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Night Walk and other poems by Vidya Hariharan


Vidya Hariharan

Night Walk


They must have been beautiful

At one time in the past,

These women who sold love

At street corners, by the bucketful.

The gutter rat scurried out of range,

Of the red spittle flying

From the gawping mouth

Of the scurrilous paramour.

Taxis slowed to a crawl, canvas

The night spots, on the oval moon

Face of the glittering crowd,

Jockeying for the best position.

Upside down push carts

Rest against the pygmy walls

Of green-painted, garish caves,

With stunted trees for company.

Chains of fairy lights, dark patches

In the centre, call those passing by,

Rest a while here, enjoy, eat, drink,

Talk, share, lie down, they seem to say.

Furry-eyed men, lean and mean,

Pretend to turn away, rising smoke,

Hiding their expression, they watch,

The gullible are always fat.



The Missing


Hearing your voice in my dreams,

I turn to snuggle close,

The missing warmth of your body,

Comforts me not at all.

I tremble in my sleep,

Feet pedalling to catch up,

With the just heard step,

On the stairwell ahead.

My eyelids flutter up and down,

Searching your form in my dream.

Waking up is a nightmare,

Dreams of you are my only solace.



Sand in my Shoe


Chop me into pieces,

Gut me like a chicken,

Assess my every move

With lust-filled eyes,

Lips plumped up

For the imagined kiss,

Lean into me

With your hand on my breast,

Stand between my thighs

With your breath on my neck,

Squint at the jiggle

My buttocks make

As I walk or run

For the bus or train

Running late to work

After childcare,

Call me names,

Wet my dress,

Place a mirror

Beneath my feet,

Sing Bollywood songs

Near my ear.


Then visit the temples

Seeking the blessings

Of every Goddess.

Not giving a thought

To the living spirit

Who walks in your midst

With sand in their shoes.


 

About the Poet:


Vidya Hariharan is an enthusiastic traveller, coffee guzzler, and manic reader. In her spare time, she wrestles with crossword puzzles and has won prizes for them. The poetry gene jumped two generations, as her great grandfather, P.S. Rama Iyer, was a Malayalam poet and author. She lives and works as a lecturer in Mumbai, India.

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