Post Kalidas


He wrote verses on the female form, his quill teasing out blushes wherever he stroked
Tender soft yet sure- the edge of his passion as he dipped his feather into her shadows

Sacred and inviting – all at once she lay back and let art take the lead
he found that his deft touch made her glow as he scribed the softness along each proud curve

Smearing his ink all over her wanton tresses for they insisted on lying upon unopened buds,
he conjured the dimples that only art could know, put a firm feather tip down and wrote for the world

It trembled but it wrote with the finesse of a lover, tremulous with what it had touched before
insistent that it should reveal its awe to every soul, confident that lovers could read what it meant to love

Beauty, love denounced, now languish in shrouds, we struggle to write about love in sorry metaphors
The finest of life has been pronounced a sin even though freely tasted centuries ago

©Reena Prasad 7th feb 2013
Published in the Anthology ” The art of being human ” Vol 2 . Link here.

The busker


Above the clatter of the cast steel wheels
a song arrives
before its frail box does
A piece of human flotsam in a frayed shirt
offers raucous-sounding words
in tune to the train’s gravelly rattles over the tracks
An item girl’s apparition gyrates
in the narrow mental aisles between colliding knees
Some hum along, popping roasted peanuts
to tide over the breathing pauses
while the artist/busker/beggar
carries his desperation/art/hunger, row to row
pocketing the furtive glances full of disgust/repulsion/loathing
as they skim over his unsightly gifts
With no pretence to art /aesthetics,
he is a latent impoverished bomb,
a damp canvas of  fleshy, leprosy bubbles
but here his song ends and his palm stretches
Loose change from pockets clears the dismal air
The last teats of sympathy and revulsion milked,
he shuffles off the train
humming to himself till the next long whistle
©Reena Prasad JUN 2013

Published in “The art of being human”  VOL 2 anthology .


Let us flow on
through parallel ravines
across the world as we do now
grimacing as we hit the potholes

Gushing over fecund plains
Holding ourselves back
when the land is flooded sometimes
Torrential when our vessel is tilted by favourable winds
sparse when jerking over arid basins
yet never stopping

Knowing there is a similar river in spate
in every region big or small
with waters to tell its own tale

And they do sing of us too,
our stories meet at some familiar corners
the gaps cemented by dialectal murmurs

Small but sturdy streams
on our way to becoming rivers
collecting silt, colours, flavours of the land
to someday, quilt an epic
The few with an ocean contained within them
will perhaps become our sky

©Reena Prasad  30th October 2012

Inspired by Ampat Sir’s thoughts on ‘the epic’
Published in the international anthology ” The art of being human” Vol 2 June 2013