Of Love Poems

You can’t write a love poem these days, even the poem doesn’t want
it, it wants to be a marching song, an outraged movement, a raving

anthem with bloodstained robes and flesh under its nails, a sunset
that bounces back from the horizon to reclaim its space. We are

inside-out bards, cynicism dripping from our quills, the words to our
sonnets curling their lips in disdain, love somehow staring at itself

from the mirror with an eyebrow raised. We need new words to write
of softness, of walking, even through grit, even through graveyards,

carry our verses like brides in palanquins, like whispers over opened
wounds, like musk deer leaping over rotting carcasses, like saffron

floating in mugs of steaming kahwah, in the distance, the snow
dressed Kashmir mountains cradling the gentlest light, ghazals spilling

down the valleys, we need new words, a new form of poetry, that
smells of apples, moves yellow like the mustard fields, that is not

afraid to be a love song, even when all there is, is an uncomfortable
silence, a threadbare metaphor and a somewhat embarrassed poem.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *