Streaming away

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The stream divides the green into two
meandering away from the known
forcing thoughts
to put hands on undefined, slippery curves
to revisit decrepit shelters
to reassess the traps set by the squelchy ground
where the green fades into yellow,
exposing cow-munched barren patches

The stream seems to stake a claim
It wants to be the new road
its clear face reflects a sky breaking into chaotic pieces
as feet intrude into its watery hollows
seeking out pebbles to act as footholds
to counter the avalanching thoughts
that find no moss to cling to
as they slip and slither down the muddy banks
away from the maze of daylight’s green pretences
into the Cimmerian haunts of night.
©Reena Prasad 3rd April 2013

Post mortem


They promise to lay bare the nuances 
which make some poems belong anywhere
plucked from unknown places
flawlessly put into ingenious spaces
Guides and keys
strip the charm off mysteries
Ripping fragile veils
their hands on some butterfly moments
into which mine too had seeped unaware
tearing out skin and poetic tissue
for  the un-poetic to rummage, pee and shit upon
My greatest fear is of spotting the poet
trying to prevent the assault 
unshaven, naked, dead and unseen
A protective instinct stands up and hollers
A phobia of bumbling fingers groping
and probing the oft violated orifices,
laughing at the mayhem of genesis assails me
as I try to read the inquest report,
face turned away lest I see
a poem’s private parts uncovered
and purple bruises on tender spots.

©Reena Prasad 21 Feb 2013

The cauldron- for lake view

There is always a bubbling poem
within a cauldron called life 

Cherished mondegreens, veiled dulcet whispers
some undeserved gifts, some stolen snapshots
a few essential love swirls within
the caliginous mood of nights
some red fescue and lost fireflies
A potpourri to season its ebullient delights

It simmers over an ouroboric fire
often stamped upon vigorously
yet never out fully
in the shade or sun
upon a little heap of broken rocks
hissing away to the flame scorching it black 

All you need to do is tilt it a little
and a poem flows out.

©Reena Prasad 18th feb 2013



You fill in the soundless pauses with jagged poems
They peck at my isolation with pointed beaks
leaving a crack for pain to try and wriggle out
You drop intuitive words like pigeon shit
forcing me to powder and conceal
tell tale hickeys left on my absurd existence.

©Reena Prasad 28th Jan 2013




C             O             ∫            ∫          E           E    

∫                        ∫                        ∫                         ∫                          ∫

The trees in the picture appear slanting~~~~the frame dangles at an odd angle
the wall has slipped sideways~ the room oscillates mildly
I clutch at the coffee mug, drain the steaming brew
soaking in its warmth, comfort and aroma
Suddenly the trees are upright again
©Reena Prasad 26th jan 2013




No, I cannot tell you

what I do with poems

after I have read them

It is less potent than what

they do with me

after they blunt my thorns

You would think it foolish

drinking wine to amass vintage bottles.

Now give me back the corpse

I have found a grave

©Reena Prasad 8th jan 2013
Published in the September issue of First Literary Review- East