Abstract

Brown eyes,
I never before noticed
How enticing they were
Or how literature always cheated,
Writing eulogies upon hazel,
The mahogany tawny
Or the resplendent blue. 
Repeating, reminding 
How brown was boring,
Plain as bark,
Monotonous.

But Brown eyes,
Your brown eyes.
I realized 
They were anything but boring.

They were
The aroma of soil after first rain,
The fallen leaves
Painting the pavements 
In mosaic of memories.
The colour of arms
After a long day at beach.
The weight of wet sand,
Coursing, sliding with tide.
The shade of my hair,
When the rays hit just right.

I noticed, they were
The aroma of chocolate,
Dipped in syrup.
The warmth of hot coffee
On a cold winter morning.
The moist cake,
I recently feasted upon.

I realized, they were
The sound of busy mornings.
The hustle of streets,
With people on way.
The shade my laughter sounded
On cheesy pick up lines,
Yours.
It was the same colour
As the walls of my rooms.
With Windows seeing past horizon.

I saw, they were
The strokes of uncertainty.
Old toys on the mantlepiece,
And older books of the library.
It was in the smell
Of pancakes that grandmother made.
And the last bite I fought over.
The stalk of the tree
I decorated every winter
And the wrappers
I wrapped and unwrapped
Over the family table.

I sensed, them in
The afternoon lunches with father, 
And those long walks
Alone by the deserted highway.
Sometimes
When the clouds grew dark
It peeked behind
Those rationed curtains
Of the old homes.

It was not a simple color anymore,
It was comfort in pain,
The frozen smile in worry.
A solace
Salvation when mayhem insured.
It was a safe haven.

And literature 
Poetries
Never truly did justice,
Claiming
Claiming the colour
Of your orbs to be unremarkable.
But I realized,
Falling deep in that void,
That those chocolate dipped colours
Dancing in your sunlit laughter
Were anything but boring.

A. Krishnatre.

The Things We do for Love.

As I dip the quill
In your blood,
Swirling the thick liquid
In circles.
Writing poetries,
That exist on the undertones of flesh.
Branding the heart,
Cushioned with the proddings of my pen.
In those fearfully bright lit eyes,
Which hold the abyss
And void with reflecting light.
I sway the rose,
The lilies,
And the wolfsbane
In your crimson fuel,
Ablaze.

I swirl and sway with the rhythm,
Of your still pumping heart
Which gives the music,
That once was the reason to breathe.
Now a necessity to live.

So I encase it
In a big black box,
With locks and keys guarded.
More strongly than
The heart of Davy Jones. 
Upon your fiery lips,
I place the cool petals,
That once were adored
By your kisses.

And mirrors in your bosom,
To hold me infinitely
There somewhere.
Where once a heart lied
Now lies a hollow socket,
Reeking of affection and adoration.

So that heart cased in cage,
And those lilies stand in a vase
Dripping drop by drop,
The tales of life.
Slowly unweaving the silk threads
That once bound you and me.

So the thick petals of roses,
Dipped in the elixir of your blood
Are now curled with heat of your cheeks.
They have lost their tenderness,
Changing to the hollow human
That you now are left.
So I place them upon your picture
Relishing the metaphor.

On the slaughter counter
Lies your pious body.
No longer the chest moves
Up and down.
No longer a fire burns in eyes
And the socket has lost a heart.
But still in those loathed images
You stand beautiful.
Oh so beautiful.
I stand back and look
At the masterpiece.
My Magnum opus.
You.
On the counter with the pale face reflected
In the blue lights of ovens flame.
Ready to embrace you,
Adore you in its flames. 
To hold you down,
To lull you to sleep.
A sleep where dreams
Are afraid to enter
In the fear of being marked forever.

So you my Masterpiece,
are like a lost painting of Picasso,
That I finally completed.

(c) Akanksha Krishnatre.