Poems about the Kanchenjunga

Blue sky
crouched over us,
not to intimidate, but to merely
state its presence.

The earth was little,
houses nugatory,
people irrelevant.
Then,
petals of drumstick primrose
tickle my nose,
they make a trail to the
friable clouds that open
up in the centre
dramatically revealing her

great beauty, adept at
charming histrionics,

– she is delightfully evasive,
taunts a little, while brazenly
baring her diadem;

snow.

Poems about the Kanchenjunga

She did peek into
the windows of the cottage room;
her snow-laced peaks
were dressed in a molten gold scarf.

{The night before,

sleep hid from us,
we were soaked in moonlight,
created ripples at the bed’s edges,
hot teas stained the unsullied sheets,

tips of our noses blushed like
the day we had met in a frigid sorbet.}

Dawn comes,
there is nothing between her and us,

but sweet morning symphony,
the passing of time from gaping
green mosses to today –

fingers intertwined,
eyes widened
lips frozen.

Poems about the Kanchenjunga

I wonder, however comically,
what it would be like if I were to

P
O
U
R

a glass of cold
orange juice over her.

Like us, she may shudder, chide,
carp about obstinate stains on white.
Till the snow caps turn volcanic orange,
and reality, as it seemed, is seized.

In newfangled madness; this
U
T
O
P
I
A –

she plays god, and I wear a
threadbare sweater, lay on her nose,

enveloped in ice,
my head rested on her locks.

Gardening

Coffee Plantation, Oakland
Nobody tells you;
that it is time to uncurl when the storm arrives,

that you mustn’t yell when the world consumes you,

that you must run to save your orchard, and
keep the clay pots secured in a chest.

On the contrary, you are told
to pack your clothes, your electric heater,
a jar of school memories and picture frames.

Somebody told you
that your memories collect soot in the crevices of your
new home, devoid of a garden.

Daffodil Garden, Denfield
Nobody watered your daffodils, and
it’s endearing that you have taken care of them,
bringing the biggest one to your teacher.

Nobody told you how to use a watering can,
so you watered your plants as you pleased,
more on days you patched a frown
and less on days you wreathed a grin.

Somebody told you
that your teacher adorned her bed with daffodils.

Weeds, Bereft Inn
The storm never comes after telling.
You still wake much after the sun,
boil your tea and read your prayers.

Weeds are cheeky; they resemble
an old guest with a hidden rotten tooth.
In the midst of madness, you serve them

a pot of coffee with a side of your last oranges. 

Three-storied Building, Crammed City

Somebody told me you hold onto one,
just one, very tiny pot of jade that does
not ask for much.

Perhaps those are the best kind of
relationships; the ones that do not
need watering every so often.

Dahlia

The sound of gunshots
eats away at my purpose.
Like drops of crisp cold water falling mercilessly
over a man, on the same spot of the skull
till he begins to feel like he is being hit
over the head with a ball peen hammer.
And while I tend to my dahlias,
my spirit withers with yesterday’s
parched petals.