) stairs. Others take their own life. Nonetheless, the minaret is one to blame.

In his own golden days too, under the reign of  Qutb-ud-din Aibak, the first Sultan of Delhi, it not only took the life of its laborers but also of the other builders whose jealous efforts of sculpting a more monstrous minaret ended into their own fatal fate.  Their lampooned work still stand near Qutub, somehow magnifying its glory.

Today too, its silhouette stands as rigid as ever, beaten down by hideous rains. Ancient. Red. And dusty. The green cover around it blazing as gems reflected under gentle rays and standing in stark contrast with the dark abode, above.

Standing far away at my terrace, I take shelter in history. I imagine myself as a panghat girl (Girls who brought water from far away wells.) and try to decipher the meaning of minaret myself.

A dimension to escape towards god, the place from where one could see heaven, the sleeping guardsman or perhaps a landmark.

What do you think?




Muse of the strange beings

*This poem was written under the prompt: My Quiet place. My Quiet place of muse is however, not very quiet.

I have certain qualms that surround me,
But the sea-green tides today
are not divulging
but low.

I have passions for tumultuous storms
That goes unrequited in the summer’s bowers
But they seem to be bathing under the symmetrical roofs
The flashes of one distant star, gliding past their morrows
And yet here I am strange
for finding a heart in the dilemmas of the off-seasons,
that left me behind a traveler, precipitated
who seek towards some
ever-present tornadoes.

I have my name upon a tree
And it gave me no solace at all
Because I can only dance for the rains
And by paying my subtle abode, above
a call.


© Priyanka, All rights reserved.