Monday, May 16, 2016

Interlude


The day's grind was cut short by an unexpected half-day holiday. They were spending the few, snatched hours lounging on a creaking cot. Bleary-eyed from work, hands cold from dish soap, feet sandpaperish catching at the blanket fuzz, skulls clogged in sinus, every inhale ringing a sickly wheeze. They had in their lungs, the residue of evolution, the slivers shed from a million faces. The dust of days, human-flakes crowding the air – so inhalable. A lacing of fever gave their hard nails a tinge of yellow and memories of cheap meals echoed from tooth hollows and premature greys. Odour of tired decay lingered in their breaths. They turned another page together, adoring eyes drowning in the words. In between they cracked peanuts and chewed hard trying to stave off the daze of exhaustion; there was work in the evening, reports to be submitted, articles to be written. But right now they lay there immersed in thoughts - the wonderings and wanderings weaving a dark web of wilderness full of secret convolutions and configurations so dazzling, so vast and so exquisite that if not for their fragile bodies that needed to be fed, they would have lived in there forever.

In the afternoon their skin became soft, ticklish ghosts covered in wavering shadows. Rivers grew deep between them and poetry tangled in their bones growing out into antlers, blossoming into sighs. At that hour when everything fell into a hushed erubescent glory, the cracks, the layer of dust, the water stains, the mosquito bites, the groaning ceiling fan, everything disappeared. Pure iridescence - melting, multiplying, mutating - the room brimmed with silken light. One tired face briefly smiled before dissolving into the other. They forgot their precarious perishability, the looming deadlines, the dwindling time. A wound was healed, a sore soothed, a bruise repaired, a despair whispered away. The promise of their warm togetherness alleviated the daily ache of living, of scrapping through, of stretching the limits simply for survival. As the cobwebs shimmered in the wafting light, the room became an almost-wonderland. Unsaid things grew wings and flitted in their throats, and their bodies filled with unbearable happiness. They will never say those things, it was implied through small tenderness, gentle croons and sleepy hums.

November unfurled its misty soul and wisps clung to trees. Another year rolls away. Every day is a tuning of a violin. Everyday the notes from the distance thrummed louder.


                                                       - November 2015



Image: Pinterest 

Thursday, May 12, 2016

Honey



Honey-
crumb-soaker,
jar emblazer,
striking tongue in octaves-
the lurid mirth of dead flowers,
ectoplasm of a million bee-ghosts-
purged,
quintessenced.

Honey, a fumbling fugue
fragrance of untold summers
distilled-
trickling away, syllable by syllable,
prickles of blazing dulcitude-
from tongue, to throat
to soul.


- Jeena Mary Chacko (2014)


Image: Pinterest

Marriage


The refrigerator hums our story-
while we chase the strange thing
flapping in our ribs.
old crows walk over our eyes at night,
leaving footprints on the moist sands.
We see ourselves in nightmares-
our expressions unfurling
full-blown bubble gums-
saliva-scented.
we wake up with displaced faces,
deflated, creased and saliva-spilling-
becoming one-second strangers
before all the world reassembles in our heads.

Other days we bite into seasonal fruits-
a grape, a sugared papaya,
a pineapple that bites us back
and talk of the pending rent,
of the diminishing flour, phone bills,
backaches and broken doors-
waiting to be fixed, solved, restocked
only to break down again and again.

But for a brief moment,
we chew on the fruity sweetness
on the lies we plan to tell
on the truths we already know.

We grope in the tub of tapioca chips
sitting in our backyard facing the forests
put out comfortable roots together
a scratchy beard, two veined hands;
our inner diagrams bare-
our toes turn muddy
while our eyes grow wings
and fly backwards to an old summer.

our palms like insane spiders
clinging to folds, a chuckle emitting
from the salty madness in
our possessive limbs.
scars age slowly, sucks up all exhales.
unquenchable, the ancient cinders
stir in our ventricles;
we taste them imperceptibly-
and call it love.
- Jeena Mary Chacko (02.05.2014)



Published in Readleaf Poetry India



Image: Pinterest




Dawn despairs, when every tiny grainy, pixelated little atom of my ‘perhapses’ become heavy dead lakes. Leaf-littered surface hiding eyeless corpses and petrified faunae. Terrified intakes of the limpid, indigo star-frosted dawn air, fumble under the pillow for the little vial of pain balm. Wavering silhouettes of branches, the first discordant birdish shrill of wakefulness tints the slumbering sky. A verse swells, slips, and flutters away while I cling to its iridescent residue – moth dust and crumbled cocoon. Later when I unfold my hand I’ll find fading shadow stains and diminishing timbres. I become a swamp, a piece of reflected sky, a stir of an elapsed echo and back to human form. My mouth holds a million unintelligible stirrings and embryos. The page remains hideously blank. I wish dreams, scents, memories, euphoria - that rushing overwhelm in the presence of perfectness, irresistible strangenesses - all of it were holdable, so touchably tangible, that I can carry them like a furry beating pulse, a pressed petal in my palm or a lovely bite of a fresh, ripe grape - a purplish headiness. How far can I delve? How long do I have?

Image: Still from Picnic at Hanging Rock