Unperfection by Shreya Manna Teaching myself how to unperfection Reminds me of that time I tried to do A water slide and chickened out only To sheepishly return because The queue I spotted on the other side Was way too long. And I was hoping To return to earth sometime very soon. In the little pod, waiting for the ground […]
Beneath my feet are crunching leaves, martyrs to the world’s law, And above me the canopy, shaking leafy branches in a tribal dance, Like a million green eyelashes in the sky’s eyes Nobody is listening. The gnarled limbs of the trees spread to claim the sky Gather the sun like gold, loot, I look up to them Like greedy kings. Crouching in wonder at the feet of these tyrants, listen carefully to the sound of leaves whispering in the breeze, saying soft first words on earth. From the cold bed of the jungle floor tiny shoots peek through their wooden chambers with the sweetness of a child, peering from behind the curtains shy, curious, drawn to the colourful show. Onwards they grow, leaving the warm clasp of home – daring to absorb the sun and its boundless kingdom. Never complaining, the small pads of their leaves unfurl like miniature flags Never losing the hunger for light Soaking the small stripes and flecks that filter into its open palms. The seed does not question the silent Work of pushing feeble roots into the worn earth. Is it celebration? Is it tragedy, the merciless struggle for survival? The questions of a human, once again trying to believe that butterflies emerge from cocoons and great trees from humble seeds and once again remembering that life can go on. By Shreya Manna (c)
Sometimes I feel like a waterfall wrestling with gravity I am heavy and torrential and endlessly crashing against granite. Somehow I spill into the canals dug by words, Slowing, a stream, rolling along soft clay. What I see is a stream of consciousness moving forward. What I see is the endless play of elements as I sit on a cool, […]
It shocks me beyond words to think of the horror that the girls in the Muzaffarpur children’s home in Bihar have faced. This poem cannot come close to expressing the damage that such sexual, mental and physical violence does. Nevertheless, I had to write about it. This poem is for those girls and their immeasurable strength. ‘Dear God, Why Did […]
Monday afternoon, you step into the clamour of the school bus. You walk past the boys from the younger years busy with their usual jostling and jabbering. Peals of laughter pierce the air, mysterious objects are thrown around, and someone spills a packet of crisps on the floor. The older ones at the back are absorbed by a slice of […]
It is rare to find that one book on my reading list leads so effortlessly into the next one, but no sooner had I emerged from Hawthorne's 'The Scarlet Letter' did I stumble upon 'Unaccustomed Earth' by Jhumpa Lahiri, opening with this vivid epigraph (above). Long having claimed her place on my 'Favourite Authors' shelf, Lahiri brings her skill with the short story form to a life of travel and rootlessness.
The blog hath risen from its slumber! As I have had some free time over the Spring Break, I managed to scribble down this poem. This is inspired by some of my recent reading: Shakespeare's 'Marriage of True Minds' and Carol Ann Duffy's 'Valentine'.