A Song For One More SleepThere was a whistling right after the morning fell off its egg shelf and broke in the tundra of life-leaking toothbrush basin, like some rabid dog tearing nail for tooth My hands with some old mosquito blood caught a hold of this insect and placed it upon the bicycle of a man selling sofa and cushion covers; as a result, it dilapidated it coughed– ousting the vigour of the southern spring and other marooned extravagances like political declarations, love-promises, essence. In a small monotone my morning paddles with this man, dragged into the sullen of the afternoon, laid with the song of a distant Koel bird, It is now put to rest, put to sweet-sweet sleep. ***
HoldingThere is the circling of eagles in the deep blue sky and the surreal sound of flute jigsawed in the modern landscape and there is then, the drilling noise that must overpower the hum of the traffic or the worker woman’s bangles, clinking with the fidget of the soul moving inside her palms. In all these spaces I tell you to find yourself the emptiness that is pleasant in the patience of a house plant that stares out the window every day and feels the rain in dripping shadows– I offer you cold loneliness for the times I cannot offer you the warmth when my fingers touch the sides of your hand, the spaces between your fingers the moving of your neck– the bed of your amorous speaking, from where you will inform me of my once-again distant absence Then, I give you my absence for you to hold and believe my presence in your palms once again. ***
The FarmerAnd they spread across my momentary page with their feet deep inside the wet grass and they point their hands towards the sky— the rays are always sunset-orange. They stand looking over the field; the river of blood of their ancients flowing under their ground, and to it they repeat someone must endure someone must pay for all the debts of this world to be freed. ***
Day JobThe room, heavy with my own scent begins to take off its lid, in a mechanism of breaking the fourth wall, of suddenly visible imprisonment. this room where a man came in and painted a quarter of debt- shaped hole that I paid by sitting at my desk all month. ***
The Metaphor of the BirdHow many times have I criticized the metaphor of the bird, when my mother would say how free is she and I’ll put my hand upon my cold forehead, It doesn’t ring right, I tell her, it is a projection into wishful thinking. It is unruly for you, I tell her, to fly without airports, immigration officers, the office cicadas, the old regular bloated system to colour within the lines, the patterned sweat it brings upon your back, the despair of the black and white, dust-coloured earth that holds your feet. I think of the rain– often I wish to sink in earth, in a paradox of feeding back the fertility with a gift of sleep, and perhaps the satisfaction of a life-long debt repaid is the final flying. ***
On Abiding the SeasonsI. I remember the cold in my body it had arrived in the middle of a succulent August. There was daze in the eyes of the sky, it had blunted its own vision and melted down the buildings off their roads. I was in the white room they had barred the windows and I could not tell the knock. There was that life-explaining roar of the wind, may be, they did not let me listen. II. I remember the cold in my body in the pit of my heart, it had arrived in the middle of a succulent August. The August was grey and hinted an October, but they had opened their obedient mouths only to inhale flowers in December Their colours were gay, and not like a hermit’s hut’s kitchen; they persisted and those who couldn’t, they left behind. ***
Currently, Priyanka is working at the writing centre of The Vedica Scholar's Programme for Women. She is keen on writing experimental and surrealist poetry who has been published in Hakara Journal, Voice and Verse Magazine, Narrow Road, The Showbear Family Circus, and elsewhere.
Read more poetry on Bengaluru Review: ‘Each word is an angel’: Six poems by Bhaben Barua ‘It was spring and we suckled dreams’: Four poems by Linthoi Ningthoujam ‘My words don’t have a house to live in’ : Five poems by Namrata Pathak