Posted in Airplane Poetry, poems

Breathe.

Part 2 of 100 Poems in 2018 Challenge by Airplane Poetry.

Prompt: Without warning, you lose your eyesight. Write a poem about your reaction in the immediate aftermath.

Breathe.

The pulses of the weightless needle on the ticking clock.

Heavy curtains caressing the window.

My rhythmic heart and oscillating breath.

A bird, whistling.

They rang out in the silent room.

When I go out and about, full of doubt,

I’ll listen

In the school ground, in the play ground, when I’m home bound

To the sound in the background,

Before I take a step.

I’ll come around.

Now that I was robbed of light,

I was gifted sound.

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Posted in Airplane Poetry, poems

Look

Part 1 of 100 Poems in 2018 Challenge by Airplane Poetry.

Prompt: If your mirror wrote you a poem, what would it say?

A tiny you.
13 years ago.
Trying to hug me,
the tip of your middle finger touching one edge,
the other out of your reach.
12 years ago.
You introduced me to a smaller version of you.
She had the same eyes.
11 years ago.
Something changed.
Your body had lost all chubbiness.
I saw you flexing your muscles.
10 years ago.
You stood in front of me with your first gold medal.
9 years ago.
I see a little board in the corner of your room.
It’s full of medals.
Last I counted, there were 52.
8 years ago.
You packed all your medals and put them in a box.
You stopped wearing the tights and jerseys I was accustomed to.
That’s a really big t-shirt.
Are you putting on weight?
7 years ago.
You’ve put on weight.
You don’t look me in the eyes any more.
6 years ago.
It’s lonely without you.
Your mom comes in sometimes to look at your pictures.
I’ve seen her cry.
5 years ago.
You meet me once in a while.
You discovered kajal where you were,
Living with girls.
It makes your eyes water.
4 years ago.
You’re back.
Something changed while you were away.
Your hair keeps changing now.
When everyone’s asleep, you try new clothes on.
You end up throwing them at me.
3 years ago.
You spent hours talking to me about Arjun’s life as Brihannala,
and Shakuntala’s as a single mother.
2 years ago.
You threw the phone at me.
It broke.
You were broken too.
And crying.
Again.
1 year ago.
You were away for three months.
Your skin is darker and your eyes are smiling again.
The same eyes that hugged me 13 years ago.