Friday, 12 December 2025

Two Poems by Snigdha Agrawal

 






When the last arrives 
 
The last tattoo blooms across the skin, 
not a dare, not defiance, 
but a quiet seal of completion 
A story inked to rest. 
One day will be consigned to flames, 

as the body slides into the furnace 
 

The last conversation drifts like a river. 
That knows where it must end. 
No unfinished business, 
no grasping for the right word 
just voices meeting, 
fading into the distance 
 
The last invite to a wedding 
Arrives in its crisp envelope. 
Once, it might have stirred excitement. 
Now it rests gently on the table, 
a reminder that celebrations 
have long since ceased 
 

The last dance finds its rhythm. 
In a softened step. 
No spotlight, no applause 
just bodies swaying 
To music it no longer chases, 
Content in the sway of its own breath. 
 

The last embrace does not cling. 
It holds like a steady flame, 
then loosens without loss, 
Warmth carried forward 
in the very air  

between parting hands. 
 

The last letter lies unwritten, 
And that is its gift. 
All that needed to be spoken 
has already found its way 
in gestures, in glances, 
In the simple weight of presence. 
 

The last cup of tea rises in steam, 
Warmth settling in the palms. 
No bitterness in the leaves, 
no clinging to the ritual 
just flavour savoured, 
In every sip. 
 

The last sunset does not bow dramatically. 
It slips beneath the horizon. 
As it always has, 
leaving a brush of colour 
That asks for nothing in return. 

Gratitude fills every crevice. 
 

And when the last poem comes, 
It will not announce itself with trumpets. 
It will slip onto the page. 
like dusk across a quiet field, 
complete in its own stillness, 
Needing no validation. 
 
 

 

 
The Blooming Bloomers 
 

Long ago, in Victorian times, 
When grandma stitched with clumsy hands  
Girls wore bloomers, billowy, vast. 
A parachute masquerading as class. 
 

They puffed like sails on windy days, 
Tripped young maidens in awkward ways. 
A single sneeze, a gust, a leap 
And whoops! They ballooned, laughed peeps 
 

Laundry lines would sag and groan, 
Each bloomer big enough for a throne. 
Washing one took half a stream, 
Drying it? A fortnight’s dream. 
 

They hid the figure, knee to waist, 
(Though mothers said that showed “good taste”). 
But romance suffered. Lads complained 
Till the panties came 

 

Sleek, quick, and neat, 
Liberating legs and seat 
No more billows, no balloon, 
No need to launder by the moon. 
 

Yet somewhere in a dusty chest, 
Bloomers lie, enjoying rest… 
And giggling at their modern kin, 
So tiny they could fit in a tin! 
 

And now the world of lingerie 

Displayed on billboards on every street 

No more piques the imagination 

Victoria’s Secret has taken a beating










Snigdha Agrawal, a septuagenarian, was raised in a cosmopolitan environment, with exposure to Eastern and Western Cultures, imbibing the best of both worlds. Educated in Loreto Institutions under the tutelage of Irish Nuns, she developed a love for writing from childhood. A versatile writer, she writes poetry, prose, short stories, and travelogues in all genres.

A published author of five books, the latest, FRAGMENTS OF TIME, is a book of memoirs, written in a simplistic style. The book is available on Amazon worldwide in all formats. She lives in Bangalore, India. Writing and travelling are her lifelong passions.

 


 

 

Two Poems by Snigdha Agrawal

  When the last arrives     The last tattoo blooms across the skin,   not a dare, not  a  defiance,   but a quiet seal of completion   A  st...