The poetry of sisters begins long before memory and the giving of names. First kinship that finds you braids histories under a bright sun. A fierce love grows up unnoticed. Quietly forgives your unkindest moments calls out your quirks jumps for your joy. And always — always speaks truth to your power. The poetry of sisters is a closeness swifter than time & all talk. Intricate mystery of bones that know ache rejoice for another in ways no other ever will.
Author Archives: Pavithra K. Mehta
Knots
The poetry of knots is troublesome when found in morning hair. Or as lead butterflies in stomach not to mention roadblocks in throat no word shall pass. And please, lets be clear on our favorite things. Brown paper packages tied up in string can break fingernails. But not all things are meant to come undone. Like pretzels and French horns. Some parts of our lives must remain forever intricate, shiny & unstraightend.
Drift
The poetry of drift is the poetry of journey and separation by slow degrees. Notice how the arrow swift sharpness of rift is decelerated by the letter d that trips forward, snags on the r and is sharply caught. Like stray wool of sweater on nail. A distance between things that unravels in slow motion — an unmaking, nameless and unstoppable as dark veil of clouds traveling across a radiant moon.
Fawn
The poetry of fawn is dappled. Brown creature of snow-flecked sides, ginger footsteps and crooked legs unacquainted with their own agility. Given to soft, nervous interrogation. Studies each leaf, each blade of grass, pedestrian and leashed dog with equal parts apprehension & astonishment, as if to ask, “What new and awfully wondrous thing are you? A tender willingness to be surprised that will never be outgrown.
Muted Colors
The poetry of muted colors is the composure of rainbow walking through library. Colors that wear hush like a dim scarf & rimmed glasses. Attractive in a stylish, unsentimental way, careless of attention. Content to bury its face in a dusty book, to speak only when spoken too, and only in measured out whisper. A muted color expertly sidesteps the shrill of saturation, far too well-bred to publicly raise its voice.
Stargazer Lily
The poetry of stargazer lily if the name is lyrically insufficient is tale of mythical creature frozen by ancient curse. Speckled & striped pink tiger its beauty in stillness surreal, fierce, unrestrained. Fragrance twines through air, hangs rich & alluring as cluster of grapes. Petals stretch like fingers, point like tongues, thick with pollen that trembles like a secret. Alarmingly deep, fertile & untold.
The poetry of stargazer lily if the name is lyrically insufficient is tale of mythical creature frozen by ancient curse. Speckled & striped pink tiger its beauty in stillness surreal, fierce, unrestrained. Fragrance twines through air, hangs rich & alluring as cluster of grapes. Petals stretch like fingers, point like tongues, thick with pollen that trembles like a secret. Alarmingly deep, fertile & untold.
Leaning
The poetry of leaning begins with the relationship of ladders to walls. A thing of angles and equilibrium loaned like sugar to a neighbor, sans hesitation or account. From there it glides into the romance and flourish of ballroom dip, gains ambition and daring (think white marble tower leaning carelessly into Italian air). Ripens into sturdy, instinctive grace. Think tall field of sunflowers slanting into the sun.
Windows
The poetry of windows addresses the trouble with walls. The trouble with walls is that they are often implacable (which in a more logical world would mean resistant to plaque). Walls are opaque, unyielding, stern and something there is that does not love them. Windows like bright, fluent diplomats override that stony reticence, flutter open like eyelids, issue a glad standing invitation to light.
Kiwi
The poetry of kiwi is glow of pale green flesh beneath brown fuzz of unshaven cheek. An ice and crystal green, exotic and black-flecked. Cut slices are uncanny irises, entrancing like the eyes of cats and Egyptian goddesses. In this world but not of it. A kiwi is young magic, ripening, tremulous, sweet. Sporting the beginnings of beard by way of thin disguise.
A Sleeping Face
The poetry of a sleeping face is not the poetry of Prufrock, who assured us there would be time, there would be time ”To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet.’ No a slumbering countenance is deeply unprepared, unintended for audience. Like an unfinished painting on an easel in a room the artist has just left. It breathes gently, eyes closed, mouth slightly open. Silent, articulate, vulnerable, true.
The Poetry Of 