D E E P A I Y E R | Monsoon 2014
The lethargic process of coaxing small mercies
Out of the pottering wheel is called
Meditation. Coercive hands throwing and glazing
For some miraculous container, crying
And drooping like wisteria and then silently
Bursting forth from clay are bowls, jars, cups, coffee pot
And what not. In the delay between thought and fire,
Dream and desire, is the immaculately shaped surprise.
The natural magnet that survives the vestigial
at a prohibitive cost, shunning
Stimulated company, denying earthen sympathy
Withstanding incessant rain and collapse,
Earthquakes, paraphrase and such onslaught.
Good architecture requires little maintenance.
The Lost Cause
Mothering this child is bringing life
Into the world and letting it go
Amidst all life and everything in it,
Abrogating the terms and conditions of
Cord and discord, abetting the release
Of a terrified calf into the undulating ring,
Where seductions other than the mother
Would ride him, master him, bully him.
Half crushed and half alive he will survive
Sometimes forgetful of why he is here,
Demanding names to the places that meanders ahead
And faces to the people who caressed and left.
Since calves are not puppies, he will not come Home
sniffing and fawning, yearning
For familiar hands that fed.
Instead he would be
the meat and mutton of life
Chewing cud when bored and
Always charging at what’s red.
Deepa Kylasam Iyer is a poet and a playwright who has published in Kritya, Muse India, Word Riot, Reading Hour, Cyclamens and Swords and in anthologies by the British Council. She blogs at thehouseofbooks.blogspot.in