The poetry of being dumbfounded is the poetry of being abandoned by your own vocabulary. Words take the air like a flock of migratory birds rising from tree. A swift, choreographed departure that leaves you rooted to the ground, unable to cry out anything. Not even “Stop!” Because that bright-winged, imperious bird too like all the others has flown south. For the brief and sudden winter of your surprise.
Author Archives: Pavithra K. Mehta
Mirror
The poetry of mirror is the poetry of small silver lake hung on wall. An odd fish with a face remarkably like yours swims to the surface every time you pass by. Sings to you truthfully, if slightly offkey: World is more glasslake mirror than we suspect. And our reflections so many rainbow-colored fish that glide and shimmer at the bottom of all things … until summoned by signals we keep secret. Even from ourselves.
A Lost Button
The poetry of a lost button is the poetry of a runaway member of the marching band. Still in uniform but no longer stepping in place to a rehearsed tune. Untethered from the narrow convention of holding day’s fabric together — what might it become? A small, shining disc rolling downhill on a sidewalk. Unnoticed. Picking up speed and infinite possibilities along the way.
Alarm Clocks
The poetry of alarm clocks is life’s urgency badly named. Alarm? As if there were not motivations of fear enough in this world. Pocket-sized machinery shreds night’s quiet blanket of dark. So many high-pitched horns wailing. As if day were a planned emergency, the body a hurtling ambulance. What if Rumi were to lean and whisper in our ears instead? ‘The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you. Don’t go back to sleep…’
Axilla
The poetry of axilla is the poetry of unsung hidden hollow where arm and shoulder meet. Carved out pyramid that flattens for reach and flex. Small cave of sweat and magnificence bone&muscle hinged. Secret junction of delivery mapped rich by artery vein gland nerve and node. Industrious, upside-down pockets whose proof of service we carry so comically. Like dirty socks (as perfectly natural and mildly embarassing.)
A Basket
The poetry of a basket is the poetry of a tribeswoman’s fingers weaving earth fiber into a song of symmetry. Form wedded to function, a durable embrace of emptiness meant to be filled, carried, used. A basket is art that participates daily and does not lean on leisure. Reminding those of us given to false notions of drudgery, that at the heart of all hard, honest labor lies a brave capacity for delight.
Raspberries
The poetry of raspberries is the poetry of summer rubies. Heaped high in small baskets, short-lived scarlet jewels. Miniature fruit of delicate whiskers and stubborn invisible seeds. Fragile to the touch and fashioned like so many tiny stemless goblets to sip joy from.
Acceptance
The poetry of acceptance is the poetry of the monk’s bowl. Space of principled receiving. Muscular discipline that means honoring all that comes. Gray dawn and a handful of rice. The stray compliment, toothache, joy, a sunlit relationship. An old regret, a restless night, hope, a bright cloud of butterflies. To accept is to cup this moment in present palms, to stand on shifting sands, steadying the nameless within.
Acquaintance
The poetry of acquaintance, is the poetry of knowing someone and knowing there is so much more to know.
Acceptance
The poetry of acceptance, is the poetry of the shoe that does not bite when you put your foot in it. That lets you walk around in its skin, travels close to the ground and does not quarrel about directions. It’s the kind of poetry that can get you places. And that protects you on the path from scattered thorns.
The Poetry Of 