2 min read

A Gasp for Air 

tragedy served on a cold platter, conflict commercialized, broadcasted - 

our mind’s tongue hangs out obediently, thirsting for dramatized lies. 

they parade death like a showpiece, crematoriums are the stage - 

subtlety and fame are water and oil, spotlight demands spilled blood. 

my overripe conscience sniffs for a whiff of guilt when 

fingers and tongues are pointed in other directions. hope and 

love have seen better days to show their faces. in this tsunami 

of fire - hush or mute are the choices. there is a way to keep 

the hands from feeling bound-lifeless - quilt quilts and polish paddles - 

lend them to your home - you might dance with the shadows or write 

a lonely verse to hold up your sane behind closed doors, while wondering 

whether words are useful in a world where there is a price on breath.

Our Space 

We sit on opposite sides of one bench. 

We are kind souls

here to participate in altercations. 

(coming together 

would demand softening iron) 

The stream 

is a glop of crimson decay 

carrying centuries of mold and molding.

They say, we could be the stepping stones For each other - 

in a one square centimeter cage that cannot change shape, 

two minds in tight packaging step on each other’s toes And feet. 

An elbow in motion pokes the other under the armpit, 

a bile volcano erupts- 

an 8-inch crowbar is needed 

to stuff it back down the length of your esophagus, 

the lava venoms your pool of peace if it reaches your lips of sting 

flinging its fangs beyond dead seas 

freezing hearts to silence 

burning paper, fraying, ashing 

as the hole in the center expands 

                    and history proves itself. 

So, it is a cold war for the same county 

it warms up, then chills. 

even small pins need to be banned


dormancy - eruption - guilt 

is just a cycle.

‘her’ position 

braided hair meeting at the nape 

ornamented ears 

she sat like she had been taught- 

hands on her thighs 

toes touching 

her eyes were hollow 

tongue carved out 

she remained set in stone over centuries

gaining proficiency in kneeling.


Love lurks/ around until fed/ dwells in the path 

between truth and disillusionment/ neither place is 

pleasant, it is only the trip that’s laced with scents. 

How is the unconditional reduced to fodder for a 

vomit of words/ and a warning signpost 

on your neurons when you go that way again.

Namratha Varadharajan stumbled into the magical rabbit hole of writing when she paused her career in engineering to indulge in motherhood. Her poems and short stories are published in ‘The Kali Project’, ‘Tea with a Drop of Honey’, ‘#Love’. She writes at http://namysaysso.com.

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