sleep is a boy
who has been missing
from his place
who is nowhere to be found
not even under the desk
not near the clay computer
not outside the room
not where the barrels sound
with rainwater dripping in them
not near the outside trees
or the hunt house
sleep has escaped
leaving his satchel
behind
its crummy
because it would be recess time
and he is not as far as the ground stretches
the podium
the stage
the assembly line
sleep has probably gone home.
scanty rain
against a breezy window pane
po-e-tree running through my vein
I am no farmer
to complain
now that we have killed
the pigeons who made
a lot of shit on our window
sills
we got after dogs
who piss in the vicinity
and bite our kids
and then when the dogs
are finished
but our anger isn't
we shall kill the children
who make noise on the swing
then the old people
who don’t seem to
rationalize
or materialize
into our game plan
and keep ringing the wrong doorbells
that leaves us with just us
wise, middle aged men -
we shall party through the
night and enjoy barbeques
till our laughter reaches
the wild, new morning
and we reach home
to find our wives sleeping
with other men
who have kept a glass of poisoned tonic
by the bed side
for us to drink
© Rochelle Potkar
June 2009
she scoops the cleavages
and concaves of news
- city news, world news,
town news
village news
but the day stretches
long before her
as more news is being
created, churned, rehashed
by the world
to be breakfasted upon
the next day
a mystical land
a fictional place
opens up through your plane window
mountains yawns
trees slide down
making way
for your bird to land
clouds play
havoc
over mountain top
flat land
the mechanical bird
is warm, silent
crowded markets
colored streets
hawkers yell
dollars deteriorate
the sun
has a special place
to the left,
unfamiliar
from your own land
the roads are tiny
zipping through
breasts of mountains
goats stand tall
eating grass
the wind shaking
their food
its hunger time
you quiver
with the nostalgia
of thirst
flags flutter
calling for the dead
to return
there are chants
mantras
in monotone
the mountain reverberating
in its own echo
till you reach to pay for
toll
you are
2000 ft above
the valleys
the sunlit paths
the birds flying below
the muffled air
the disguised laugh
echo of your own heart
"home"
"om"
"om"
Two of my stories, Doors and Sepia are in the anthology 'The curse of the bird and other paranormal stories' and it feels good.Reliance Timeout and Unisun Publications
invite you to the launch of
1. The Curse of the Bird and other paranormal stories
2. The Shrinking Woman and other stories
Two superb collections of over 30 short stories each from the house of Unisun
The volumes bring together several prize winning writers and their irresistible stories. They contain over 60 stories and 45 authors drawn from all over India and outside it. Their backgrounds are as varied as the stories they have written.
and the announcement of the prizewinners of
The Unisun Reliance Timeout Book Club Awards 2008-09
on March 7th
3 pm -5 pm
at the Reliance Timeout Outlet, Cunningham Road, Bangalore
(Parking available in the basement)
