1) A Theatre of Performances
Covered in red
Muffled voices tremble all around
The broken walls carry the sound of gloom.
Actors of all ages from birth to senescence
Performed The Burial of The Alive,
Live on the ruined Stage.
While the Audience was oceans away…
They saw but they weren’t looking
They heard the heart-rending cries without listening.
A spectacle for the world
When part of the world collapsed.
Hungry eyes feasted on the screens
A wildlife documentary
With predators preying upon their prey.
A blast of terrible red
And whimpers die down.
Madness…madness all around.
Come away! Who’s performing now?
The stage will open once again
And upon it a line of corpses ready to lie down.
All of us actors
Playing the role of the intelligent Animal
When we are,
Intelligent, but, ANIMALS!
All the same.
Apathy abound
Witnessed in faces unaffected
As they face the lens each day.
Poorly formed dialogues
Sprouting out of their mouths.
Words that justify unjustifiable sequences.
Enough of this poorly performed act.
Let the curtain drop.
…
Curtain.
2) Mrs. Sam Smith
Twenty years married
Our lovely Mrs Smith
Had a million and one hobbies
To please Uncle Smith.
From six in the morning
Till the late afternoon
She spent away baking,
Cooking, and cleaning spoons
A constant smile on her face
Dressed in elegant shades of blue.
Mrs Sam Smith’s other hobby
Involved greeting her husband’s guests on cue.
She rotates and revolves
Like a fancy Barbie doll
Wearing heels that might her feet hurt
While looking too clean without a speck of dirt.
Twenty-five years married
Our lovely Mrs Smith
Had a hundred and one hobbies
To please Uncle Smith.
From six in the morning
Till the late afternoon
She looked after her baby
Who grew too old too soon.
The smile had grown shorter
But she was still dressed in elegant blue.
Always by her husband’s side
Carrying a baby when the time was due.
Thirty years married
Our dear Mrs Smith
Her face is marred by wrinkles
Her smile is now a myth.
She wakes up still at six.
Her life hasn’t changed one bit.
Her hobbies are still the same.
But she isn’t physically or otherwise fit.
Forty years have now passed
And with it, our dear Mrs. Smith
People wearing black were vast
All dear friends of Uncle Smith.
Dry eyes all around
With small talk paving the ground
The procession was carried
Without the usual Mrs. Smith’s sound.
The grave read
“Mrs Sam Smith, loving wife and mother of four,
Born …., (Who knows)
Died: too soon”
But alas! Her name? No one knew.
3) The Art’s Tragedy is the Artist’s Success
He can see those dreams painted on a blank canvas
With bright coloured hues jumping up at him from the paper.
The colour white invites a myriad of reds, oranges and blues.
It mingles on its own, the colours rushing to meet each other,
With a mind of their own. He lets them perform their dance,
His hand a bare medium that is now telepathically connected to those paints sitting silently, But not without a voice, on the colour palette.
The freshly washed brush was waiting to be kissed by the yellow sun
And slapped across the blue sky. The arm steadies for a moment,
And the fingers’ firm grasp on the brush loosens without ever letting go
As the hand stands still in space, lost in thoughts of its own.
It suddenly gathers momentum, without warning, racing with time it seemed.
The innocent tools are faced with the wrath of the erratic mind,
As the former love story between them turns into a war.
They inflict violence upon each other, neither being in control of themselves,
The colour palette is now part of forensic evidence,
So is the half-dead brush with its head split apart.
The eyes can barely comprehend the scene before,
As the slender fingers twist in agony, thrashing the brush against the white background.
Red and black stand out predominantly, complementing each other,
Unabashedly, like a tragic end to a beautiful play.
4) Mirror Mirror
Eyes fixed on the floor
A slow, dispirited walk.
What trepidations lie behind the door?
Oh, Mirror, Mirror on the wall.
A crowd of fabricated beauty,
False smiles and hollow hearts.
Some of them are a bit snooty
Fixing themselves before they part.
Like a petri dish under a microscopic lens
They diagnose you with multiple flaws
Promising that you’ll be mend,
Cut, stitch and wait for the applause.
Out one body, into the next
Gazes follow you all the way home.
Mirror, Mirror, Do I look my best?
Strange, but not any more.
5) The grey world of Billy Gray
Joy beckoned at the Gray’s place
When Billy first arrived in 1988
It was Spring and the flowers were in bloom
Roses were red and violets were blue
And Billy Gray’s laughter lit up the room
While Mr. and Mrs. Gray hugged their little boon.
Seasons passed at the Gray’s place
An army of black ants swarmed before the Gate.
Mr. and Mrs. Gray, together, as we first saw
Smiling and full of love, their photo on the wall.
Several winters after
We are back at the Gray’s house
Watching Billy Gray exchange vows.
A few cheer while others scowl
But Billy Gray’s smile still lights up the town.
The arrival of Spring at the Gray’s place
Brought news of sorrow they couldn’t chase away
In Sickness and In Health, as he had promised
So by the bed, he spent most mornings.
Billy Gray, now aged forty-nine
Goes on a walk when the clock strikes five every time
With flattened lips and grim eyes
That does not remember Billy Gray’s smile
In 1988, when he had first arrived,
The flowers were in bloom and the Sun was shining.
*****
Prakriti Lakhera holds an MA in English Literature from GGSIPU, New Delhi. Currently based in Tallinn, Estonia, she serves as an ESL teacher. Passionate about literature and language, Prakriti has recently embarked on pursuing her lifelong dream of becoming a writer.
