Two Poems by Smita Anand Sriwastav

The Sunlit Sigh on My Lapels . . .

 

 

On an aromatic morning

reminiscent of cinnamon rolls,

I walked out into the streets--

quilted seemingly in flying fire flames;

smelling the coming rain

in fondling breath of nutmeg breeze,

as the leafless trees pronged

the blue skies as though

trying to fork out dumpling-clouds

from the platter of lolling sun.

 

The morning was

a potpourri bowl of memories,

as the smell of dead leaves contrasted

with remembered freshness

of raindrops peppering early spring,

while a complacent sun

poured sunshine tasting like

cookie-crumbs in honey--

lukewarm like coffee forgotten on

the table an hour ago.

 

Those songs sung by larks in spring time

and echoing in the monsoons

from rippling rivers by the hills,

have been broken and scattered as

whispered syllables in embrace of silence,

flamingo-feather clouds float

above like dreams of chirping magpies,

as the piles of raked leaves seem

like the wings of dead moths

heaped beneath street lanterns.

 

I stand drinking in the moment,

savoring the abounding flavors and aromas.

A feathery leaf apparently sunburnt,

lands on the lapels of my jacket

like a butterfly sitting softly,

fingers move to brush it off in reflex

then stop for it felt like

a memory yellow by time’s hands,

revisiting me as an afterthought

a long forgotten dream revived by

the whimsy of creeping moments...

 

 

epithets of summers bygone . . .

 

 

 

Fragments of shattered rainbows,

diluted by the smeared kohl of

reiterating tempest on stagnant august days,

shine on rims of tiger lilies--

as spectral droplets of manna dew,

or frozen sighs of night

at sun-caressed edges of plumeria.

 

In the fields of aureate wheat,

fondled by invisible summer breeze

the swaying promises of baked bread tease

nostrils of ravenous ovens,

while wafting aroma of yeast

hibernating in larders, awaiting

the rising of flour batter,

tickle memories of soft loaves

eaten sunflower-vased table at supper.

 

The hour of eventide

is the oasis of parched, elastic days,

when hues in myriad pastels softly hum evensongs

like parodies of transient aubades

sung by the clouds at resplendent daybreak,

and a perspiring sun with limp mane

returns to slumber behind distant hills

lacing the obscure horizons,

leaving succinct nights to ponder

over quaint rhapsodies of the crickets.

 

Sulky streetlights on sultry evenings

cast faint light over gravel trails,

while glowworms emerge from thickets

to string fluorescent twinkles

on threads of cool, summer breeze—

susurrus of unvoiced poetic thoughts

take flight to be writ in

the ink of platinum moonbeams,

on the rippling quietude of the bay.

 

the dense leaves of peepal tree

spin chiaroscuro to veil the blistered soil,

and sparrows chirp cinquains of happiness

to echo with droll musings

of gnarled old trees as they rediscover

something amusing in the chatter of squirrels,

water hyacinths bloom to adorn

the muddy anorexic lakes--

streamlined by thirst summer sun,

and aroma of raw mangoes wafts to tingle

the memories of tangy aampanna.

 

 

 

Dr. Smita Anand Sriwastav is an M.B.B.S. doctor with a passion for poetry and literature, has always expressed her innermost thoughts and sentiments through the medium of poetry. A feeling of inner tranquility and bliss captures her soul whenever she pen my verse. Nature has been the most inspiring force in molding the shape of her writings. She has published two books and has published poems in journals like the Rusty Nail, Pyrokinection, Jellyfish Whispers, eFiction India and Contemporary Literary Review India and one of my poems was published in a book called ‘Inspired by Tagore’ published by Sampad and British Council. She has written poetry all her life and aims to do so forever.