Devouring our peaceful culture
comes the ferocity of paper-wrapped thunder.
Bulging eyes, twin wells as frozen crystals,
the strays run helter-skelter.
While a swimmer against the sound’s tide,
I continue my fight,
my tympanic membrane drums in a sonic storm.
Gunpowder stench inundates my olfactory lobe,
cigars in thousands alight in a prison of a room.
Gasping large lungfuls of air;
on my neck, a clove hitch tightening;
concurrently negotiates corporeal inhalation–exhalation.
My heart speeds as if a leopard chasing its kill,
while the inmost body tries to turn inside-out.
Crackers continue to haunt like undigested leftovers of a meal,
when Diwali stretches on and on till the GRAP functions
at stage IV spike, only if one knew where to draw the line.
***
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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