Tremble

I tremble,
when your words hold me with the tip of their fingers,
as if one day they’d let me sleep on their palms
or let me keep my head on their fingernails
or catch my metaphors when they tumble down my lashes.

I tremble,
when your words hold me with the tip of their fingers,
as if they would fracture my branches
or tie the withered flowers to my body
or unrhyme the poetry that I have scribbled on my skin.

I tremble,
when your words hold me with the tip of their fingers,
as if they’re capable of doing everything to me,
or undo everything that has been done
or choose to do nothing at all.

I tremble,
Not because your words have too much power,
but because I have nothing,
when they hold me with the tip of their fingers.

 

Poetry by Eshwarya Khanna

Photography by Arif Khan

WhatsApp Image 2017-07-03 at 23.54.58

 

 

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Photograph

I see pixels bursting into words,

And I wonder when will I see your face again,

before I forget- the wrinkles on your skin,

the density of your brows

and your lips bulging inward,

into your mouth.

 

These photographs tremble

when they exhale words,

and look like scribbled pages to me,

sprinkled with question marks,

and grief.

 

I, now, see words bursting into memories.

Reminding me the sound of your giggles,

the smell of your breath,

the noise while you chewed chapatis,

the words you’d eat

every time you’d shout in anger.

 

I see the memories bursting into nothingness,

I wonder where will I find you now.

 

Poetry and Photograph by Eshwarya Khanna

 

(Poet’s note: Pixels bursting into words, words bursting into memories, and memories bursting into nothingness and you lose what you wish to keep forever- memories.

Short poetry dedicated to a really important person who’s not here anymore. I clicked a photograph when I was a kid, and I never knew that this random porridge of pixels will cease to be a photograph one day. 
Sometimes, you wish to suffer from the pain of missing people. What scares you more is the thought of forgetting them. Because only in memories you can meet and spend time with them.)

 

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Haifa and the Doves

Haifa told me
that every time you look at the sky,
you will find him singing a different melody.
Which means,
you can listen to infinite songs
by just looking at a blue garment
in a market littered with hopes and dreams.
The sky has a different song,
Haifa believes,
for those who’re looking at it.
For those who have wings,
for those who are looking for wings,
for those who are learning how to weave them,
for those who don’t wish to have any,
(because they fear the fall)
for those who are roaming around with match sticks
(to burn the feathers)
But this isn’t about either of them,
this is for the ones, the sky has never sung for;
For the dreamers, the poets forget to talk about,
because they’re the dreamers
who can’t fly, but float
by bribing the doves of unknown alleys,
who carry them like a letter
with no address.
For the ones who have convinced themselves,
that flying is a hopeless business;
and it is the process of delaying the fall.
Haifa seeks answers from them;
She wonders,
if they will they ever fly again
I wonder,
if they will ever want to fly again.
And every time I answer her,
she pretends to forget her question.
And in this game of forgetting and remembering,
the dreamer lives a little longer,
watching Haifa, along with the doves,
build a home in the sky.
~ Eshwarya Khanna
(Artwork Credits : Kashish Grover)
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