How it dropped a pause
Shifting Berlin between the fingers?
Baishakh is the frothy mouth of sea,
Galloping hooves in a war fed appetite.
Führerbunker’s suicide explores the
migraine of homecoming,
In the sermon of a fallen might —
The calculus of nose,
Hangs a moustache guarding a pimpled grin.
A blue curtain of conspiracy in the
maternity ward of April —
The obstetrician’s table of chatter
paws the belly like a hungry cat,
A premature birth is a misprint
Sniffing a window of rain in anesthesia.
Nearby a middleclass lane
A childhood swallows the church bell of
hiccups
Crisis is the anthology of all lives
mattered,
Beneath the flesh or at his father’s
territory — dimly lit,
Where a virgin mother weeps over her
dead son.
The full moon’s night falls off the ribs to
a bull-face yawn
Sex-starved. Stubborn. Orthodox,
The body a migrant dictionary of
apology,
Buckle its needs to the unemployed waist.
In the yard of a blocked artery paddles
the heart,
It rumbled to crow-a-crow game —
possessed in a breath of cyanide.
His shadow guides the rusty nozzle of a
gun,
Whipped on the cold chin of absence
The neighbour’s house grinds to dust.
An agency of flies flocks his slender and
greasy throat,
Stealing letters in hieroglyphs with lost
addresses —
A borrowed desk of scars.
There is a man nameless as a misfit tree,
holding your summer solstice upon his
shoulders —
There is a man eaten in the lamp lit hour.
Madras Courier originally ran as a broadsheet with a poetry section. It was a time when readers felt comfortable sharing glimpses of their lives through verse. If you have a poem you’d like to submit, do email us at editor@madrascourier.com.
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