April 7, 2016

Friday Poetry: The Season's First Mogras



The season's first mogras cost twenty rupees:
the boy takes them out of their plastic home,
pouring them into the bowl of my palm.
In the new moon light, they are phosphorescent,
the half-open buds gradually emerging,
like teeth in a baby's shy smile.

They slumber overnight,
luxuriously curled up
in a bowl full of written water.
When I wake up,
they have already made themselves home.
I journal about the poetry of their fragrance,
which seeps into my words,
the texture of my thoughts. 

The next morning,
they are already gone,
their fragrance a distant, bittersweet memory:
crumpled tea-brown white petals
fall apart in my palms,
like a ransacked city,
the ghost of what it once was. 

** I have started writing poetry again after a very long time - and so, every Friday, I will be featuring a poem of mine accompanied by a photograph. Sometimes, the photograph will inspire the birth of a poem or vice versa. Let us see where this journey of poetry will take me. I will look forward to your thoughts about these tentative re-explorations of mine into the world of poetry!**

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