PAPER DREAMS

Poems written as part of the National Poetry Month Challenge 2024.

A Map Of The Heart

I traced the shape of my heart.
I traced the arteries and the veins, 
the aorta, and the auricle, 
studied the chambers and the valves.
But they hid their secret 
deep within their red folds.

I put my ears close...
Real close and closed my eyes,
 listening as it raced 
to the tales it told 
with its every booming beat. Yet, 
its secrets it withheld

I sat back defeated.

I reached out and said,
"All I want is to know and feel." 
And suddenly, it told me all.
All of its cherished dreams and hopes, 
its deep anguish and secret fears, 
and its resilient joy, and above all, 
above all...
it told me about its sacred loves.

It told me, that life is a forgetting, 
and death is a remembrance.
It told me, there is a before and 
an after, and all of it is in the now.
It told me, that forever exists, and 
love is all there is. But for now, 
but for now...
it is just flesh and blood, 
and a heartbeat
holding on to some hope.

Mundane

That irksome pigeon that makes a daily
gift of guano 
on my clean railing, 
soaring on an updraft.

A simple day of sitting in the balcony 
with a desert rose bush
laden with blooms,
sharing gossip over chai with a friend 
while watching the sun head west. 
and later still, sitting in silence 
with traffic's white noise for company.

Signs of life ticking...
in the dirty dishes in the sink after a 
hearty meal.
Making peace with forever crumpled sheets,
Sun-faded curtains and crumbs tucked
into the sofa's crease.

Three yellow cars parked in a row.
Getting a haircut that makes me feel like me.
Watching a play that surprises me 
by the depths to which it moves me.

Looking for and finding connections 
beyond the human.
Am I only one who gets excited by a tree?
Make believing that the stars 
have come out just for me.
Reading something gentle, 
writing something true.

I love how the mundane is the sublime.

Roots

Sometimes I am very confused 
about the direction of things.
Branches branching out, 
roots digging in.
I seem to be more roots than branches.
I have spent a lifetime 
digging in.
Digging my heels in, 
digging myself into a corner, 
digging a hole to hide in.
I maybe on to something though.
When the storm came, 
as storms always do, 
all that digging in held.
My roots held.

Poetry

the soft laughter
that wafts on the breeze, 
a half-remembered tune
that you hum under your breath, 
the goosebumps
the spirits leave on your skin, 
the ephemeral sacredness
that can alight on you for a moment 
before it too is gone, 
love, joy, grief, 
rage, hate, pathetic devotion, 
worship, adoration, stars, 
flowers, death, rivers, 
life, cats, crickets and glory.

A Room Of One’s Own

A lonely, winding path 
through tall mountain trees 
the fog a not-so-distant dream 
as the sunlight trickles in, 
warming patches, even as the moss 
in the shadows reigns supreme.
The sound of crunching leaves 
as I make my way through a lattice 
of light and dark; spinning ideas – 
tall, shy and fantastic.
I seek a nook under just the right tree; 
someplace where I can dig in
and grow roots. Lean back into the bark 
and feel the rough comfort of the oak.
I pull out my journal and pen 
and then lean back and, well... daydream.
My favourite room has no walls.

• Binu Sivan