The poetry of drizzle is the poetry of things that are barely and nearly not. A presence so delicate and undemanding it neighbors absence. Travels soft-footed as gazelle, declines to advertise. No thunderclaps no lightning bolts of publicity. Only whispers in a language of silver sentences. Listen. And try not to confuse subtlety with nothingness. Try not to waste time. A drizzle of moments is the sum of our days.
Author Archives: Pavithra K. Mehta
Stillness
The poetry of stillness sits cross-legged with closed eyes, cradles opposites. Outside a scholarly breeze leafs through a dictionary of
trees (looking up the meaning of life). Sound of muffled footsteps in the hall. Somewhere a door opens&shuts. Amidst untold comings&goings the thought of death flits across mind’s sky; harmless as bright-winged blackbird. With no warning the scent of seventeen lilies floods the room.
Freedom
The poetry of freedom ripples; a thing-in-motion (like laughter) an unrepentant elegance, yes a wise extravagance that will find lilies even in times (especially in times) — when there is no bread.
Selecting A Reader
The poetry of selecting a reader: First I would have him be tired but happy (as days are full & life is good) He will trip on my poems left lying like lost shoe on a dim staircase, catching railing to right himself, he will pick up the book open to a random page read onetwomaybethree poems. He will start to smile & stop to yawn. Now I should go to sleep he will say. And does (only to dream a beautiful poem against all odds).
Thumbprints
The poetry of thumbprints is poetry of our worlds too various to be identical. Tell me Friend, there is One but are there two who can claim they have seen the same God? Newcomers who hear me sing use strange words to echo my song. The tune is still Love. You are upset but only because you are not really listening. Now tell me sweet Friend will you sit in a corner and sulk — or will you come dance the difference?
Blueberries
The poetry of blueberries rolls in summer’s lavish palm like marbles. A sweet purple chant stains white hem of your days. Handful of un-glossed globes heaped in a bowl; their delicate wildness a twice feast, for tongue and imagination. Berries made beautiful by haze. Deep glimmer of blueness beneath a refusal to shine. Like breath-kissed mirror, clouds-in-lake, like milky eyes of newborn kitten or fog-clad sapphire.
Tides
The poetry of tides cannot make beds. But it has been trying for millennia. Foam-tipped fingers tug crumpled blanket of ocean; edges pulled taut over one shore only to slip short on another. A grumbling, awkward housekeeper refuses to give up. So engrossed in this magnificent futile game of yank and yield (as which of us isn’t?) she does not notice the silver mirth of the distant moon, laughing over her shoulder.
Forgotten Promises
The poetry of forgotten promises belongs to night. Someone sews lights on the hillside like sequins. So many glittering eyes accuse you of squandering time. An old pledge stands forlorn on the outskirts of memory. Like abandoned tower. The stars have refused to come out and take your side and a silvercoin moon has been tossed in the sky to decide what happens next. (You will be given another chance…don’t blow it.)
Solitude
The poetry of solitude presses against bare skin like stethoscope, earns a living listening for beat of hidden heart in things. All day all night, rivers run through body, whispering important secrets. No such thing as too busy (you are only too lazy or too afraid) to pay attention. But one day on a windy shore you will lean to pick up loneliness. Like conch shell cradle it to ear; hear the wide blue roar within.
Birthdays
The poetry of birthdays is poetry of kaleidoscope. Earth falls into an elaborate series of patterns. Sun lights the far hills like candles love swells clouds like balloons. All that moves smiles. In the whirling radius of your life a gorgeous logic blazes forth. Everything makes sudden vivid temporary sense. Nothing left to hold back but tears. Nothing left to do save kneel and touch the feet of this perfect world
The Poetry Of 