A Pink Postmodernist Crept In Pale Prague
The jarring justice of the man; Kafka penned in melancholy.
Journey circled in hundred years
As sanitary was at the door
Vermin crippled in segments
For judgment,
slithered...!
My neighbour was senile, lurching gait; Rummaged the files
Cunning spoon of clerks engulfed
Coins. Mischievous officer told
“let bury in darkest hole”
For a official pension he trialled
thousand Kafka’s corner.
One day he dripped his head in kerosene oil around circle of
crowd
Match box was going to strike
A self immolation aloud.
Paper rushed to his door
Drama and judgment
are conjoined twins
of democracy.
White whisker of the pensioner is now twisted up.
I Seeeeeeeeee
A Pink Postmodernist Crept In Pale Prague
Cold Coffee.
The blotchy beam of
stagnant sun
on running chariot,
filtered in my netted window
descended in cup of cold coffee.
I caught the silhouette --
broken bangles on rectangular bier
and the vermillion box of the mother
stumbled, beside the pyre.
An Iron Lady-- My Grandmother was a milk seller.
a great bargainer, sold milk for stories.
stored them in the mud huts.
I stole stories while she was sleeping.
A noon napper--
left behind a brook of viscus stories in melted marrow,
dining still in throat.
One day I thought to cut off
my unending throat,
but the chiselled scalpel
concocted in cold coffee.
It’s still regurgitating
belching, though I bolted
down,
hundred years ago--
The Bier’s Bench
The house moves but I don’t move
Whenever I move on toe--bypassing
The old house in day to day life --
I see the green mosses stuck upon
The window sunshade and withering
Plasters swollen and dropped down
This rainy season.
I relished chicken curry
And offered yellow oleander
In the tiny temple
All days are alive but mosses
don’t let me in and I don’t move--
I go ahead after inhaling
Fragrance of red roses
I never turned back though
They became pale after my departure–
It hardly matters to me.
The toughest lesson I learnt
Upon the bier’s bench
By peeling and counting the letters
Embedded upon the rectangular bamboo
Mingled and lost --
Among scattered rice grains.
Dr Pragya Suman is a doctor by profession and an award winning author from India. Writing is her passion which she inherited from her father. She also writes short stories and reviews which have been published in many magazines and anthologies. Surrealism, prose poetry, and free verse, avantgarde are her favourite genres. Recently she won the Gideon poetry award for her debut book Lost Mother. Her second poetry book was published recently by Ukiyoto Publishing, Canada. Dr Pragya Suman is Editor in Chief, Arc Magazine, India. Her social media account is following Twitter : @DrPragyaSuman7 Facebook : Pragya.Suman.50
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