Let Me Bring The Sun
“We must always have a place
to store the darkness
but in your house, all the lights are on
even during the day”
– Agha Shahid Ali
There are no curtains
in my house
I don’t own a veil.
The darkness you contain
in your place
Do you treasure it?
Or is that your armour?
You disarmed me
when you came.
Stripped me off
of the guard I held.
I stand weaponless,
surrendered, in submission.
But your place is fortified,
with high walls and
You didn’t want a
Let me bring the sun instead.
What are you afraid of?
And you never told,
how long is the darkness
How long blinded?
How long veiled?
don’t you want the sun?
I Cut My Own Hair
I cut my own hair.
I’ve enough money in my pockets
to go to a salon and not enough
to go to a good one
where they give complimentary head massages. But I cut my own hair.
To regain autonomy over my body.
I cut my own hair
and walk-in shoes with worn-out soles.
I’ve enough money to buy a pair of new ones
and not enough to make heads turn like owls.
But I walk in worn-out shoes
with worn-out soles.
Because they don’t bother as much
as the six o’clock curfew.
They don’t bother because I’d rather have
a pair of wings than comfortable soles and whitewashed shoes.
I walk in worn-out shoes and read cheap,
I’ve enough money to buy a hardcover
of Pride and Prejudice but not enough for a collection of Austen
But I read cheap, old books to relish
the typewriter prints,
to trace the thumbprints of the previous master
I read cheap, old books and write shitty poetry.
I’ve enough words to write a good one
and not enough to bring you back
to re-read it.
I write shitty poetry to chain it to the back
of my notebooks, to sapor a world
hidden by worlds,
to quench the vanity of a “good poet”.
I write shitty poetry and then laugh at myself.
Prakriti Parth is a young poet and studies English Literature at Patna University. She can be contacted at email@example.com