Three Poems by Amrita Valan

 

Morning

 

Turning Point

Of arousal

Slow stretch of limbs

Breaking them in

To face today.

Dated already

With its call number.

 

Light softens the ceiling

Cream caricatures wriggle

Wrestling away shadows

To the eaves.

Hugging invisibility

They await nightfall.

 

The windowpanes tug

At my heart, awake

All night long

Pumping, pounding 

My silenced sentience 

My dream darkness

With lethal beats.

The assonance of 

Night watchman  defiantly 

Moonlighting as

Crossroads angel.

 

The heart of dawn

Is at dawn

Forgotten

With its demons

Put to rest.

For a while.

 

Meanwhile

The mundane

Lifts it's voice

A choir in

A Cappella.

 

The tap water zings,

Ice cold in November

Fiesty with my fingers,

Digits rub briskly, zestfully 

Letting soap suds escape

Past avtars of my obsessive cleanliness.

 

The comedy of prosaic compulsions

A must watch 

I, my sole audience.

 

This effulgent opera 

This bubbly effervescence

This saves my grace

From the grave 

I couldn't care less

About cleaning dishes

But oh! The gleam 

Of the morning sun on them.

 

I must be channelling my foremothers

(They were obstinate neat freaks 

I'll bet.)

 

I weave dark cloven dreams in dark cleaves of chiselled cells

That burn the humdrum of my brain.

 

While my still suede blanketed eyes survey

The brown winged eagle

Perched upon the bathroom pipe 

Of my neighbour's flat bent

Upon some butchering business.

It wears a tifanny pet collar

Except it's snow

White frills for the predator.

I'm keenly aware of its 

Merciless vision prying open

Pretensions

Till i am lost in unravelling

Myself.

 

At six am.

A bizarre brazen prayer.

To start the meandering madness.

 

 

Asana

 

I am wishful yoga enthusiast

I do the poses wrong

I strike a fanciful pose 

And check my sagging body

With its still pert bottom

In the mirror.

 

Loving this expansive stretch

Of broad hips and knees and thighs

Is hard.

I make do with camaraderie.

Hiya buddy meet you on the 

Other side

When you finally attain the requested thigh gaps

Till then keep trying,

And perhaps I will give you.an affectionate squeeze?

 

All this talk 

Of loving oneself.

Obese or not.

Love your body.

Puh-leese.

Pass me the instruction manual.

It isn't that easy 

My eyes are dazzled

There's so much beauty

In the world.

Not photoshopped.

Perfection walks upon

Stilettos everywhere.

 

I respect my hard-working body.

Love is more complex.

It elicits wistfulness

Wishfulness.

Even my body wants this new me.

Evidently.

 

I am crosslegged

Feeling my knees 

Digging my ankles in

Creating

Balance.

Hoping for a lovely lap dance

Of utter gladness ,

Soul mate and soul

Are you listening in?

We must reactivate 

Our disused chakras.

We must entertain ourselves

 

Packing

 

Time travel again

I open the trolley

But it's jam-packed

I used it as a storage unit

These six months.

 

Saris.

Mom never wore.

Gifts of a fifty third wedding anniversary

She outlived by two months

Cassettes from highschool

I still save the best ones

The others trashed 

Though I saved the jackets.

Photos of mom.

And me.

With school friends. 

I notice. 

I look so baggage free.

My room. Posters of Steffi Graf

Lennon Becker and the Boss.

I am embarassed now.

To mention Cruise.

 

There's a something in my throat 

Now.

A choking thought.

Where am I going

Where am I headed

When 

These days are forgot?

 

My son asks me

If that big old bungalow was ours

It was.

The steps to the backgarden

Backlit by cavernous shadow

I know that behind that lies

A vast living room

With flowered curtains

Where i perched on a thick cushioned 

Sofa set,

To read Agatha Christie.

And it is now only available

As a function of my brain cells.

 

Where on earth will I keep all this

To empty my trolley, make it light enough 

For space travel?

 

I pack everything back inside.

Careful and slow.

An absurd amount of love

For a Hodge podge collection.

That will never be used.

 

You'll need to buy another bag.

Remarks my son.

 

That's what I'm afraid of.

Amrita Valan is a writer from Bangalore, India and has a master’s degree in English Literature. She has worked in various professions, ranging from the hospitality industry, BPOs and as content creator in deductive logic and reasoning in English.

She is currently a stay-at-home mom to her two boys.

Her work has been published in many anthologies and online journals. The anthologies include, Poetica 2 and 3, To Be or Not To Be a Writer, The Poet’s Christmas Childhood and Faith anthologies, Divided: A Poet’s Stance, The Ink and the Sword, Down the Rabbit Hole, Fire and Ice, Earth Wind Rain and Fire Anthology, The ImpSpired Vol 7& 8 Anthology, The Alien Buddha Wears a Black Bandanna among others. Her poems and stories Have featured in Spillwords, Café Lit, Café Dissensus, Shot glass Journal, Oddball magazine, Modern Literature, Indian Periodical, Potato Soup Journal, Literary Yard, Poetryand Places, LothLorien poetry Journal and Portland Metrozine among many others.

Arrivederci, (Goodbye till we meet again), her debut collection of fifty poems about arrivals and departures, farewells and hopes of reunion, love loss grief and recollection is published on Amazon as of 7 May 2021.