Luckless Witch
I am told some are born to dead mothers, or half limbs.
Some must live to see their children die or sold to pimps.
Some will lose whatever it is that they hold close, or give
up dreams and jobs and their birth nose. Some will want
but never get, some will never know want and regret.
Some will kill for money or lie in courts, or on dirty beds in
dingy motels. Some will endure for surnames, honour and
empty bowels. Some come to only go astray, some will love
and betray. There are people on the streets with no clothes
to wear, and some clothes in boxes with no people in there.
Some know not what a season means, or the colour purple.
Some live thirsty lives by the sea, roofless huts in a tuple.
Some carry weights on backs and inside chests, of wood
and blood, in coal mines and under lonely breasts.
Could you not, whole and full, with the ale and muse,
and you. You with the fuschia breath and a twisted heel
on the matching pair of shoes. With a broken wand and
nameless demons, all your spells cast askew.
Could you not lament the death of luck, just go on being
you?
The sum of my parts
My being subsists
in a thousand
broken shards
an erratic eight
yearn for freedom
pesky peripherals
refuse to betray
left of centre
two seek love
southwest seven
snicker away
nineteen infants
rebel to know
the Oldest one
suggests faith
six sixty six
die daily deaths
about the same
are born again
Each trying to find
its rightful place while
I, I try to
make my peace
every waking minute
with this
piecemeal existence.
RAVNEET BAWA is a Technical Designer with one of the many IT firms south of Chennai. She immensely enjoys word play in life and on paper. On bleary days, she practices the craft by inserting funny comments in perl code and writing sarcastic e-mails to office admin. Luckily for her, her clients have a great sense of humour and sarcasm is often lost on the admin folks. Her poetry however comes from some deep, dark, melancholic place which is not a haunt of choice, but is a rather compelling one.
I am told some are born to dead mothers, or half limbs.
Some must live to see their children die or sold to pimps.
Some will lose whatever it is that they hold close, or give
up dreams and jobs and their birth nose. Some will want
but never get, some will never know want and regret.
Some will kill for money or lie in courts, or on dirty beds in
dingy motels. Some will endure for surnames, honour and
empty bowels. Some come to only go astray, some will love
and betray. There are people on the streets with no clothes
to wear, and some clothes in boxes with no people in there.
Some know not what a season means, or the colour purple.
Some live thirsty lives by the sea, roofless huts in a tuple.
Some carry weights on backs and inside chests, of wood
and blood, in coal mines and under lonely breasts.
Could you not, whole and full, with the ale and muse,
and you. You with the fuschia breath and a twisted heel
on the matching pair of shoes. With a broken wand and
nameless demons, all your spells cast askew.
Could you not lament the death of luck, just go on being
you?
The sum of my parts
My being subsists
in a thousand
broken shards
an erratic eight
yearn for freedom
pesky peripherals
refuse to betray
left of centre
two seek love
southwest seven
snicker away
nineteen infants
rebel to know
the Oldest one
suggests faith
six sixty six
die daily deaths
about the same
are born again
Each trying to find
its rightful place while
I, I try to
make my peace
every waking minute
with this
piecemeal existence.
RAVNEET BAWA is a Technical Designer with one of the many IT firms south of Chennai. She immensely enjoys word play in life and on paper. On bleary days, she practices the craft by inserting funny comments in perl code and writing sarcastic e-mails to office admin. Luckily for her, her clients have a great sense of humour and sarcasm is often lost on the admin folks. Her poetry however comes from some deep, dark, melancholic place which is not a haunt of choice, but is a rather compelling one.
