Poems by Joie Bose
You come to me, as that buzzing mosquito
and I try to kill you but I can't,
I fly around my palms, I look mad as I do it
But a dog in heat, and a woman in love is mad!
(Mad is all that is ridiculed)
You are not here, so you can't be that mosquito
but that mosquito is a memory of you from before
Had it been you, breathing heavily before me I would
have slapped you, and torn you apart with my teeth.
(A memory is not tangible)
You plagued me, and I was diagnosed with dengue
The platelet count went down and my skin burnt as the surface of the sun
and I had rashes all over, I couldn't breathe, I was gasping,
it could have been deathly cholera a generation ago.
(This is the time of the dengue)
I managed to kill that mosquito, finally and there was no buzzing anymore
I managed to forget you and there is no pain anymore
I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine- I repeat like a chant and on the sly
I look down at the face of my palm to see, a small blood stain.
(The blood on my palm is beautiful)
I carry all the grudges, the pieces of stone, in a gunny sack on my back
My back, it was fine but now it aches from the weight
I'm a daily wage earner, nothing more, going about the day
I know I can earn my daily bread , I get paid my wage at Day end.
I will put down the bag, and on how well I have borne it
I will be paid what I yearn - another day.
I have learnt the art of balancing the weight
Art is to be learnt with pain in grace
But with so many grudges, I have become lonely
And at night, I'm all alone under the stars.
I see laughter and love, jump in and out in dreams
When I am dead to the world, that's when I live.
I am not I, as you are not you
We are all stones, we are all grudges.
A letter to Loveless
I'm sorry that the love in your life died,
May the soul of your love rest in peace;
But souls don't die, only the body perishes
So the soul of your love continues evolving
From a chimp to a human.
I often wonder how long will it take for love to be human,
For the love that is known is a wild beast, hungry.
I will give you a bunch of flowers to take for your love
Perhaps they won't be white, I don't like white flowers
Perhaps it will be stained with the colour of blood
For the love that you had known- was stained.
I often wonder how long will it be before love becomes unadulterated,
But it won't, for it doesn't thrive in innocence.