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Tuesday, October 23, 2012

Original Poems by Poonam Srivastava


1.       This Love Opens Wide


The love that lives
underneath so deep
that climbs way up
and reaches out
to
and towards
the love
this
that
grows
through
all pain
and woe
all rain
and sun

that drinks the dew
with tearing eye
this love I give
from deep within
to you my lovely
as you sit upon your
park bench midday

as you bite into
the apple's skin
piercing flesh that
I will swallow
later too

as you gaze my way


This love that dwells
in nether worlds
that floats in dreamscape
that i recall from
when memory birthed
it's name.

My love it
swims towards lines
unseen sun sealable
plastic too and organic
I bring to you the beat
of it's heart as we dance
to rhythms on darkened
floors and lightening up
shores

From deep within
reaching out to claim
its own
again
as it
has always done
before
an echo of the beat
a second harmony
a
third stanza
in a poem
the refrain of a song

I've shared widely
and wisely
its available still
on open bazaars
like
succulent jelly
or star fruit or
bitter bark
for healing
wounds   
bottled
at home,
with child cries
farts, belly rumbling in
low tech surround sound
of day
turning towards night
as we
turn towards death

This life of love my love
is yours
now, for the taking,
for the breaking, open,
of your smile.your while.


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2.  My First Idioma

gather your meaning
gutterly gathering
gazhal, poema
krishna’s blue around
the blue planet
open mouthed
taking it
And curving
carts too
To receive
and compartir and
Carry on, with
I fish in
Sound streams to
Swim to you
Final release
a further
Ad
Ven
Ture
Out of
Sight
A river derci
A bien tot
tottering
Major tom
A toe
Falls
From its crate
Crayola red
tomato
(Monsanto el
diablo
re(a)d)
dead on
Grey roll
Past oil
Streak and
Highway mirage
all
Alone on route 1
South
Left behind
At seventy miles
per hour….
Kali’s skulls rattling
loud echo off pavement
Does any one hear
The moment’s
Non-splat?
Poem, a ghazal the slime
Of rhyme on verse
A metaphor at five
AM or hand woven in
A dark night
Needs growing in
Their expressions
Substance solid
In the flow
A pebble in our stream
A boulder in the river
Hard under the flow
Unheard by traffic drones
Hear they might
at dawn
At bird call
When birds fill trees and
Clusters of children form
One to one hundred
Crowd the zocalo, the bazaars
Bellow below screeching pajaros
And tilted berets sip
Sip sip
Unawares of slave
Trading slave
In their midst
Whilst the seine
runs like
Buffalo once did
Like eirie lies
like my birth
When I spoke
Truer
though
No one quite
Got it……
They say
Like
Sixteen
When u first touched me
Like
Two when
I first touched me
And I felt
it
Out there
And then when that
Grew old and forc’d
Dead lying where
Life had grown
Dead lying
Until you and you and you
An
Other
The colors
that
Spin
Turn
Tasting rust
Tasting wet
Spit and swallowed
never moving
Further than
I reach more
Slightly still
I give
and take
in mouthfuls
and
thank you,
My idioma
Basha bolo na?
Quian karroo?
un peu de trop de
chaloh chalehgah
up in here. sun soaked
leaf floats downstream.


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3. Charcoal on White Paper
by Poonam Srivastava

There is that first stroke
that hits the keyboard
that breaks the solid
blue forever of a swim lane--
that one that puts rich charcoal
on perfectly white of paper.

Rivers course then
Wash ennui,
rapid through reluctance
let procrastination chase it’s tail.
Trample the ritual genuflection
of the silent goddess gazing
at her navel, feet covering ears.

Streams surge oceans beat
muscle, mind, spirit, bone, tendon,
to intention. Rocks are drenched,
rainbows ribb the reeds sway.
On paper, at peace I swan dive into
my liquid landscape,

Tales tapping surf keyboard out;
head first heart  on, birth position,
breaking silence, craving breath.
boulders shift opening caverns and
I warm to a world of my blood my breath.

It is not possible, now, not possible
now, to stop. Not until the edge, not
until fire is brought safely to land,
until words are brought to open ears
until black settles rooted and at home
and white releases tight virginity to
canvas splashes of suchness of life.

Every stroke is your face in that frame
Dad. these many years ago since
I, your girl child, walked defiant around
the casket, brushing your grey hair with
the hand that held the butter, match ready
in the other.

Every smudge is your fatherly faith
reborn, every splash of color an erasure
of maternal wrath, of harsh words and pain;
Every wet kick another length away from
“...you never will.”

“You never will finish.
You never will accomplish.
You never will...
You, jack of all trades, master of none.
No, you never will.”

Every stroke keyboarding me far
in the water, sketched charcoal
taking me to those that scale their
own walls to write exits from all
that kills, from all that stills, to feed
the will to enter creation-- farther.
Closer to me.

Then I swim again
free in the flow that
always freed me;
I write again
in words that link me
late through the nights
with spirit fire lightening
up secret workings of kindred cause.

Then, I draw again on
deeper dreams, on unfettered free
strokes coloring me, drawing reality,
changing this world one smudge,
one tap, one stroke--
head, heart, and shoulders aligned--
to the next.

4. Note to self during a moment of peace:   
                              
When your mind becomes the lawn mower
and you are the lawn, the blades run emotion’s
ticket stubs from movies long boxed in an attic
or below the ground somewhere –
steady churn through the basic body functions,
breakfast is now no longer on automatic pilot.
The social circles, their healing balm turns to blame;
and shame finds a friendly field to flourish in –
Then look out and not in and keep the conversation strictly impersonal.
Be as if new born; a witness to the landscaping, the pruning and clipping, until
it wearies as center piece and cedes again to the shadows
where it will always live. Remember then how important it is to
create memories whose flash backs won’t dangle you to the abyss

4. Note to self during a moment of peace:   
                              
When your mind becomes the lawn mower
and you are the lawn, the blades run emotion’s
ticket stubs from movies long boxed in an attic
or below the ground somewhere –
steady churn through the basic body functions,
breakfast is now no longer on automatic pilot.
The social circles, their healing balm turns to blame;
and shame finds a friendly field to flourish in –
Then look out and not in and keep the conversation strictly impersonal.
Be as if new born; a witness to the landscaping, the pruning and clipping, until
it wearies as center piece and cedes again to the shadows
where it will always live. Remember then how important it is to
create memories whose flash backs won’t dangle you to the abyss.

5. So this, then, is that

So this, then, is that
No exclamation point
No interrobang
no punctuation around the little pieces
They know where to be
how to sweat cold nights dreams
through the again of drama
dirty worms wiggle between my teeth
the panties grow heavy and wet
My knees know mortality
It’s in the lining of their flesh.
Fine vest of new cloth takes the shape
of fitful unrest.
In the dark familiar of non sight
Of mid night’s stumble
of madness’s flight to hold thumb against
the sun of day to create night.
So this, then, is that.

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