The poetry of tangents rolled off an ancient Latin tongue to get here. ‘Tangens, present participle of tangere to touch; perhaps akin to Old English thaccian, to touch gently’. I know so from Merriam whose last name is Webster. To touch gently. Like first rays of sun or fine mist of orange peel. Moments that softly graze our cheeks and are gone. Yes we travel the shining arc of our lives, blest by tangential things.
Author Archives: Pavithra K. Mehta
The Letter L
The poetry of the letter l is the poetry of the alphabet’s dangling leg. Letter that gives rise to so many words that have difficulty arriving and trouble moving on. Lingerer laggard loafer latecomer. She felt an affinity to this slender consonant, being given to such things too. Always arriving it seemed, a few years after everyone else had moved on, and then wanting nothing more than to stay and listen to the grass grow.
Deep Down Dissatisfaction
The poetry of deep down dissatisfaction, is that it asserts itself in unexpected moments. Drains the color out of the day and forces you to make an important decision in black and white: Now is the time and here is the place, to lead a truer life.
Stickerless Fruit
The poetry of stickerless fruit is to sigh for. Almost gone are the days. Stickered fruit is tacky. Tackiness interferes with art. Let this be clear: Brands don’t belong on the bounty of the earth. Thanks be given the old masters of still life, Da Vinci Caravaggio Vermeer Cezanne – their names a lyrical parade – were spared the indignity of having to deal with individual green and red Del Monte labels on their fruit.
Rapid Recovery
The poetry of rapid recovery is a beautiful bruised sky aching outside your window. A deep spreading purple-redness asking for attention. But by the time you fetch a washcloth packed with ice it has already healed and is dressed in hot pink, startling the far trees on the hill into suddenly striking silhouette.
Onions
The poetry of onions is in part, the fact that they belong to the same family as lilies. Somehow she had always drawn an odd sense of comfort from this fact. ‘Liliacae’, she would mutter under her breath. A mantra that meant to her, quite simply: More things are related to each other than you or I suspect.
A Particular Bus Ride
The poetry of a particular bus ride was a mountain strong woman swearing cheerfully in the back. Profanity’s bride, tossing colorful words like floral bouquets into the air around her. The rest of us timidly strain our ears to catch while pretending not to. What truth would we each speak I wonder, if we were fearless and unabashed?
The Full Moon
The poetry of the full moon breathes softly in a dark sky. A beautiful face, hard to ignore. Demanding nothing, no not even your attention, because she has been around long enough to outlive her own insecurities and the fledgling performer’s need for an appreciative audience.
The Unexpected
The poetry of the unexpected finds you. Whoever you are. Found me yesterday. Low voice of cello floats down cold corridor wraps like warm cat around ankles. In a subway station Time and I stand still. Young musician in jeans and scruffy white t-shirt. Fingers releasing notes, so many deep-throated birds, from a cage. His gift the surprise of his scruffiness. Reminder: Dignity has never needed to dress up.
Certain Sundays
The poetry of certain Sundays is drizzled like honey on toast. Deep gold, slow-moving and sweet. Stray drops licked off fingers. It behooves me to stop talking now. Because on days like these only the birds have anything important to say.
The Poetry Of 