The poetry of mustard seeds is measured out in tiny silver spoons. Fine black beads if spilled they scatter rapidly, desperados disbanding because the glamour of self-detonation in hot oil has worn off. They flee to dusty, unreachable places on the kitchen floor. Those who don’t make it meet their eventual fate with spluttering indignation. Determined to go out, not with a whimper but a bang.
Author Archives: Pavithra K. Mehta
Lit Candle
The poetry of lit candle slips its flickering hand into wide palm of night like a trusting child. Its slight touch bravely domesticates the slouching darkness, turns it into an overgrown black Labrador pup. Newly housetrained but still excitable, recklessly friendly and everywhere all at once. The shadows stand wagging their tails and panting a little. As if to say, “We are here. There is absolutely nothing to be afraid of.”
Of Spring
The poetry of spring grated on him a little the same way cheerleaders did. Kicking her legs up waving flowers like pastel pompoms from every other bush and tree while the birds trilled off their series of featherbrained chants. An aggravating display of rah-rah frivolity. Summer had been in this game for years and had no earthly use for that kind of ridiculous encouragement thank you very much, and neither did he.
Newly Sharpened Pencil
The poetry of newly sharpened pencil sleek graphite-tipped wand freshly possessed of a point serenades fingers with the crisp eloquence of un-popped bubble wrap. Sings in the invitational tongue of inanimate objects that has far more to do with rapt listening than logic. The way hand listens to polished banister all the way up the staircase, the way child’s feet listen to puckish puddles after rain.
Day Old Sunflowers
The poetry of day-old sunflowers is the poetry of the sunflowers you brought home last evening. They have opened their eyes but their heads are still nodding a little, like children not-quite awake. They have the same familiar air of dazed reluctance and sweet resignation of someone I know when I venture to say: ‘Good Morning!’ too soon on a Sunday.
Almonds
The poetry of almonds is the poetry of warm-veined woody petals shaped like toasted teardrops. Soaked overnight an almond readily relinquishes its slipcover of skin. Reveals two halves joined like smooth pale palms in prayer. Between them the vision of an almond tree in bloom, slender and bridal. For an almond carries like its own silent consonant, the memory and possibility of a tree. Present even if unpronounced.
Mist
The poetry of mist is a magician in vaporous white cape. Who by sleight-of-hand hides an entire hillside, multiple treetops and telephone poles up capacious sleeves replacing known world with mystery. Mist-ery. Perhaps the words are related. I will look it up later. For now I wonder what will materialize when this faint cloth is whisked away. The hills we know and love, or perhaps a row of white rabbits in top hats.
Loneliness
The poetry of loneliness is a game of hide-and-seek. Ready or not here it comes finding you in the most unexpected of places. To reset the game run when caught. If you’re tired stop and listen. Loneliness is a messenger from an inner country whose contours you know like the shape of your room in the dark. It can be trusted like a difficult teacher can be wrapped like a cool shawl around your person. Sit still long enough and something sacred will start to warm you from within.
Feather
The poetry of feather is weightless whisper smooth against cheek. A singular sleek caress. Feather sings of bird and all that flies beyond the deciduous particulars of plumage. Wingspan dawnsong glittereyes sharpbeak lightbone and swiftness. Which of these alone is bird? Love is a coalescing defying dissection. Transcendent assembly of bewitching detail that conjures up more than the sum of its feathers every time.
Unfolding
The poetry of unfolding lives in starched white handkerchiefs, the Sunday newspaper and jasmine buds. Also in the pleated elegance of hand painted Japanese fans, Persian carpets and the hundred-eyed shimmer of a peacock’s tail. Not to mention the unfolding of a hummingbird’s wings, lawn chairs and pale blue aerograms. When considering an approach to your own unfolding, consider these things. And also red umbrellas.
The Poetry Of 