Yamini Krishnan |
|
ON TRYING TO WRITE POETRY AT THE BEACH
I don’t know how to write about places like these.
Somewhere, there is an ocean
frothing with spiels about the glittering seafront,
the cawing of gulls, but today,
my throat is dry and unyielding.
The sand sticks to my fingertips, it makes typing hard
and I’d rather not let saltwater seep into my pages.
There is a poet somewhere,
sitting cross-legged by the seaside.
She conjures up whirlpools filled
with an eternity of blueness or the pull of heavenly waves,
and I do not understand that sorcery.
This heaven has sapped my tongue,
the breeze has lifted everything.
There are no words here.
*
I don’t know how to write about places like these.
Somewhere, there is an ocean
frothing with spiels about the glittering seafront,
the cawing of gulls, but today,
my throat is dry and unyielding.
The sand sticks to my fingertips, it makes typing hard
and I’d rather not let saltwater seep into my pages.
There is a poet somewhere,
sitting cross-legged by the seaside.
She conjures up whirlpools filled
with an eternity of blueness or the pull of heavenly waves,
and I do not understand that sorcery.
This heaven has sapped my tongue,
the breeze has lifted everything.
There are no words here.
*
