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Last night's slumber
Clinging at corners of my eyes
The heaviness revealing
In the fullness of my lips
-
February 27, 2016
Thank you Facebook memories!

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 oh sunny days have set in....
sunrays through the window

i watch them curiosly

i know if i go out

the scorch will get my forehead

and i might look above

the yellow source of this all...

the yellow of light

of creation

of existence

oh yellow...

i might just get lost in u...

-

February 26, 2012 

Thank you Facebook memories!

An Archetypical Burst

So much thinking, so much time away, away from writing. Thinking about writing, how I want to put it out. Thinking about writing ideas. 

And lately, "You haven't written anything in a while, Chandni." 

"Well, it makes sense, with so much practicality taking over? Haven't you been enjoying it?"

It did make sense, and I respected it. Until today. Till sometime back. A flutter in my chest. Two Bumble chats that I enjoyed. Two people. Why does it rekindle me this way? Why do I feel poetic? Existence is a mystery, components of it are, components of me are. 

A visual if I wanted to give it one: citrusy! Tiny, sparsely collected, drops of citrus on the tongue. The olfactory landscape bursts too, you see. And the tactile? Awakened. Look at the awakened tongue! A beginning of a movement. A movement into dance. Look at its feminine twirls! :)

"Did you break your hiding, Chandni? Did you give yourself up, for a moment, here?!"

"Well, let them find me."

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The moon slipped from her forehead
Slid down her hair

The sun jumped in from the window

And into her eyes

He waltzed in them

Left and right he swam

Until she had to open them

"Good morning sweet," he said

The world was a wonderous burst of warm, cream, white

Cradling a zest

Zesty like citrusy oranges

Of excitement to come and a to-do list

She smiled back sweetly and hugged the new day

-

Feb 12, 2017

(Thank you, Facebook Memories!)

नाही

काळोख असा वाकुन पडलाय

रात्र चिंब-चिंब रडत आहे

मी नाही उचलणार तुला

बिलगू देणार नाही

माझा पान्हा मी साठवत आहे

तुझ्या संगोपणाला नाहीये 

तुझ्या फाटक्या कंठानी 

रडत बस

मी पाऊल टाकलाय बाहेर

या क्षितिजातुन

दिवस कसा अनेकरंगी येतोय

मोरपिसासारखा 

कुरवाळतोय, ओठांना माझ्या

हे असे मला गुदगुल्या होतात

विसरले होते 

-

चांदणी गिरिजा

ऑक्टोबर ६, २३

छायाचित्र: अंजना सी.

I Miss the Sea

Saudade. That is what I am feeling now. A terrible yearning for the sea. The touch of soft sand. The breeze tousling my hair. The sounds! Oh! The sound of waves. Rhythmic, tumultuous, rebellious, calm. How meditative! All of this, and the horizon. I could stare and stare and stare and stare. Ha. So pleasurable! 
It's a misnomer, a transferred epithet. It is the beach that I miss, not the sea. Oh, what an ache it is!
Take me to the shore. Take me home! 

അഗ്നിനോട്ടം

തീയിലേക്ക് നോക്കാൻ നീ 

പേടിക്കരുത് 

നിന്റെ തീ നിന്റെ സത്യമാണ് 

തീ തുപ്പാതിരുന്നാൽ മതി  

തീ വിഴുങ്ങാതിരുന്നാൽ മതി 

തീയിലേക്കു നോക്കിനില്കുമ്പോൾ 

നിന്റെ കണ്ണുകള്ക്ക് 

വല്ലാത്ത ഭംഗിയാണ് 

നിന്റെ സ്ത്രീത്ത്വത്തിനു 

അലങ്കാരമാണ് 

അഗ്നിനോട്ടം

-

ചാന്ദ്നി ഗിരിജ

Eve's Apples

The raindrops on our naked arms

Are raucous

We are lost in the bustling

Cacophony of this city

We are two wild animals

Walking in civilised clothes

Only our raincoats are honest,

Transparent 

Our loves are impure

Our motivations muddled

We have banished sensibility

To a humble hut in the Andamans 

Our arms brush 

As we are pushed closer

By this stifling crowd of desires

We aren't good for each other's health

And yet all we want to do

Is eat each other

-

Chandni Girija

പ്രണയം

പ്രണയം വികാരമല്ല 

സ്രോതസ്സാണ് 

ജീവസ്രോതസ്സ് 

എന്റെ ചുണ്ടകളിൽ 

നാണിച്ചു വീഴുന്ന മഴതുള്ളികളെ 

ഞാൻ തിരിച്ചു ചുംബിക്കുമ്പോൾ 

എന്റെ ആയുസ്സ് 

ആ ദിവസത്തെ എന്റെ ആയുസ്സ് 

അവിടെ കൂടുകയാണ് 

-

ചാന്ദിനി ഗിരിജ 

ജൂൺ 12, 2023 

White

I put my hand out
For some fresh air
Oh!

I have been kissed!

Tuft of soft silky white

Hair held by a seed

Oh!

Whoever thought

I did not but

I witness now

Seeds 

Seeds can fly!

Coming all this way

From miles and miles

Stopping here

To give me a kiss

Such an abundance 

Abundance of spirit

This home tree is

No, no, no, no

I am not letting

You get away

I believe now 

I deserve kisses

I will preserve now

Each and every kiss

Each and every kiss

I will plant this kiss

I will plant this seed

In my orchard

I will fashion now

A hair clip of the

Silken tuft

Such beauty, see?

Such, such, such 

Beauty, see?

It will go infinitely 

Well with my grey

And white

Grey and white

My grey and white

Peppery peppery hair

-

Chandni Girija 

On prompt, as a palinode to this poem. 

 

Day 30 of 30 | 30 Poems in 30 Days | Global Poetry Writing Month #napowrimo

Maan-ga Maan-ga

1. 

Maan-ga Maan-ga is notorious 

The most sensuous of fruits

Succulent and sweet

Tell me

Tell me if you aren't ravenous

For some mango flesh, what

What are you?

A dried up morose

Moribundity?

2.

All that mango said was

"Excuse me"

And this uncouth gent went

And squeezed it

Have you lost your rubric 

Your sense of space

Respect for a fruit life? 

3.

Madam activist lady

What I did was 

My interpretation

Of the presentation

And some gestation 

In-between

Didn't you begin with

Sensuousness of fruit

And in paragraph two 

You changed like a 

Personality split into two

Take this fruit basket

Go sell twelve mangoes

For now don't throw 

Your popply fruit rights at me

-

Chandni Girija

Day 29 of 30 | 30 Poems in 30 Days | National Poetry Writing Month #napowrimo

I attempted Maureen's prompt to write a two-part poem that focuses on a food or type of meal giving it at least one line of spoken dialogue and at some point describe it as if it were a specific kind of person. This poem ended up having three parts. 

*Maanga is mango. It is pronounced this way in South India. There is no letter in the English alphabet for the actual pronunciation of this 'ga.' 

Image by PDPics from Pixabay 

A Turmeric Secret

It sleeps in the morning's bosom

A turmeric secret

The dead rat has been dried 

By yesterday's sun

Today it has turned to a papad

The hungry dog sniffs at it hopefully 

The morning joggers balk 

The school traffic begins to assemble

Night is now a small dot 

On this street

The morning clutches 

The front end of its sari

And tucks it in the waist

The morning is such a boisterous lady

She sweeps away the remaining specks

Of the howling night

The weakly protesting night

-

Chandni Girija 

Day 28 of 30 | 30 Poems in 30 Days | Global/National Poetry Writing Month #napowrimo

Why do I Write?

Why so many colours

Bursting, mixing, shading

Why so many colours

Why these tunes

Why the rhythms 

Why add the music 

Why animate the words

I think I want to paint

I think I want to sing

I think I want to dance

And all I do is write

All I can do is write 

All I can do through writing

All I can do through just writing 

Little rivers inside me

All they want is to flow

Painting rivers

Song rivers

Dance rivers

They dam against my inanimate hands

My inanimate voice 

All I do is type

All I can do is type 

Bore little holes on the dams

Channel the struggling water

Temper the flow

All the water wants is to flow

The water 

The water must flow

Must, must flow

The water must flow

-

Chandni Girija

Day 27 of 30 | 30 Poems in 30 Days | National Poetry Writing Months #napowrimo

I have been asking myself why my poem posts on some mediums are in a certain way. Lately, they have been ending up on YouTube. This is a meta piece on that line of enquiry. However, the biography of the why is still incomplete, I suspect. 

This would have been a fitting last day poem. It came out today though. 🙂 This is one of those poems that requires recitation; not so much of a cerebral one. But then, again, I am trying to sing 🙂

Chandanapottu

He hides today

Clouds, clouds are his bastion

I catch him

In glimpses and slivers

He knows I do

Today he let

A drop slip

A drop I caught 

In my palm 

A clear drop with a silver sheen  

Is it a tear drop?

Or is it his blood?

How do I ask?

Such questions are not polite

And our distance is not malleable 

I mix coarse chandanam in it

I apply the paste on my forehead

In his shape 

This is how 

I go to work today 

- 

Chandni Girija 

Chandanam is sandalwood. Chandanapottu is the bindi ... 

Day 26 of 30 | 30 Poems in 30 Days | National Poetry Writing Month #napowrimo

त्रेथा

I am the disco floor

As I am opening the door

Round colored lights in my eyes

A dominant rhythm everywhere

In my ear drums

Center of my chest 

My toes

My whole being in angling

Only for your presence

The peephole is not needed

My body has already told me

All left for you, my sweet

Is to enter

And yet 

This moment seems to stretch

Into several years

Why? 

Do you hear my breathless whisper?

Why, why, why ... 

-

Chandni Girija 

Day 25 of 30 | 30 Peoms in 30 Days | National Poetry Writing Month #napowrimo

Yawn

I am whisking this coffee,
In this this white cup, whisk

Whisking, whisking, whisk

Something is happening to 

It, its colour is changing, its

Form is changing, a smell is

Waft, waft, wafting, if I pour

Water in this, this, this, will

It become night-coloured? 

No, it becomes the dusk, and

I gulp it, gulp not sip, I gulp

This coffee-smelling sweet

Honeyed dusk, will, will, will

I wake now, will I blitz kreig,

What the word, yeah, carved 

Dime, no, will, will, will I 

I carpe diem, well, I do not, I

Still sit a pile of brood, steam

Wafting from me, upwardssss

Words up, pup, up, up weirdz

Upwardz

zzzzz

-

Chandni Girija 

Day 24 of 30 | 30 Poems in 30 Days | National Poetry Writing Month #napowrimo 

Hunger Notes

1

Hunger pattering 

inside their bellies 

To say you are hungry 

is an embarrassment 

It is more honourable

to sleep hungry 

Than to have a full meal

at the langaar 

2

I did not wish 

upon this discovery 

To know these sides

of you unknown hitherto 

That you could be mean 

so uncouth so scheming

The full wide spectrum  

of your personality 

I did not want to know

my ability to hate 

My capacity of hate

my range of hate 

3

I did not forget

everyday the gully dog 

If nothing I spared 

a morsel for the bony thing

After everything I did

that day I gave it one meal

Its wagging greeting 

was my redemption 

A comma, a sparse checkbox

of my humanity 

4

The rains arrived 

as the flood of dead bodies

He got a job

at the cremation ground

They began eating

three square meals 

As dead flesh burnt

urgently in mass pyres

They could afford now

fowl in their food

-

Chandni Girija

I have responded to Maureen's prompt of writing a poem with numbered sections. Each section, while individual, should attempt to talk to the other sections, like a different person picking up each new verse in a continuous song. Maureen also suggested the poem be set in a specific place that I used to spend a lot of time in, but don't do so anymore. Well, this poem is situated in and around the cremation grounds. I haven't visited this place a lot. But my head was a lot in this place as thousands of Indians were cremated during the pandemic. Why would I visit it anymore? Until recently, well no, I won't relive that horror again. 

Thank you Maureen, for pointing me towards Arvind Krishna Mehrotra. I enjoyed his 'Lockdown Garden.' Also, what a shame I didn't know about him! It speaks about my very limited reading, and, perhaps, the cultural obscurity? We should keep these accomplished poets and artists, from our part of the world, alive in discussion!! 

Day 23 of 30 | 30 Poems in 30 Days | National Poetry Writing Month #napowrimo 

Eye-ly Water

This is a serious matter 
The stone has bitten the tooth
After walking this long, long noon
The face has tanned the sun 
After this long, long day
The night has skidded over the old lady
Looking at that lonely, lonely dog
The moon has barked irritatedly 
Why are you uttering such sophisticated Marathi
Sleep has tugged at the eyelids 

-
Chandni Girija

This is a translation of the Day Seven Marathi poem, Dolas Pani. One of the #NaPoWriMo participants, Paula, had asked for the text of the poem (as I had posted it as an image with artwork). Paula, apart from posting her own work, engages with that of others on the #NaPoWriMo community. She puts energy into others. May her beauty stay protected and inspire others. This is my way of thanking her. It is due to people like Paula, who give support to other artists, that art thrives. I try to do my bit, a little bit.

*The adjective of 'eyes' is not working in English; it's not present in Marathi too but the word 'dolas' is an invention [by me]. I have sometimes twisted and played with terms this way. 'Dolas Pani' - I had uttered this for the first [and probably the only time] in front of a friend. I really liked the term and wanted to document it in some way. And it happened, more than a decade later, as the title of this poem!!

Flower-head

I know you read like gulmohars
Like little gulmohars as they fall from the sky
You comprehend in reds, yellows and oranges
What perhaps are only white jasmines
Or only black roses 

No one congratulated your sprightliness 

They are in fact wearied by it

They know you will burn too much

And too fast 

Oh

But oh

You will leave such a fragrance

Of intermingled red, yellow and orange

Jasmines and roses

When they come to your funeral 

They will hide their involuntary sniffing

In sighing and nodding 

When they will sit in the rows of chairs

They will all be antsy lines 

Of black and white

-

Chandni Girija 

Day 22 of 30 | 30 Poems in 30 Days | National Poetry Writing Month #napowrimo 

Malleable

Wooden benches do learn

The shape of your warmth

I know one that did, one I met

In a summer's little park, a man

Who would wait for his beloved

She had his heart, and every day

She gave it to him, and took it back

As she flew away, whether he came

For his heart or his beloved is fuzzy

Around the borders, but I know they 

Met like twines in a cello or twigs

In a fire, their sparks spitting out

Touching others, catching them in

Surprise, wonder and jealousy, I was

One of these, until the day she did 

Not return and his longing wailed

Silently everyday in the park, it was

An undesirable thing, this misery 

That clung to every passer-by's 

Nostrils until one day he stopped

Coming, someone told me he was

Buried without a heart, I was glad

In a way, and that evening I went

To the park bench with glee and

Popped my bum on it with great

Ceremony, I was uncomfortable as

I could ever be, I never knew that 

A park bench could be so woody

Everyday I would curse it, the park

Bench that snobbed me, until today 

When I realised it had been silently

Malleable for their love, and now 

That their love had gone, the bench

Was stuck in this lovelessness

-

 Chandni Girija

Day 21 of 30 | 30 Poems in 30 Days | National Poetry Writing Month #napowrimo

Photo by Robin McPherson