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