by Hafis Anvar
Dreaming Summer Trapped in a Rain Room
Puzzles consume the last drops of venerated greens—
of caffeine, of corrugated hemp, of sanity,
and its corroded edges. DJ traps the betrayed
restlessness of wet feet into the mocking tap tap
of rhythm-lorn toes poking the soft underbelly
of distorted tapes. Aimless branches of mighty teaks
put yet another rabbit into the hole in the clouds.
Use that thick lifestyle magazine here and there.
Strike down all those greedy termites of wings—
wrong time to have a sunbath under the white light
of CFL, its almosting July June. Boredom counts
the legs of beetles trapped in windowpanes.
I wish for a pet anteater. So curved and perfected
like cuddling girls of monsoon, curling up like millipedes.
Water penetrates the many beehive hymens
Of the stubborn breadfruit tree.
Exasperated hare-eyes of grass. The greens of it,
look away from the monsoon overdosed yellow—
from the roots, beg another summer.
Telephone is sad and is feeling cold
On my table,
some old pictures with no footnotes
Papers with straight lines drawn on them
Just straight lines that intercept,
at absurd angles
Silvervine in water turning,
weird blue at roots.
The paper towels
I sent them back to you in last July,
said its raining and I don’t cry that much
Last November, we walked
barefoot on the turf, talked
about Orion and Crux
You said we hunt, or we carry
the cross, and life
is like catching a large avenue,
with the tiny lens of a camera
It stays there, maybe for a moment
At least for a moment, then you walked
Telephone is off the hook;
I am not expecting your call,
May be some paper towels
Hafis Anvar is a poet who spends time between Tiruvannamalai and Rajastan. VR Ragesh is a noted cartoonist from Kerala.