corners of streets don't see
more than beggars and coins
and homeless people's blankets;
children playing hide and seek
lovers waiting patiently or
people walking mindlessly by.

don't be fooled by sounds
of haggling over peas
of chatter at bus stops, footsteps at subways.
don't be fooled by smells
of cigarettes and chai
of rush hour traffic or sunday afternoons.

they don't see hope
or love or people moving on;
they don't see day,
routine or people holding on;
they don't see night
or sleep or people giving up.

in spite of this, i write
- a fool for smells and sounds,
romantic by day
and idiot by night -
about love and hope
and people stuck routinely
in corners.


radhammaloos said...

Every time I feel like I want to say something, I find that you've already said it better.

Niice :) x

Dheeraj said...

You have a romantic eye for the inanimate. As well as a tender sensibility for the namelessness of dailiness.

Have to say I admire that.
Poetry is seldom about the words that express it, they can fall in or out of place as whimsically as the weather waltzes on Parnassus, but as long as these traits exist in the poet, those that brought out the words in the first place, it remains poetry.

Big words from a stranger, but if your work's anything to go by, I thought you might just appreciate a stranger's appreciation. Keep writing.

Sita said...

thank you, dheeraj. those really are big words from anyone, stranger or otherwise, but especially humbling from a stranger. i appreciate it. :)

radhoo! hugx