A humming word

  Mountain is a shamiyana — The trees dance to the call of the birds that hum with the lilt of the wind the spectator sun, veiled by the clouds, shies away like a bride when the moon gallops with its band of stars   The sun blushes red the next morning    

 Love was a stalker when I was nine Chasing, pursuing incorrigibly, was fine   At eighteen, love was a whisper in the bakery Notes and letters and messages passed quietly   At twenty-five, love sought refuge in rebellion Amid dissent, love settled with two in a million   At thirty-six, love is an amendment and a gender discourse Political, Apolitical, it mends, blends and is deaf to signs of force                    

Amanda Stronza is a philanthropist who buries animals who lose lives by speeding cars on highways and other ways.  And she lost her pet dog, Matilda, recently. A few lines for Matilda. ** Dear Matilda, You’ve seen me bury dead squirrels  and run-over raccoons Windshield hit butterflies and  bobcats, passed too soon You’ve gingerly placed your prayers in your way  you did it with me, without me, each and every day!  Matilda, These wild flowers, today, carry your scent  I bury it with this rabbit, sweet and innocent. * Her website: https://www.amandastronza.com/ and the gallery of animal memorial. Source of pic: Amanda Stronza's website 

An old man sat at a coffee shop by a long table in Milwaukee. A bagel and a cup of coffee would keep him company.     Every Sunday, he’d occupy the same chair. He’d draw a stroke here. A stroke there.   Lakes from his memory. He’d sketch them, keenly.   One Sunday, I sat beside him I scribbled on my scribbling pad. And he nodded, lifting his hat.   Since then, we’d sit together every Sunday morning Drawing and writing, in silence, till evening And we’d head our own way. Only to meet the next Sunday.      

Mornings, when the city is dressed in sunshine, and people scamper -- holding on to steering wheels, or purses or briefcases, or yesterday. Amidst these blurry faces, is his smile as bright as the summer sun that enters balconies to water potted plants. headphones on, and bobbing his head to music, he hums and relishes every moment. Illustration: Raaga katta 

  This city has as many tombs as palaces. Its narrative of our presence on this land: our arrival, departure, and sojourn, magnificent and grand   And here we are ... to piece this city Rummage for our own stories Amid bean-shaped rocks and stucco roofs, domes patterns of the ornate windows, doors of old homes   Dakhni, also spoken in rural Karnataka and Aurangabad   Today, grapples for space in the poetry of Hyderabad

Poets are seldom disliked, Says a prose-lover friend of mine who chooses to dislike poetry about rhyme, he whines   Why are these lines so concise? Why can’t they be expansive? Why don’t you let words out like confetti? Why are the lines so pithy?   My friend, otherwise, is a sweet-natured person He loves words and its camaraderie with a human But poetry is a puzzle he can never solve of his intelligence, he feels absolved   Now I introduce him to poetry and its various forms, shapes Whisper: depends on the choice of words that you’d like to drape Poetry can be set to meter or like a river, can flow It unknots our internal puzzles and underscores things we know   He smiles and says, after a while Poets are never disliked But I am. I will choose to dislike it. And from it, stay away for a mile.    PC: Unsplash