What They Call A Poem

by Praniti Gulyani

 
I’m afraid you might have
just twisted your pen in the wrong direction
causing it to swerve, skid, stop
and perhaps be laughed and mocked at
 
like a reckless driver, who’d skip
the clarity of roundabouts and speed breakers
just to feel the wind leaving frosty footprints
on the flushed warmth of rosy cheeks
 
like a photographer, who’d ride a surf-board
into the middle of a frothing sea, and with
one single hand, he’d grip his camera lens, and with
the other, he’d sift the clouds, push back the stars
rip open the sky, and let an eclipse
trickle from the entangled roots of blue
and as this fiery eclipse would trickle into the waters
he’d pause, and then take a snap
 
like an artist, who’d spend hours
with this knees digging into the mud, and who’d
still emerge with knee-caps of soil
just to sketch that dewdrop, that dewdrop midway
as it rolls down from the leaf
nearly touching the soil
 
like a bangle seller, who’d sit on
her haunches, the cracks in her feet
pouring with sunlight, moonlight and twilight
and she’d display her fingers, that glinted in the sun
fingers stained with glitter and glamour
the colors of her bangles, the spicy shades
of gossip and conversation, and she’d say
that she climbs up a ladder, and measures
the diameter, the radius of the moon and using
these celestial dimension, she makes her bangles
and calls these bangles divine
 
I’m afraid you might have
just twisted your pen in the wrong direction
causing it to swerve, skid, stop
and perhaps be laughed and mocked at
I’m afraid you might have just written
what they call a poem