long distance relationships - a haiku
i just want to say
i love yo- wait what now
your voice is breaking"
I've folded
into
a quiet
stillness
where time
ceases play
when isolation
doesn't exist
a moment
just a moment
a room
just a room
no wishing
for lost time
no wanting
loved roads
not that
not this
just a
full IS
Yes, we are distant you and me.
Yet think the sky flourishing above you is one
gigantic lacrosse field that flourishes above me too
and when you see the sun this morning,
think it is a rubber-ball I squeezed tight in my palm
before rolling it across our unending pasture of blue
so it could reach you by the time you wake up-
the wind is the force of my arm swing
and the clouds you see in this cloudless weather
are undying puffs of smoke from the cigar I burned last night.
And because I deliver the world to you,
from across the oceans, it is only understandable
for me to dream that every morning before you wake up
your eyelids are heavy wooden chairs,
the kinds you must drag from an empty class
into yours when out of seats -
heavy, because I’m not there
and your spine, a floppy doorknob: drooping unhinged -
again, because I’m not there.
Every noon, I’ll hang my pearly white underwear on the balcony,
folded into what looks like two crescents,
so that you must think of nothing else when you gaze at the moon.
I’ll keep dreaming about your soul -
gormless, if not for my daily dispatches.
And my love, we did promise that we would
do our best to fulfil each other’s dreams, didn’t we?
I am looking at you
with quarantined eyes
from the space between
window blinds
breathing through an N-95.
I am looking at you
holding grocery bags
in supermarket lines
sitting alone in abandoned
bars.
I am looking at you
standing on your toes
stocking your medicine cabinet
dreaming of all
the oceans you'll sail across.
I am looking at you
sitting at my desk
writing with your moist breath;
playing with my dog.
I am looking at you
because-
empty streets
round corners
silent cinema halls.
I
am
looking
at
you
Last night I found myself sitting in the kitchen,
Staring into the sink, talking to a spoon.
I have a weird habit of asking questions,
So I said to the spoon,
“How does it feel like to be washed over and over again and get rehashed?”
“Haha, must be helpless”, I exclaimed.
“Forget it”, I said.
“Let's talk about the family you live with, give me feedbacks.”
“Okay”, the spoon said.
“Your little brother, he holds me too tight, and I think there's a slight wound between the fingers of his right hand. I think he's getting bullied in school.”
“You wouldn't know that, you're not a therapist, so shut up.”
The spoon just shrugged and continued.
“Your sister, I melt like butter in your sister's mouth, she has so much kindness hidden beneath her tongue.”
“Ah, she's like that”, I said.
“What about my father though?”
“Oftentimes he puts too much weight on me, and clatters me with his teeth. I have explored all the dark corners of his mouth but it seems that he has turned off the light for anyone to see what he feels and God knows where has he hidden the switch to turn the light back on.”
”Hmm I guess, maybe you're right”, I said softly.
“And my mother?”
“Um, she throws me onto the floor many times. It hurts but it feels like she is releasing her anger. All these years of trying to find that switch to turn the light back on has made her short-tempered.”
That made me tear up a bit.
I gathered myself back and asked,
”What about me? How do you feel about me?”
“Well, for starters, talking to a spoon at midnight isn't going to fix your heart”, the spoon replied.
—Prashant Pundir, Conversation with a spoon
Sunday mornings started with
My father playing Manna Dey's
Zindagi Kaisi Yeh Paheli,
Blaring out of the age old gramophone
That he inherited
At a volume, loud enough
To serve as an alarm
To the entire sleeping neighborhood
My sister and I
Would jump out of the bed we shared
And complain and laugh over Papa's
Extremely melancholic taste in music.
Sunday mornings were about
My 7 year old tantrums
To let me eat my cereal
While watching Oswald and his adventures
Instead of eating at the dining table.
Sunday was a division of chores
Dusting the bookshelves
Sweeping the floors
Cleaning photo frames
Only to stop and look at our parents' albums
Telling us a story
Like a silent movie from the 70s
In black and white.
Sunday was an escape
From the rest of the week
A game of ludo
And sunsets from the balcony.
Sundays were a ritual
Until it wasn't
Until our family scattered
In different time zones
My sister, five hours ahead
My brother, seven hours behind
And even though, I exist
In the present
I'm living in the past
In the veranda of my ancestral house
Crying to Manna Dey
When he sings
Zindagi Kaisi Yeh Paheli, Haaye
Kabhi Toh Hasaaye, Kabhi Yeh Rulaaye.
-Fouz