Notice me

To be heard
To be noticed
I ve always yearned

So when you ignore my patter
I sink a little
My toes touch the mud
Still valiantly I patter
A little more
For your attention

Motherhood

Love is a completely different thing from your mind.Both whir in opposite directions meeting all the time but only in part like 2 gears.
When I suckle my baby I do not feel like the virgin Mary or ma Yashoda.There is love for the small life that I am holding in my hands but it isn't some divine outpouring like they said it ll be.
The character that comes to my mind is somehow that of Puthana.
The rakshasi who came to suckle baby Krishna to death. Poison smeared on her nipples they say she started feeding baby Krishna ,but then the love in his eyes and the way he tugged at her nipples ,they say intoxicated her and she fell dead,a smile on her lips, a cherubic baby Krishna still suckling her breast.
If that isn't motherhood what is ?

Poetry

Poetry is a vain pursuit
Purely selfish
Purely for one's own pleasure
For the pleasure remains the poets
For read or unread by other eyes,
The lines remain her own
The secrets buried in it impossible
To excavate

What could i tell him anyway

He asked me,
Is all that land yours
Is that house yours

I stared at him
Dumbstruck
As if seeing him for the
First time ever

What could I tell him?
That I belonged to the land
That I belonged to the house
Rather than them belonging to me

That the scent of the burning plumeria
Doused in coconut oil
Kept me anchored,heart and soul
Every muscle and every drop of blood

What could he understand
Anyway

And then

And then the world falls silent
Its just me and you
Talking
Communing
Yapping away in silence
Wordless meaningful quietness