You don't begin with Guernica
if that's somewhere you're ever
meant to go

chubby baby hands grip the crayon
someday if you're lucky (or not)
they'll draw a thin straight line
in charcoal
just the least perceptible curve
enough to delight the eye
imperfection thrills the masses

then you paint and paint and paint
time and patience
some money
luck again, always luck

you're a master

maybe someone will recognize in your lifetime
most likely no
unless you're a tireless self-promoter

but your work
your work is sublime

Poverty sunken stars failed to twinkle in the eyes.
About to dip from the sky and fall in the ocean wide.
After diving deep into the garbage,
Pearls he couldn’t bargain,
To feed his ever hungry pouch,
All he got was the half rotten cake,
Which he had closed in his fists.
Perhaps he took a bite and spared it for the next day.
Now its remnants were taken over by the ants.
Perhaps he had grabbed it from the ant’s mouth.

His flesh had shrunk to the bones.
The blood stopped oozing from the fissures.
Often he was found loitering near the garbage,
Waiting to pounce on the leftovers.
Was he an orphan, least not by the birth,
While somewhere his brain wires,
Were incompatible with each other.

He slept in the bed of granules,
Viewing the canopy of twinkling stars,
Yet he failed to lit his own life.
Today he shut his eyes off from the world.
Now the tiny ants strolling in and out his ears.
The flies were relishing his cold parched blood.
While crows gathered around the garbage
Thereby conducting the autopsy of an opened flesh.

Today is the ant’s celebration day.
Enjoying the big feast along with rats and insects.
Seeds of poverty were sown since long,
Today also it thrives in our soil.
Will it ever be swept from our lives?

© Geetha Jayakumar. All Rights Reserved (Published).

Don't ever get down at Remount Road
on the train's brief pause.

Once I couldn't resist
when through the window
I can't say what beckoned me.

The sky after a drizzle was awashed blue
and its miniature carvings on the puddles
sprung from my steps like thousand dreams.

There on the unshaded platform
were faces as puzzled as mine.

I didn't intend to detrain here, I spoke,
we didn't too, the voices echoed
but it felt so like the place
we wanted to be but missed.

Walk me barefoot on the sodden earth,
a girl offered her hand,
recount to me the unfinished stories,
make me a home.

I won't miss this time,
I was crying.

I have recounted the story to many
but they all have eyed me
like I am mad.

They only repeat there's no Remount Road
on this route.

Every step you take,
you are
                moving
                                 toward
your future, whether you realize it
or not.
Emerge like the rail road
that was once underground.
Each choice leads to a new narrative.

They are wild things
Sometimes, I swear
I need a shotgun
but so as not –
to hurt the words

I hack them out of weeds
Break the ice to drag them out
Throw rocks at them in trees

Turn around three times fast
and collapse
Sometimes I catch one
still spinning dizzy
floating circle-words in breeze

I command nothing

The poems always have their way

I command nothing!

Not love –  Not time –  Nor hate
Nor sun –  
but the moon-rise –  
maybe

...in dream-light