In the city of my dreams

Even here, where I choose loneliness — Une étrangère in the city of my dreams, my hourglass parts its sands for love.

Single Red Rose

In an alternate reality,

I’m brushing my teeth in

Paris;

my coffee black, cooling beside

the pain-au-chocolate fresh

from the boulangerie downstairs

that wafts its vanilla sweetness

up to my little apartment

quotidian-ly.

I’m reading Voltaire and so Candide sits

alongside, pages flapping in the

August breeze

because my poems need

a little punch lately -

I’ve been too happy

to brood,

not in the mood for reflection

(or missing you - who,

in this life, I haven’t met).

I've laid out my outfit on my queen-sized bed,

La Parisienne parfaitement,

wide trousers, olive green,

a turtleneck in shell/cream

striped kitten heels

pearl necklace, taupe tote,

top coat, in case the chill catches my

evening comedown.

Even here, where I choose loneliness

Une étrangère in the city of my dreams,

my hourglass parts its sands

for love.

And love comes, every day,

without fanfare;

joie tranquille -

a cobbled-street-café,

a second glass of chenin blanc, at

a table for one -

a single red rose held in its vase,

bathed in warm candelight,

blooming exquisitely.

My senses, wide open, catapult me out

of my sweet solitary

melancholy.

Longing sings to me in French, and I

understand its every nuance.

Capital-L Love is a promise

for a tomorrow I trust.

(Before you, I still had the cusp).

Strangers in Paris, my

untouched heart and I,

rely

on each other.

The hourglass parts its sands

for our feast

of possibilities.

Sipping wine, under a nearly-full moon,

we bask in this beauty and

write poems

(about you).

How a Forest Is Born

When my heart opens 

its wide eyes

and falls in love with the wondrous 

wounded world,

undisillusioned, somehow,

again and again;

I think of how petals 

open their nectarine mouths 

to swallow raindrops

storm after storm.

I think of how a forest is born 

and spring - 

and that being 

is down to the generous hunger

of earthlings.

If I can see a glimpse

of flowers in me,

even of storms,

I think I could belong

right here in the mud;

blood-sisters with the wild moss,

the albatross 

the sequoia trees, all.

And as I love the earth of this earth,

with every glimmer of light in me,

I could even love

that light,

my light,

that glows;

that grows 

its forest of love,

despite.

Anti-Soft

Living in love and

mistrust

is wrenching.

Dodging curveballs isn’t something

anyone

ever gets good at.

They hit you

and corkscrew

into your soul;

live there like shrapnel

from battles you have to

learn to

forget.

Even your cells know to brace

against probable explosions;

every gift a Trojan Horse that

throws you off-course.

Your face distorts from the force

of hoping,

knowing that the dark part

always

comes back.

Insert your data into a spreadsheet.

Even then, the not-knowing will eat

and leave no crumbs.

No algorithm, no thumb-rules

for fools

who stand in the sun

not seeing its gleam for the

poisoned chalice it is.

I’ve tried to teach you to smell

the malice in the wildflowers

but your DNA rebels,

you well up

with love

at the slightest thing.

Honey-eyed and innocent,

I almost want to save you

from all of it;

make it so the curveballs

dodge you.

But I’ve got an evolution to serve.

So hate me if you want,

but harden you, I must.

You can live in love but

trust

that it all goes

downhill

from there.

The Children Act

The children act

like children.

They gurgle, they giggle, they play.

They cry,

tears of warm dew -

the hot pain of every

micro-hurt

logged into their little hearts,

seemingly lost

to the next giggle.

The children act

like they’re happy -

their childhood a shelter;

its pastel walls lined with plushies,

softening every blow.

Their Lego sets and Disney puzzles

distract them effectively

from the micro data-that doesn’t

align.

What doesn’t align, becomes

murk,

its shadows grotesque.

In the basement of the dollhouse,

cobweb curtains

hide

unnameable things;

their ghosts leave

more tracks

each passing year.

The children act

almost as a kindness to the

lost children that

fumblingly

raise them.

A day comes when the hot pain of

every forgotten hurt

bursts from the ledgers

and roars it’s compound mess,

unsheltered from

the sugarplum lull

of innocence.

And then the children

don’t act anymore.

They simply stare.

Dark mirrors of truth

reflect the lost children

that kept them alive and

killed them.

Monsters, none.

Monsters, all.

---

About the Poet:

Ujwalla Bhandari is a psychotherapist and writer from Delhi, India. She writes as a witness to the myriad self, its wingspan from abyss to moon. She spends her days thinking about all the big little things that sneak under the skin and bloom into feeling. Writing is a part of her process of immersion in trying to understand what it means to be alive. She runs a psychotherapy practice in Delhi, and also supervises and trains therapists. She loves deeply. Poetry is her first language.