I pity your love for me
For I am not my old self
That spread the mat
Of kindness and innocence
Under the tree of comfort
For anyone who wants it
I pity my own self
For my heart no longer
Sees, feels, hears or speaks for me
The nihilism those before you
Left on my mat
Has made me mindful.
I pity you as I am not happy
But concerned for your purity
Envious of your guiltless verve
The smiles your eyes smile!
You should love another innocent
For mindfulness only corrodes.
Out of much love my white swan
Let me fly you to a kinder riverside
Where you will bask in cherishment
Swim in love and feed on appreciation
In the measure you deserve
Instead of surviving in my arid heart.
© Panjami Anand
Are there many shy women?
Like someone who might call it a night too quickly
Not because she wants to leave
But for a little persuasion to stay back
For an affirmation of how much
The other person wants to be with her…
Do you fathom her negative response ‘no’
A reedy appendix holding forth
A gust of feelings she needs urging
Draw her out subtly kindly
Her smiles, her love, her regard;
Make a mother memory that could give birth
I lie with you on this tattered mat of trust
And like clay you model your limbs to mine;
As we lie here this way your breath on my neck
I rummage through my disbelief in happiness
And scepticism and as I scrutinize your motives,
My guard falls then. Ignoring the sour tastes of yore
On my palate, I blame it on this tattered mat
And brush my cheek on the softness of your inner arm
Be grateful for your palm gently resting rising falling
On my belly of scars as I breathe.
In a purple velvet gown I swelter this evening
And you, you and you just brushed my smooth arm.
I chuckle when you praise these brunette curls
Framing my glowing face and you there are in awe
Of my perfect French. I smile and smile again
When you say, you simply adore my smile.
Ah, you are in love with me, your passion is boring
Into my eyes, you alter your tone,
Subdue your preferences to accommodate mine,
That chivalry reminds me, I must go home now.
I drop my keys flippantly into the little holder,
Kick my heels away now standing a few inches shorter.
I pluck these pins that hold my hair this way and that
And step out of this uncomfortable gown for cotton.
I plop on the couch for a little tongue of my own,
A song from the carefree days, a little Mohan Lal.
Alone on the couch on a night bored of solitude,
I long for a bosom on my back and render belonging
Unshaved arms and stubble brushing with abandon
As we laugh or empathize with a sensibility our own.
Is there not one man out there who’d want me
Right now in my raw self
And look beyond embellishments or my story
Of the Moroccan cats leaving my audience rapt!
Who pierced your heart the deepest?
I beckon you to give me a name.
Said he, “they all did in their striking ways;
When I sigh in melancholy or in pining
I’d fumble on whose name to sigh on.
Thus I let the collective ardour
Weigh on me a while, till I chance
On another who will swell the heap”
Then I search for a bare corner to doodle
My name on his bosom, then an odd
Disfavour settles on my craving.
Could I jar this moment, flavour it
With condiments to hold on
Till it could hold itself.
But perhaps not!
It would turn into a dish far removed
From what we loved enough
To want to hold onto.
I roll away facing the heavens
To look around me, even flowers
Whither to make way for new ones
Dancing in the breeze, basking in the sun
Till Change visits with a sickle in hand.