Poetry — Madhu Singh
A tryst with a much married woman:
I crawl under
the seductive gaze
of her heavy lidded eyes
to spend my living days
in their sullied garden of Eden
an unwelcome serpent
enticing her to bite
into the apple of my words
I become a willing captive
In the auburn chains of her tresses
and rise heavenward
in the peachy scent
of a perimeter of cumulus clouds
under an argent fourteenth moon
I flow in a brook
of the juice of our love making
in which amber pebbles
of her freckles
run down from her cheeks
deep into the valley of her breasts
heaving in restful stillness
I worship in her temple
with hot quivering lips
molded mounds and torsos
until primal urges surge
to surmount and subdue
the rising tide of thrusts
choking on forbidden names.
Down by the Lodhi Garden for a stolen lover's meet
We stroll amid carmine roses on feather light feet
His breath so crisp ‘n breezy, the wind rustling a tree
I so drunk ‘n smitten, with his every word agree
By the gurgle of a fountain, my love and I do tread
Upon his leaning shoulder, I lay my weary head
His smile so bright ‘n glinting, dew on morning’s grass
And, I so young ‘n foolish, full of tears, alas!
The great night of that which isn't:
My beloved, He came in spring. When a nip still makes its bite felt in the mountain air.
He sits on a rock by the Kanti Sarovar for months on end. Eyes closed, not moving.
The crowds gather and disperse, come and go, but he is unperturbed, absolutely still.
The only sign of life, the endless streams of tears flowing down his cheeks.
As the days turn, summer waltzes in with its kaleidoscope of flowers, fruits and berries.
Then, torrential rains that only the Himalayan peaks can extract from the monsoon clouds.
Autumn, of ageless grace, the resplendent, capricious colours of her leaves.
And finally, the deep white death of a Kedarnath winter.
And yet, he sits still.
Then, in the month of Maagh, on the midnight before the new moon night,
the spot between his eyebrows opens to another dimension of existence.
He perceives the imperceptible, touches the intangible, knows the unknowable.
He has now become Shiva, that which isn't.
Her every quark
pushed forth by Him