Anshu Choudhry

From Your Muted Voice
It has been a fortnight, the moon
has not sighed, nor shied away. Has not
sent a word of promise to stain
my heart by the eclipse. I wait
for its shadow through the palmy
curtain, my eyelashes tired and droopy
for the scenic melodrama. Its naff tantrums
of adult adolescence pervading my
juvenile sense hinging on shattered
expectations, of the over ripe doorway
fearing rot. There is no treasure
to hide yet, only few lines of black gold
blotting the slate. How could I be poorer
if the nights are stolen ? There is not
one moon, to light up the sky. Even
the clouds have silver linings and of course
the lightening marks, the salutation
to failed love, firing up desire
with each strike. I can almost see
the day in that flash that burns up
love to the ash of indifference. And
the pearly rain that drops down
the will, to stream and then flow. The moon
be not thee so proud, the narcissist
stars glitter. Only because, the sun
is on the other side.

 

No Contact—- I look at it so Long

The tiles live, vibrant and marked, mock at the stony gaze, then wink
and blink to disappear and reappear, peer, in shock of the apocalyptical advance
I look at it so long

Nothing changes, the number game on the calls and the messages
and all communication, hold in alarm to the silence of the dead seas
I look at it so long

My touch, barren and cold on the scratchproof glass and yet the smooth
finesse won’t let the itch pass, the bloody nails chipped with hearts torn
I look at it so long

The contacts remain imprisoned behind waterproof gates while I drown
and sink my talk in the salty pit of rainless clouds, not volatile not vapour drawn
I look at it so long

Mirrors on its wall tell lies that were once true, the portraits of ghosts sing lullabies and
haunt the moons, through sleep walks in rock gardens besides rosy lakes, battles rage on fort’s lawns
I look at it so long

I hear the whistle of goodbye, shrill and loud, stark and piercing the drums of wait deaf and blind
clues and cues, trails of blood and sweaty odours, scents of faith and musky fevers linger on…….
I look at it so long
The Childless Parents

They come and fly off
Unlike seasons
Their nest
On top
against the rain, hot sun
baking their eggy walls
while they are away
Cooling hopes of return

Their dim yellow light
The palest sun, subdued
by tungsten in glass
Enough
to discount the blind
Road to futures
sliding away into past
Doors locked

The missing little one
Waits
as the nest grows old
and they tire their limbs to climb
the steep stairs
growing steeper, slope less
Crashing
under their diminished weights.

Anshu Choudhry is a humble but passionate disciple of literature and litterateurs and she writes ansfor the peace of her soul.  She has worked through academics to acquire degrees of Master level in Mathematics and English.  Her job with the Government allows little time to serve her passion for writing but she manages to act on her yearnings by the dint of will. Her poems have been published in FullofCrow, Kritya, Ken*again and anthologies”