Founding Editor’s Poetry Corner

The founding editor of the magazine India Beckons composes poetry, which she would like to share here in the poetry corner. Look out for more.

Morning ritual Arunima (2019)

Wake me, chirping sparrow
Your ruffled feathers are
a testament to
a night of incessant dew,
Stir my morning cup
with your dulcet tweets,
Bathe me
in the virtuous refrain
of your eloquent birdsong,
until flight gives
your wings reason.

The fleeting ordinary Arunima (2019)

A planet without
was always there
(for as long as life
discovered it?).
Was it a habit?

The planet within
was restless,
reluctantly gorging
idle banter
small talk.
How much of it?
Was there ever
a deeper reason
for life?
A need for purpose?
Why look?
The mysteries
shrouded in layers
unravel, (mocking?)
only to go deeper,
until we escape
into the ordinary
(to catch our breath?).

How often must
we do,
then undo?
every day?
the same way?
until when?
is always forever
or is it a little short
of ever?
how long is long?
is it before we realize
it has been long?

Tiny constellations
(every now and then?)
tell a story
we often retell,
sometimes untell.
Is there more to time
than the routineness
of the clock’s hands
(drained from ticking)?

Charioteer Arunima (2019)

March on, time
in your measured footsteps,
Sweep over
with your arrogant swagger,
Hasten to punish,
Slacken to relish,
Scorn with pincer jaws,
Clench those ivory sharp edges
of your molars,
Scoff at our absurdity
to clutch.

Alibaug Arunima (2019)

Cracked seashells,
your pointed edges
lucidly reveal
intact sand grains
wrapping fervently
around your body parts,
twisted in
unfamiliar time zones
from a past
of splinters
that defied
trodden by
unknowing feet
on happy sojourns,
not lost,
in shining specks
of beach shimmer
that defy

Cinquains (2019)

Say weary autumn leaves
As frost forces patterns on them
before sighing to fall off their veins
Ah, winter!

Like hope
assertive, compelling,
sprouting faith from the womb of seed
Mother nature in all its glory,
virtuous, celebrates
the newborn

Cheeky sun
dares, makes shadows
where you walk towards the horizon,
asking the dawn to embrace its might in
peak blaze

a quiet ascent
into the forlorn, desolate
With trees stripped bare, leaves fallen,
not disgraced