A Poem with Wings


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July 21st 2015
A momentous day, a book was being released from its first wrap and poets, editors, friends and publisher gathered at The Upbeat Restaurant, Bangalore to set it off on its maiden journey. The Significant Anthology held a fluttering mass of talent amidst its pages and set off to find its destination in the hearts of readers and to make its way up in the highly competitive world of English Literature.
But something set this book part from all others namely the love that had gone into its making, the faith that poets and debut writers had bestowed upon it and the cause of autism from which it took birth. As one of the Editors, it was one of the happiest days in my life and one of the saddest too for I could not be there at the launch but love has a way of reaching out and bring the stray back into the fold.
A messenger landed on my fingers and though wonder struck at first, I became the recipient of a delicate butterfly’s attention as it settled itself on my hand and explored and hugged my finger tips with the tiniest of feet. A omen of goodness instantly bringing me good vibes about our marvelous book!

Do enjoy the video poem made to commemorate the butterfly landing as well as our book launch!

Touch


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Touch

My skin abhors touch
It forbids it
The tactile glove to explore a crater raw

The python moved his scales
rearranged them, heat dissipating through their mesh
I wasn’t cold though, my blood bounded against his
scales and skin leaping
his tail spooning my waist as he left 
his weight invisibly tattooed on my scapula
Touch me there, you can feel a snake grow

The faintest of butterfly feet on my fingers
with none of the former’s assuredness
Tremulous, a tender quiver of questions
and I am silenced, turned inside out, raw
Explore, suck, kiss, lick, flick
how many feet does a butterfly need to string me along?
With the last it kicked away my fantasies
reducing me to a prayer

A connect from some other realm
at a time when the disconnect was complete
yet my skin refused to let its memory fade
of the leech that wouldn’t let go
of the wolf that wouldn’t go slow
of the man whose nip still throbs

Touch me not
not unless you want to go  
and leave me another skin
©Reena Prasad