Wednesday, December 26, 2012

Two Poems by Dr. Smita Anand Sriwastav

Wings of Hermes...

with wings like

gossamer flappers,

of singed moths

in raven nights

wet in the

lingering sweat

of the long lost


my muse sulks

in dark corners

of grey matter


as the rancid moonlight

tastes like stale curd

on tongue of imagination-

in hibernation,

and stars are like

peering geriatric eyes

of a grumpy guard


at rustling trees


on his stolen

hours of slumber.

with sleep refusing to be

lured while insomnia haunts,

as an unwanted house-guest-

reclining shamelessly

on my couch--

etched in wrinkles.

the books arranged

covetingly over now

dusty shelves,

seem insipid, lack-luster-

and thoughts churn within

as the soul's tornado,

yearning gushing

like frenzied wind-

banging on rusty hinged

doors and windows,

and the heart craves

for wings of Hermes,

to soar the skies

of un-scaled contemplation,

spin mystique,

and unravel mysteries within,

erasing footprints of vacuous


threatening to engulf life's alleys...

Unspoken Dialect…

Words are caught within

sentiment clogged throats refusing

to find expression in voiced lucidity and

are heard as mere moan or murmur—

ambiguous expressions left un-deciphered,

translated in shimmering fluidity of gazes

or escaping as multifaceted sighs.

They are never writ in any language--

a dialect alien to habit of script

that finds expression in the racing of pulse,

dilation of pupils and

butterfly wing flutters in the breast--

a pause in time’s momentum

in abeyance on the threshold of

silence and the spoken.

The parlance of gestures,

wherein the tremor of mute hands find

a meaning and an expression,

twitching lips and a quiet blink

garner interpretation,

within silhouettes of the obscure

that unsaid is heard,

like the whisper of a falling feather

gathers meaning from singing breeze.

This language is a tapestry of unspoken words

lingering on the horizon of surrealism,

the mendicancy of voice resulting in

failed interpretation by veteran linguists

their diaphanous realms invisible beneath

the eagle gaze of microscopic vision,

like the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze

and echo of departing footsteps

lost in the catacombs of lost memory,

that half-forgotten symphony

that itches to burst forth

from lips of amnesia—it is a parable

that is like shades of crepuscule

muted yet vocal, obscure yet lucid…
Dr. Smita Anand Sriwastav is an M.B.B.S. doctor with a passion for poetry and literature, has always expressed my innermost thoughts and sentiments through the medium of poetry, uses nature as the most inspiring force in molding writings, has published two books and several poems in journals like the Rusty Nail and Contemporary Literary Review India and one of poem was published in a book called ‘Inspired by Tagore’published by Sampad and British Council.

No comments:

Post a Comment