Ira
I did not sleep last night,
my friend dropped a message,
waking, tossing, dreaming morbid,
incoherent dreams.
But little things like Ira putting flowers in my hair
while I sat on the porch,
uneasy with anxiety and fear,
all my cares were smoothed away!
She ran to and fro,
gathering orchids,
arranging the blossoms.
I closed my eyes to feel intensely,
her soft fragile hands,
gently tucking flower after flower into my curls.
The rich scent of orchids,
all my hurts were smoothed away!
And there was the moon,
full and luminous,
behind the Jacaranda,
enveloping me in its warm embrace.
This second is life
and there are people that never stop loving you,
you trudge along by doing the best you can,
you find a channel for your love
and another for your pain,
little by little,
you snuggle life back in.
Wasted
I sit in my deep velvet cushioned armchair
in my study,
a stack of unread books line the shelves.
On my desk is the best poetry I have ever written.
How do I tell you that
my happiness comes from having
wrestled a piece out of my life,
a piece of hurt and beauty,
of degeneration and decay!
Can you understand?
Can you understand me a little?
Let me write my heart out.
Let me read to my heart’s content.
Here I am –
tall, grey-haired, a full red taffeta dress,
self-conscious,
inadequate,
squirming in my chair.
The clock is ticking loudly,
The fan is whirring overhead,
I have so much to live for
and yet,
I am inexplicably worn and wasted.
About the Author
When she is not mollycoddling her baby girl, Swati Moheet Agrawal spends time writing in her favourite coffee shop. She delights in giving depth to the banal and literature makes her world more navigable. A poet and writer, her work has appeared in Muse India, Setu, Active Muse, The The Alipore Post, Sledgehammer Lit, Modern Literature, Indian Periodical, Potato Soup Journal, Rhodora Magazine, Friday Flash Fiction, Ariel Chart, Thimble Lit Mag and The Criterion among other literary magazines and journals.
