Mind a blank space
full yet empty
even the tiredness feels different
open and slowly shut
I breathe in deep
In a pool of sunlight mom sits
bent over a folded newspaper
her plastered arm resting
on a cushion.
fingers tapping involuntarily
to some unheard melody
her silver head bright beyond compare
Age’s jewelled crown
she looks so much like her mother
my eyes softly close
an image begins to take shape
sitting on the chair
in a pool of sunlight
my child watching
(or maybe a grandchild
for I see a girl)
I can do with some sleep
It has settled at the base of the spine
in the perineum – the root chakra-
‘muladhar ‘ in Sanskrit
the flowering of the womb
is also awaited
the sacred feminine reclaiming
Red- the vital life energy
I need an adequate grounding
I take my place
tune myself to the earth
tips of thumb and index finger
the ruby-red lotus
nestled between the toes
mind’s eye focused on Kegel muscle
I breathe in
The energies flow
a deep, slow unfolding
rising through the light column
finding a balance
manifestation is an amazing shaman trick
and a woman, by nature a shaman
the afternoon sun
fills my room
I go in a trance
the silent chant reverberates deep into
my collective being
displacing the noise in the head
sleep takes over.
a quarter moon -
a slice of pizza Margherita.
Stars, buttered popcorn.
In an empty park
wrapped in soundless dark
of an anaesthetic night
on a bench I lie.
Head nestled in the crook of left arm,
a half burnt cigarette loosely held
between two fingers of the right.
A dog hesitatingly approaches,
sniffs at mud coated shoes,
They smell of death,
of hunger and thirst,
sweat and blood.
They smell of drudgery,
sleeplessness and pain,
and of never-ending toil.
My eyes gaze at an unfocused blur,
the wind rustles through the trees
shadows’ quivering whispers.
The cigarette drops,
turns to ash,
night gathers the leftovers
in its shroud,
somewhere the dog howls
a lullaby for the hungry.
Day after day she sets out to work
before dawn’s first light
and returns home
night after night
through the dusk
always with one thought -
whom to feed
and whom to keep hungry
A silent struggle
to feed the mouths,
for that’s all the family is to her.
She slaves for their lives,
her limbs perpetually exhausted
just like her dreams, her desires,
her grief and despair.
Bowed by the weight of duties
she leans against a tree and
gazes at the darkening plains,
limp and leaden eyed.
Tied to the vicious cycle of labour,
No, not labour – drudgery,
hopeless, endless, joyless.
She folds her hands,
for a deed she’s resolved to do.
Silhouetted against the sky.
A shadow slowly fading,
Earth to earth
ashes to ashes
dust to dust.
The poet is a hungry spirit,
always at the peak of stimulation
from daybreak to nightfall to daybreak,
searching for equilibrium.
The wonderful 2014 edition of ‘Zaporogue XV by Various Authors’ is out and is FREE to download. An international e-magazine by acclaimed author Seb Dubinsky, Zaporogue’s current edition has fiction and poetry in Danish, French and English. It also showcases some impressive work by artists and photographers. Overall an electric blend of creative geniuses.
I have 15 short poems in the collection along with well-known writers and poets such as Cynthia Atkins, Matt Bialer, James Goddard and Robert Stark, noted artist Manu Rich, photographer Jean-François Mariotti and fashion designer Laure Kczekotowska.
Apart from them there is an added bonus of discovering lesser known but impressive writings of several other writers. I am absolutely loving this 258 page treasure.
This is the third time my work is published here and I am grateful to Seb for providing me this platform.
My work in previous editions of Le Zap
1. Zaporogue 11 - Poems
2. Zaporogue 13 - Short Story
Click to Download FREE.
Another good news is a heartwarming review of Collection of Chaos by William. B. Burkholder (poet/author). It is very helpful when readers connect, an important step in the evolution of self as a writer. Do read the book and let me know your views.
Here is what William says,
“Every writer is a city unto themselves.
Their memories and experiences; the streets and avenues.
The reader is conveyed via the words and lines of the poet.
The miraculous journey gifted to us to see the sights, and hear the sounds within these cities.
Tikuli’s newest collection of Poetry, “ Collection of Chaos” provides the reader with this privilege. To journey with her through those memories and experiences.
When immersed in verse and page that she has so masterfully created, the reader shall find themselves connected in a way that is more than literary joy, more than the mere passing of a moment’s time reading…
They shall find themselves’ s in a world, in a city that Tikuli has created. It is hers and hers alone.
She allows us to wander among the pages, to see what lies beyond the curve, around the next corner.
Each page leaves me asking for “ More Please”
When a writer/poet present themselves with the purity of heart as this author does.
You can tell immediately that she lays it all on the table.
These are her truths, these are her words, this is her poetry, and this is “Collection of Chaos” by Tikuli.
The reading public should take note of this author. For this will not be the last that we hear from her. I trust that her City will continue to grow and that there shall be more streets and avenues, giving us the continued gifts of her poetic journey. “
The Writer’s Sight, The Sower’s tree, This Thing Called Man
Thank you so much for the encouragement William. So glad you found a connect with my book.
Collection of Chaos (Amazon) (also on amazon.in etc.)
Nothing is more encouraging for a writer than readers finding a connect with her writings. I never talked about the making of ‘Collection Of Chaos’ and when Ritesh of ‘ A book is a sexy thing‘ asked me for an interview I felt really honored. Though I have given interviews earlier this is special because it is my First Conversation as a Debut Author.
Here is an excerpt :
Q1. Tell us something about your book ‘Collection of Chaos’? How would you introduce it to a potential reader?
Collection of chaos is a journey inside the poet’s mind, her life and all that surrounds it. Each poem has emerged from the complex interactions of heart and mind, the struggles of daily life and a search for oneself beneath all the role-playing. The book wasn’t conceived as a whole but it’s a patchwork quilt of poems.
It isn’t just the product of disciplined hard work and learning with an open mind but also of great mentorship. They say that when the student is ready the master appears and I have been blessed to find teachers who not only helped me evolve but also stood by me when everyone including myself had given up on me. They had a profound impact on me as a writer and as a person. Sometimes you need more than your own power to make things happen. This book could not have happened without the support, encouragement and friendship that made me trust those people implicitly. An artistic evolution is a dream work and each dream work is a team work.
Q2. When was it that you found your call in writing?
Answer:….. Read More Here - 6 Questions, 6 Answers :An Interview with Tikuli, Author of Collection of Chaos
There is a lot more to read on this blog so do encourage the young blogger and give your opinion.
Thank you Ritesh for the interview. I really enjoyed the conversation.
Janaki Nagaraj is an exceptional writer, a very loving and caring friend, and a fellow blogger. When she asked me to write a poem for her blog I felt delighted but honestly I was not ready for the post that appeared today on her blog. To be featured as an Inspiration is a humbling experience. I am honoured and blessed. We all draw inspiration from each other and it is a great thing to express love and gratitude. I totally dig this.
Janaki’s poems have just been published in an anthology called – Minds@Work 2 . Click on the link to buy the book.
You can read her poems, reviews, stories etc Here – Memoirs of A Homemaker .
Thank you Janaki for being a wonderful friend. Keep writing.
Here is an excerpt from the poem
I painted myself
in a corner of your room
I painted myself in invisible ink
so you don’t know I am there
watching you secretly
sometimes you stop
whatever you are doing
and look in my direction
and I really have to keep my heart still
lest you recognize the familiar beat
when the sun was concentrated
in a shaft of light
that fell on the corner
where I stood…
(Read More – Inspirations )
Many thanks to both of you for providing me with a platform to voice my thoughts and share my work.
I am eagerly waiting for the feedback, ratings and reviews of my poetry book. Do read and share your views.
Onward we go.
Connect with me
An excerpt from my Review of ‘Blue Vessel’ by Nabina Das, First published in Pirene’s Fountain.
“The poems in Blue Vessel are feisty, playful, full of life: there isn’t a sign of melancholy, the gloomy dark clouds on the horizon. The collection offers a glimmer of hope—one can feel the grass, bees, birds, river, flowers, fields, morning dew, even clothes lines pulsate with life. For Das “metaphors are sometimes stars and a common sun” as in the lines from her “Never Poem”:
Hear. If you can from there
Wispy flutters inside the ears
A bug stuck, wings of sheer
Silk dying in a verse-like throb
Blue Vessel is a nomadic journey across cities, states, continents taking in the scenic fields, rivers and hills, breathing in the aromas, textures sounds and sights of everyday living. As you read her poems, you become the vessel.“
Nabina Das also has a novel titled “Footprints in the Bajra” from Cedar Books, India. Her second poetry book ( Into The Migrant City) and début short fiction collection ( The House Of Twining Roses) are also available now.
Photo Credit – Nabina.
I am holding a fiction inside me
if you think you know me, think again
what is visible is camouflaged
what is hidden is true
we are kind of schizoid, aren’t we?
containing multitudes within
Ah what the hell!
More the merrier I say!
Reality is fragile
vehicles of destruction
I am entangled in those memories of yours
real and imagined
I tried to disengage
cell by cell
pore by pore
nerve by nerve
sometimes I pulled a wrong nerve
and the scream shot inwardly
at a deafening speed
leaving me convulsing with pain
it is a long and painful process
to separate yours from mine
from a chaos of collective losses
I reached inside and pulled out my splintered heart
I poked and jabbed
pulled and scratched
I scrubbed it
till it was raw
I could not separate the part of you in me
and here I am
holding a quivering, pulsating wound
with a little you
and a little me
bleeding in my hands
the spirit gone
the flesh weak
the will dead