Thathi, chill!

On a stool in a new bathroom.
Mugs of water poured, gently over my head
relieve me from sweltering heat.

A wet ear held next to a cellphone.
I hear hysterical sobs,
then silence, to gain composure -

"Are you ok?"

Thathi, in Navi Mumbai 
imagines my communal bath
in Nellore before Nalugu.

Her innards churn,
she demands
that I stop it immediately.

She tells me how
her mother was stripped naked on her wedding day
before being made to wear a new saree.

This cloak of protection thickens across generations,
just as the cloak of shame thins out.

I've bathed with friends at fourteen-
a drenched state
isn't mortifying anymore.

Published in the Hong Kong based Voice and Verse Poetry Magazine, Issue 56: Home (November- December 2020) 

https://vvpoetry.com/2020/11/07/issue-57-november-december-2020-special-feature-home/

Love, sent to a single loaded corridor

Hanging upside down, like a giant lizard 

I cling to you with unblinking calm, 

draw waves along your length.

I dream of ways to inhabit you again,

my Marsyas, as your voussoirs shelter me 

under nine arches.

Out from under the First, I regain balance

on moss-retaining tiles, checkered red,

laid at 1:5, turn away from its faint stench.

Rants of a cutter-armed friend 

ricochet off mount boards;  she completes 

my model, saving my ass under the Second. 

A ninja jumps out from under the Third

negotiating a bush, watered from above.

A puddle forms in broken asphalt.

I witness a red-rose proposal 

under the Fourth, where level differences 

match heights, and hearts.

Perpendicular runs under the Fifth, midway

on steps that bite into the plinth,

stage ephemeral greetings, impromptu baithaks.

T-scales dumped under the Sixth –

the ancient bearer of unreadable results 

that wears a baroque egg tiara and watches on.

Vapour swirls from tea, served in paper cups 

held by Dumbledore Longbeards,

spilling out of seminars, racing to reach the Seventh.

I wade through a copy of the new Shilpasagar, 

on a table, as I peep into the Principal's cabin 

under the Eighth. Sore 

from an overdose of architecture,

I turn to the fine arts, a gallop away, 

to contemplate an escape under the Ninth.

I don't act on it.

Oscillating between volume bursts

You are Newton's cradle,

I come to you, to go nowhere.

Published in the February 2021 issue of the Indo French (Jaipur-Paris) RIC journal https://ricjournal.com/2021/02/22/love-sent-to-a-single-loaded-corridor-pooja-ugrani/

Reading poetry

I jump into your quagmire

wading through greys 

like a sieve, between fiction

and places that aren't.

Stained with what sticks 

I wish the rest remains 

water under a bridge.

Tell me, 

did you jump in naked too?

Published in The Woman Inc Poetry Series on 03/02/2021 link: https://thewomaninc.com/2021/02/03/twi-poetry-reading-poetry-vaira-mookkutti/

Vaira mookutti

keloids shine alongside stones,
survival of the right nostril
threatened by her maamiyaar
who aggressively strives
to home in a fat pin
into allergic skin
with an almost,
maternal enthusiasm

she rescues herself
resorting to
talagaani mantram
after the third attempt.

decades later,
her great grand daughter yelps
as she pushes it home,
satisfied that she looks
vintage, traditional, kitsch.


Vaira mookutti : diamond nose pin
Maamiyaar : mother in law
Talahaani mantram : pillow talk

Published in The Woman Inc Poetry Series on 03/02/2021 link: https://thewomaninc.com/2021/02/03/twi-poetry-reading-poetry-vaira-mookkutti/

Thud!

A familiar sound

drops boulders in my belly
a second before i open the door.

a skull that hit the floor, now bobs up
to greet me in silent relief

Guilt boils over, I let out an angry yowl,
She joins in, confused
I hug her, kneeling on the floor

amidst debris of broken embankments
pillows and bolsters mis-navigated
in her flight from the bed

Fear drives shame away. For a while,
I keep the bathroom door open as vigil,
postponing worldly lessons
to a later date.

Published in The Mom Egg Review, Range of Motherhood folio on 14/09/2020 

link: http://momeggreview.com/2020/09/14/thud-by-pooja-ugrani/

Cheluvi

streaked with rivulets 

you run through me, 

fragmented islands 

submerge, resurface 

in eyes that hold 

azure tessellations.

I blush a bristly persistent pink,

tear away only to know 

I am consumed.

I let you in 

to become the raintree.

Cheluvi- 

a film directed by Girish Karnad (1992) is the story of a girl who could convert herself to a tree.

Published in The Tiger Moth Review, Issue 5 on 26/01/2021
link: https://www.thetigermothreview.com/blog/cheluvi

Jamun

Over a bowl, we share
our stories of the fruit.
I sing a song from Jait Re Jait
about a dhol played under a tree.
She sticks her tongue out
wanting it to emerge purple
like Neema's from her story book.

A cautious bite, a clean roll
and a seed spat out,
leave terrains on my agile tongue
that I stick out to entice her.
Unconvinced, she decides
to lick a jamun, only for its colour.

The astringent bites her tongue.
She runs behind me, wanting
to cleave my frozen ruts,
plough through tightened textures,
waving a pink comb for relief.

Jamun – Java plum

Jait Re Jait is a 1977 Indian Marathi language film directed by Dr. Jabbar Patel whose story revolves around a tribe named Thakar

Dhol - drum

Published in The Alipore Post as 3 poems on Motherhood on 17/02/2021

https://www.thealiporepost.com/post/3-poems-on-motherhood-by-pooja-ugrani