Symphony
The sun slips behind the black clouds,
it is dusk already this afternoon.
The dragonflies chart their routes
along the scent of the eucalyptus. A lone bat
spreads his wine-red robes,
flies east. Two more land
the tree, feast on ripe
beechnuts. And just as the soft
music of the rain fills the present,
the green and golden leaves
fall from their perches,
one by one
like the notes
of a symphony.
Sighting
It is morning already. Yet another one-
a hand-me-down yesterday.
A sky, bleached bone-dry,
the stone-cold floor of today.
The rains have settled, silence
in the throats of the coppersmith barbets.
A hummer trundles down the dusty, parched road
to the present. The grey crumbling building on the dusty sidewalk
holds up against the gravity of change.
Everything is the same as yesterday.
Except, for one sudden corner-
the green of bougainvillea, the magenta of her blossoms
not a leaf of complaint,
not a thorn of boredom,
brimming
with the dance of bees,
and the flight of butterflies.
Dance
The waterdrops
land with a soft rustling accent,
on the silence of trees, the flat cement terraces,
the crackle of engines, the hiss of sulphur,
the chatter of wheels, the snapshot
of dreams, the solar lamp and the paper-
wings of the moth, the red powder-
puff flowers, yesterday’s wedding and today’s work,
all the while guided by their purpose –
to break
into a lively dance
even as they fall.
Seasons
It does not take long for life to change
from being a bed of roses to being a game of chess.
It does not take long for the skies
to darken, for the brewing storm to descend,
for the Indian Walnut tree to change her leaves
from green to burgundy,
for the water to reach boiling point,
for conversations to end and never begin, to judge,
for conversations to end and newer ones to begin,
for the ice to melt, for the snow to thaw,
to begin thinking, to start noticing
the prinia that lands on the perch of your window sill,
each day at the same time
and sings her sweet song
just for you.
It does not take long for life to change
from being a game of chess back
to being a bed of roses.
Jewellery
-After Agha Shahid Ali’s Stationery
The stars did not become the dew.
They just settled on the cool faces
of flowers and leaves-
shining in their gown of stillness at dawn,
when the sky is so full of a slow rose-light -
diamonds on a string of grass blade,
each one quenching the thirst
of a parched morning.
It is morning already. Yet another one-
a hand-me-down yesterday.
A sky, bleached bone-dry,
the stone-cold floor of today.
The rains have settled, silence
in the throats of the coppersmith barbets.
A hummer trundles down the dusty, parched road
to the present. The grey crumbling building on the dusty sidewalk
holds up against the gravity of change.
Everything is the same as yesterday.
Except, for one sudden corner-
the green of bougainvillea, the magenta of her blossoms
not a leaf of complaint,
not a thorn of boredom,
brimming
with the dance of bees,
and the flight of butterflies.
Dance
The waterdrops
land with a soft rustling accent,
on the silence of trees, the flat cement terraces,
the crackle of engines, the hiss of sulphur,
the chatter of wheels, the snapshot
of dreams, the solar lamp and the paper-
wings of the moth, the red powder-
puff flowers, yesterday’s wedding and today’s work,
all the while guided by their purpose –
to break
into a lively dance
even as they fall.
Seasons
It does not take long for life to change
from being a bed of roses to being a game of chess.
It does not take long for the skies
to darken, for the brewing storm to descend,
for the Indian Walnut tree to change her leaves
from green to burgundy,
for the water to reach boiling point,
for conversations to end and never begin, to judge,
for conversations to end and newer ones to begin,
for the ice to melt, for the snow to thaw,
to begin thinking, to start noticing
the prinia that lands on the perch of your window sill,
each day at the same time
and sings her sweet song
just for you.
It does not take long for life to change
from being a game of chess back
to being a bed of roses.
Jewellery
-After Agha Shahid Ali’s Stationery
The stars did not become the dew.
They just settled on the cool faces
of flowers and leaves-
shining in their gown of stillness at dawn,
when the sky is so full of a slow rose-light -
diamonds on a string of grass blade,
each one quenching the thirst
of a parched morning.
Preeth Ganapathy is a software engineer turned civil servant from Bengaluru, India. Her recent works have been published in several magazines such as Last Stanza Poetry Journal, The Ekphrastic Review, Star 82 Review, Panoply Zine, Visual Verse, Quill & Parchment, Shotglass journal, Sparks of Calliope, Tiger Moth Review, The Sunlight Press, Ink, Sweat & Tears and various other journals. Her microchaps 'A Single Moment' and 'Purple' - have been published by Origami Poems Project. Her work has been nominated for the 2023 Best Spiritual Literature.
