Poems by Sharmila Ray

 

Different Cities

 

I do not know how many gates or walls each city has,

but I am sure they exist, invisible to the naked eye.

So some cities smell of apartheid and closure,

some of salt-spray and dried fish,

still others of camphor and sandal wood.

There are other kind of cities too-

where midnight crosses sand dunes

to reflect black shadows on walls.

Cities halted by time.

Cities where solitude patrols on horse- back.

Cities extravagant with sunlight.

Yet there is city different…

Where autumn evening wipes a mirror

to reflect a lotus.

A city of misty mountain blue.

A city hovering over closed eyelids.

 

 

Pastries Infinite…

 

Pastries were an extension of my growing up years.

Each colourful beauty got located in the experience

and recollection of my childhood.

Pastries, temptation soaked in contemplation…

The lemon tarts always got diffused and made me think

of Klimnt’s Kiss.

All yellow and dripping gold with spots of red…

Van Gogh’s Peach Tree with violet trunk and clusters

of white flowers took shape in the body of a pink pastry

with a dollop of white cream.

Chocolate truffles always reminded me of

Rembrandt’s universe, a superb orchestration of

earth colours-warm amber, ochre, sienna.

This then was my pastry-world rooting in the depths

of my heart, a bridge across to something unthinkable, unimaginable.

Believe me pastries could be gems buried in flour, egg and cream

or Chinese lanterns hanging from Van Gogh’s Pear Tree

or

it could blur all formal representation,

become lines and colours taking pride in

Kandinisky’s canvas,

 

Reminders

 

Wood shavings

remind me of a new home.

Vanilla coffee

our time together.

Raleigh bicycle

an era gone too soon.

Hand written letters

an analogue childhood.

Myopic angers

a waste of time.

Basilica door

hope awaiting.

Daybreak

an anthem, a new beginning.

 

 

Calligraphy                  

 

Your hands stretched

burgundy night.

Your fingers entwined

platinum stars.

Hills of dreamtime

helix of cobalt and translucent green…

 

Manuscript that unfolds you,

sheath that undresses you,

are calligraphy of my eyes

born tonight

on a shore distant.

 

 

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