i went to the market
to pick up a kilo of poetry,
because inspiration
has been in short supply recently.
moby doesn't torment me as much,
and i'm all out of bluebirds and
thought-foxes,
i've fallen out of love with lolita
and bovary is too busy reading, to notice.
i spend most of my days
in the kitchen,
begging my garlic to peel easy,
and my onions not to burn,
my tea to stay strong
and my curd, not to sour.
so i'm going to the market,
because even if i don't find poetry,
i'll maybe find some peas and cauliflower
for dinner.
when only the basics i made
could no longer satisfy my tastes
i had to up my kitchen game
using the same ingredients i had
in a relatively innovative way
i looked up a couple of recipes
and even though the outcome
was vastly differently for each
they were often similar essentially
onions go in first, then tomatoes
if you’re trying to make a gravy
but based on my idea (and mood)
i’d have to treat them differently
and like my mom said i would
i got the hang of the process
if not all techniques, eventually
now any time i try something new
i take inspiration but go a bit askew
the way i can recognise the chefs
behind two plates of the same dish
somedays i really like what i consume
other days i do it to make it through
and i don’t know if you can tell already
but cooking’s starting to feel a lot like poetry
These quarantined days
Have been marked by visiting poems
Words from other poets
Lucille Clifton, Gwendolyn Brooks, Jack Gilbert, Tishani Doshi
Fill my days
As I tear through their poetry
Underlining the pages, making notes, leaving my thoughts in a margin
An ongoing conversation
I read their work hungrily,
trying to consume their craft whole
As a reward
Most evenings from beyond the clouds
I hear whispers,
soft sounds of words clanging together,
conjuring images, stitching thoughts, creating metaphors
As if I have tuned into a radio channel
Or I am eavesdropping on a conversation in a café
Or it is the djinns of poetry calling out to me
telling me to get ready
I clamber, get to my journal
Hang on to my pen
and pray
The sky should rain poetry.
In the shower
Our hearts can grow like the convoluted forests they are,
and if the skies can not bear that much weight
they should be laden with flowers.
Mostly Hibiscus
Full of pollen of tercets that sway
stuck to the tufts of cloud.
Hanging upside down
for those who feel out of breath in the middle of the day.
With such abundance
when we will have nothing to say
I'll send you flowers that have dried in the folds of my face
Think of them as postcards
carrying poems I could never say.
