Pebbles of the play ground past
Back through the alleys
Memories meet time.
My first confident paddle on a bicycle
Clutters at the old stone wall.
Unrepaired pavements preserve
skipping legacies
Tripped over to gift
A permanent scar on both the knees.
Lores of victories or losses still quarrel
And part for no time.
Spirits of a kite runner,
A seeker and his crew
Hurry and hide among the crowd.
A balloon’s breath recaptured-
Ice cream cold,
Colored local candies,
Marinated berries-
Melts in the mouth of sweet memory.
Galleries swell,
The match goes on,
In the ground
of continuity.
Of Sylvia Plath
She was a topic when first I knew her;
A desperate woman who gave flowers like tulips
The throb of life, smell of blood –
Only to irritate me.
Her hysteria gave vomiting sensations
And a dislike for all I loved in poetry.
Later, I took to writing.
Seeds of my thoughts became poems;
Words chorused miniature dramas,
Punctuations breathed me in and out,
And now they are- not much,
B’coz I was left with no scope.
She had overdone everything I meant to do;
She wrote of my Daddy,my Morning Song ,
My Mirror and all I could ever reflect.
I had read and learned her poems,true !true!
But now I fear, I have begun to understand her.
Its like living her miserable life,
The rest of which she denied herself.
The color of tulips burns me day and night,
Leaving me to everything I hated to be.
I struggle to endure.
Perhaps there is a correction
She attempts to make in her poetry;
And mine too.
Perhaps, in our combined souls...
