Tag: Anita Nahal

Categories
Poetry

December poems

By Anita Nahal

Sleepless nights – Anita Nahal i. Storm Sleepless nights are an aphrodisiac, sometimes. They are you and your naked skin next to mine. When hands linger and the morning sun is asked to wait, intense sun rays are hushed out the room. In the middle of the night between endless sharing, sleepless nights are like that glass of water at my bedside in which I’d slipped a couple of ice cubes to cool the heat. Those sleepless nights don’t come very often even though I send hand written letters sprinkled with a bit of ittar at the envelope’s opening. I keep waiting for you…keep waiting for you and the storm stands at the doorstep crushing dry leaves against restless window panes. ii. Lull Sometimes, sleepless nights come like a lull between pregnant chapters of a novel. Curiosity compels to turn the page and I drag my feet like exhausted horses after a long, tedious journey in medieval times. I try to calm the pawns and the elephants that the horses are being tended to, but a game of chess gives me away. I don my royal clothes and try to appear majestic as I stride out to allay fears of my ailing armies, but sleepless nights don’t let go…don’t let go and hold on to reigns like lonely seaweeds in a forgotten marsh. And the parched leaves of the now overlooked storm have been pressed dried as book marks in my novel. iii. Rejuvenation Since I’m not the game type, I give up any lackluster attempts to try. Neither chess, nor dice, nor the war or love kind. I lay alone for that’s how I find peace to rejuvenate. On clean sheets after a lazy shower, I refuse to even put on my reading glasses or stretch my hand for the lamp switch. A nightcap of hot buttered rum, some Amazon rain sounds with light Native American flute soothes. Sleepless nights walk away…walk away gently as I lay beneath a dreamcatcher with fairy lights blinking tenderly. The storm and the lull have bonded, and the expectant novel goes to sleep unread. And so, do I. Glossary: Ittar: An essential oil derived from botanical sources Airplanes in flight, when a heart came to be in crimson and saffron I guess, I guess it’s tough to say where you are headed. Perhaps away from a love, or to a love. I’m just a relentless romantic so bear me my mushy heart’s muse as did Robert Frost whom I met last night as I was making my way for a glimpse of you flying. He told me to keep walking till I reached a clearing through thick tree tops where the sky and the crimson-saffron leaves mingled with the hues of my cheeks so that I would blush, and a heart would come to be. I stood in the open with my arms far above trying to hold on to some magical woodland while shadows of hearts danced in tinges of yellows, browns, and lime greens playing mischief with my own shadow. As I serenely tried to capture them, butterflies flew in from all sides with naughty eyed elves riding abreast. I pinched myself. I shook my clothes. I kicked off my shoes and was ready to waltz when Alice in Wonderland stood beside me watching you fly and zoom by. I whispered to the heart shadows to come back and they all blushed crimson and saffron, and a heart came to be. I kept watching till I could only hear your hum, and then turned to the wise trees beseeching their embrace. Avatars of all foliage clasped palms sprinkling me with autumn leaves and my yogic breaths and poses didn’t fail as I prepped to fall to rise again. I merged with the ground with my heart full and calm as all the crimsons and saffron held arms, and a renewed heart came to be. As time flew along with you, I slowly rubbed my eyes watching a paler blue than pale blue sky. Perhaps its misty clouds were lifting you to keep flying, chugging, going . Perhaps a lover, or a soldier, a mother or father, or a child are yearning inside you to take them to their loved ones. Your journey is long, yet I’ll watch you from my crimson-saffron clearing, my heart next to yours. And when all loved ones have met those waiting, everyone’s blushing cheeks will turn an enduring red, and a heart forever would come to be. Sleepless nights – Anita Nahal i. Storm Sleepless nights are an aphrodisiac, sometimes. They are you and your naked skin next to mine. When hands linger and the morning sun is asked to wait, intense sun rays are hushed out the room. In the middle of the night between endless sharing, sleepless nights are like that glass of water at my bedside in which I’d slipped a couple of ice cubes to cool the heat. Those sleepless nights don’t come very often even though I send hand written letters sprinkled with a bit of ittar at the envelope’s opening. I keep waiting for you…keep waiting for you and the storm stands at the doorstep crushing dry leaves against restless window panes. ii. Lull Sometimes, sleepless nights come like a lull between pregnant chapters of a novel. Curiosity compels to turn the page and I drag my feet like exhausted horses after a long, tedious journey in medieval times. I try to calm the pawns and the elephants that the horses are being tended to, but a game of chess gives me away. I don my royal clothes and try to appear majestic as I stride out to allay fears of my ailing armies, but sleepless nights don’t let go…don’t let go and hold on to reigns like lonely seaweeds in a forgotten marsh. And the parched leaves of the now overlooked storm have been pressed dried as book marks in my novel. iii. Rejuvenation Since I’m not the game type, I give up any lackluster attempts to try. Neither chess, nor dice, nor the war or love kind. I lay alone for that’s how I find peace to rejuvenate. On clean sheets after a lazy shower, I refuse to even put on my reading glasses or stretch my hand for the lamp switch. A nightcap of hot buttered rum, some Amazon rain sounds with light Native American flute soothes. Sleepless nights walk away…walk away gently as I lay beneath a dreamcatcher with fairy lights blinking tenderly. The storm and the lull have bonded, and the expectant novel goes to sleep unread. And so, do I. Glossary: Ittar: An essential oil derived from botanical sources Airplanes in flight, when a heart came to be in crimson and saffron I guess, I guess it’s tough to say where you are headed. Perhaps away from a love, or to a love. I’m just a relentless romantic so bear me my mushy heart’s muse as did Robert Frost whom I met last night as I was making my way for a glimpse of you flying. He told me to keep walking till I reached a clearing through thick tree tops where the sky and the crimson-saffron leaves mingled with the hues of my cheeks so that I would blush, and a heart would come to be. I stood in the open with my arms far above trying to hold on to some magical woodland while shadows of hearts danced in tinges of yellows, browns, and lime greens playing mischief with my own shadow. As I serenely tried to capture them, butterflies flew in from all sides with naughty eyed elves riding abreast. I pinched myself. I shook my clothes. I kicked off my shoes and was ready to waltz when Alice in Wonderland stood beside me watching you fly and zoom by. I whispered to the heart shadows to come back and they all blushed crimson and saffron, and a heart came to be. I kept watching till I could only hear your hum, and then turned to the wise trees beseeching their embrace. Avatars of all foliage clasped palms sprinkling me with autumn leaves and my yogic breaths and poses didn’t fail as I prepped to fall to rise again. I merged with the ground with my heart full and calm as all the crimsons and saffron held arms, and a renewed heart came to be. As time flew along with you, I slowly rubbed my eyes watching a paler blue than pale blue sky. Perhaps its misty clouds were lifting you to keep flying, chugging, going . Perhaps a lover, or a soldier, a mother or father, or a child are yearning inside you to take them to their loved ones. Your journey is long, yet I’ll watch you from my crimson-saffron clearing, my heart next to yours. And when all loved ones have met those waiting, everyone’s blushing cheeks will turn an enduring red, and a heart forever would come to be.

Anita Nahal Ph.D., CDP is a professor, poet, short story writer and children’s writer. She teaches at the University of the District of Columbia, Washington DC. Nahal has two books of poetry, one book of flash fictions and three children’s books to her credit, besides an edited poetry anthology. Her writings have appeared in journals in the US, UK, Asia and Australia. More on her at: https://anitanahal.wixsite.com/anitanahal

Categories
Poetry

In which climate will you celebrate?

By Anita Nahal

In which climate will you celebrate life and festivals? Fake? Reality? Make believe? Fool’s paradise? Another planet? An artificial bubble? Or on a cleansed Earth, your home, that you chose to set, right?

Delhi, Washington DC, anywhere, climate is a far, far removed stepchild. Kind of shunned, alone and tattered, stained. Fumes, gases, plastic, paper, poop and vomit thrown and regurgitated recklessly into waters, air, ground, our home’s core. Festivals or the usual humdrum of life, the same chars and corroding in alleys of all. My eyes pinch, skin scalds, the coughing, scratching in my throat and my heartbeats pounding in my ear when all is silent. Its dark outside and inside as we roam in circles of asphyxiation. Pulling, jostling, pushing. “Where are you, mama?” I hear my son’s reassuring voice shaking me from my reverie to the sights of huge sparkles bursting in myriad colors and designs above the Washington monument. Contained, glorious, royal and safe. I believe. As I try to comfort myself, images of tiny children’s hands blistered in smoky, closed, sweat shops appear in the residue of the firecrackers. I bask in the knowledge of citizenship achieved and past discarded as I take in the ethereal reflections of fire bursts in the Potomac. Past discarded? My roots pulled and thrown askance? I still carry. I still carry. I still carry the smells, the sights, the memories. I still celebrate. I still celebrate. I still celebrate the festivals of past lives added on with a smidge of the different. There will be no end to festivities, festivals or roots. It’s intentional elongating. It’s intentional retaining. Intentional remembering. Intentional celebrating. Only Earth needs to be watered, nurtured and saved. Why do we clean our bodies and pollute the body of Earth? Why do our personal temples worship human ones if there is disparity, cruelty, hate and violence? Edifices of mortar are layered with shame.

In which climate will you celebrate life and festivals? Fake? Reality? Make believe? Fool’s paradise? Another planet? An artificial bubble? Or on a cleansed Earth, your home, that you chose to set, right?

 Potomac: Name of the river that weaves between Washington DC, Virginia and Maryland 

Anita Nahal is a professor, poet, short story writer and children’s writer. She teaches at the University of the District of Columbia, Washington DC. Nahal has two books of poetry, one book of flash fictions and three children’s books to her credit, besides an edited poetry anthology. Her writings have appeared in journals in the US, UK, Asia and Australia. Nahal is the daughter of novelist Chaman Nahal and educationist Sudarshna Nahal. More on her at: https://anitanahal.wixsite.com/anitanahal

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