This Town
at every turn
a fire burns in this town
crackling with old newspapers,
turning pink the palms of those
huddled around it
i drink in every sound,
every two temples down the road
a brawl breaks out among
hungry kids for a piece of someone's
glamorous charity, broken into pieces
and scattered on the road as if for birds
neon lights on old vegetable carts,
hiding under their bling
the darkness of the soul that
pushes it around all day
endlessly, like a local sisyphus
i turn the pages of my violent novel
as my maid shouts into her phone
of mysterious killings in her
hometown of long and i
suddenly don't scoff as much at the author's retellings of the past
in this town of recurrent warmth
and recurrent violence
i seek little pockets of peace,
in crackling fires and faraway books
in lanes forgotten and repainted schools
the bazaar is the event of the week
the ultimate culmination of the town
a procession of colors and men and women, 5 rupee rides and popcorn
stalls, more merry-eyed kids
and lesser rough-hearted brawls.
Marmalade
sweet sticky marmalade on crusty bread
endless sunshine through a creak in my door
it has been so good so far, it has
i cannot stop but crave some more
wet hair, petals of marigold in my hands
a black bindi on the mirror that takes my vanity
day in and day out, i frown i smile i scream
i lay a big invisible shroud over my insanity
dusty sepia windows, greet me as i travel
through warm, fragmented orange light
a child cries here, a woman sets it up on her thigh
here, a tired man with the world on his shoulders
there, an unpleasant fight
i trudge and walk and bask in the light
little blades of grass stick to my dress, comical yet pretty
like glitter on a child’s bemused face
i brush it away like a verse in my mind, and think myself witty
scattered, yet the very same, the exact same
the day i live over and over again
delights me to no extent on some blessed days
and some days bring me inexcusable pain
a love song blasts from someone’s flashy car
a dog runs amok with its leash undone
a wide gaping emptiness takes over my chest
i reach for my heart, the night has begun
walking back home, i see wildflowers on the pavement
i look forward to another morning of marmalade and toast
of inevitable sunshine and bliss beneath my eyelids
all i have to do is just leave a creak in the door
A fistful of childhood
my childhood is an old man with a black and blue scarf
my childhood is a white-haired woman with a million tales in her heart
larger than life, larger than art
my childhood is an orange-tinted room with a lopsided shelf of books
my childhood is an old malayalam rhyme with no chorus or hooks
a melody of chaos, a myriad of looks
my childhood is a kind vendor who gives me free things
my childhood is a gypsy girl clad in a blue salwar kameez who sings
frozen in memory, pulling at heartstrings
my childhood is a cry against the balcony railing
my childhood is a sore throat and crying and hands flailing
imprinted in my mind, guilting me daily
my childhood is a train to Kerala and the girl I met there
my childhood is a big jump into loving arms that oil and braid my hair
green and glittering, free of despair
my childhood is a kid following me around with big innocent eyes
my childhood is a badminton game under blue skies
half-toothed promises and a scream of "ice pice"
my childhood is longer than a poem could say
my childhood beats inside my heart day after day
day after day
day after day.
Ananya Nair
Ananya often writes from what I observe in my everyday life. She believes even the mundane holds so much potential. After graduating, She hopes to work in publishing and bridge the gap between good stories and people. She often struggles to define herself but she believes she is someone who tries to find a little bit of good in everything! Ananya's ultimate goal is to own a rustic bookstore in the mountains. She can easily be identified by her large brown tote bag.