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Poetry Month: DREAM

Dressed as death, cradling the mind into a tease

Rogue, like the sea on a starless night

Ecstatic from holding all the vain possibilities

A snitch, a cartographer of my memories–

Mapping the thoughts to stumble into you.


I dream of homes built from sticks and stones

I carry songs of sunny days, seedlings, and my favorite goat

I run home from school, uncaring about my verbs and nouns

I have a home to build that stands steady on slippery ground

While I walk, I dream of walks that never end

Sitting atop my father, he never paused even on a bend

There was the blinding Indian sun and one long shiny road

Now when I'm asleep, my earth still moves and flows

In a dream I hear the roar of the voracious river

When it swallowed my old home, I get a shiver

At school I climb higher and higher on faraway trees

To see my new home and sway in the reassuring breeze

-Pranietha Mudliar, a poem for the thrice-displaced Bhil tribe


Neil Gaiman nestles into a hobbit cave

On a hilltop house

To weave the muscle of fragile things

Jhumpa Lahiri galloped to Cape God

7 crisp winter months

Retreating in solitude

Curating her magic word-chiselers

Virgina had a room of her own

And minted Money from an aunt's heritage

Anuja Chauhan is enveloped by jacaranda trees

And boho basements with a Pepsi Visicooler

Could their trajectory be also mine

Like an ornate writing treehouse of own

Knead fluffy catharsis doughs

Words slithering from the edges of my tongue

Fueling my parched ball pen

Am I too anchored into my ruggedness

Or my dreams too removed from reality



There are many things I’m incapable of,


Cooking without making it look like a crime scene,

Folding clothes into seamless squares.

I also do not know how to say hook, button, banner.

Or words like snow globe and soft linen, in Marathi.

I have sharpened my tongue so much with the language that is not mine, now my own refuses to accept my voice.

I dream it eventually will,

Maybe, if I share my plate with it and eat it’s defiled morsels, patiently waiting for its fondness.

Remind me again, what word describes that in Marathi?

-Sayali, The concept of 'ushta' or ‘jootha’ (in Hindi) food and hands. After one begins eating from one's plate, his plate and fingers become 'ushta'.


In my dream

love's in a package

delivered at my

doorstep while I

am out of town

looking for it.

I receive a message

saying ‘delivered’.

I mistake it for the

lip balm I had


and put my phone in

the sling bag while

on my way to a library,

hoping to find it.

I return home,

alone as usual

and pick the parcel

kept on the doormat.

'I didn’t order this’.

I ask them to take it away

and refund the money

to the sender’s account.


cold sweat, two second turnovers

squirming and reeling in leftovers

the shadows keep growing bigger

tree branches are crooked fingers

knocking, scratching, gashing

at my window pane

I've stumbled into your alley again

you were my laughter, now you're my scream

you were my sound sleep, now

you're just my fever dream.


it takes strength to dream,

to doodle with care

about stringing the loose ends,

left behind by forces

you can't see.

to draw out and extend

your present

into the untold possibilities of tomorrow.

of deadlines

dissolving into sulphorous blue,

of your love withstanding

the distance of time,

of having the faith to see things through

even when experts have no sight,

of creating warmth in a hotspot,

space in a hotspot,

a space where timidity can close the doors

and dance quietly to itself.

to dream of the possibility,

that whatever sense of normality

you find yourself returning to,

will still have plenty of

reasons to sing.

it takes strength to dream.



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