River Twin: Coasting The Unmapped Terrains

By Daya Bhat

Poetry in this collection courses ahead observing life in entirety, like a river, winding back and forth along slopes; gushing down mountains; and making way through valleys. The poems, in long and short forms, explore deeper meanings in mundane sights and sounds, and are not confined to any geographical place. One can connect with the poems due to their universality. The ubiquitous influence in the writing is because the poems tend to veer more towards the core of things than what meets the eye.

• Language: English
• Publisher: One Point Six Technologies Pvt Ltd
• Release date: Jan 27, 2020

Daya Bhat

Daya Bhat has been living in Bangalore, India for twenty-seven years and calls the bustling city her home. She has travelled to places outside India and has invariably returned with a strong sense that human psyche remains unaltered across geographies. She feels, while travelling broadens our horizon, it teaches us to look at our own roots with a fresh perspective and helps us reconnect with them in a new way.Daya enjoys painting and has a tiny collection of artworks created in water and poster colors. Though her formal education is in the fields of Electronics and Computer Science, she connects deeply with creative writing. Poetry is what gives her a sense of completion. She published her first book of poems, ‘A maiden of 29’ with the Writers Workshop, India in 2013. Since her first book she has contributed poetry and short fiction to literary publications in and outside India. ‘River twin’ is her second book of poems.Daya blogs at https://dayabhat.home.blog/. Write to [e-mail] to connect with her.

Book preview

SECTION 1

1

River twin

She, the blue-born

grazes the contours of snow peaks for too long.

The adopted child

the alienated twin

drifts to her foster home

bequeaths her girlhood to the gorges.

The reluctant bride

breaks, collects, courses ahead.

No looking back

like the valley had never been her home.

A little girl, forgotten by the gorges,

an unfinished script of her own cortege,

writes the rest on the backs of dancing waves.

Her stories- blue veins on blue body.

2

Cursed Goddess

She waits for eons

an unfinished verse against the lemony sky.

Like draught hit, the rest of her

spreads thin on the autumn leaves.

She belongs here nor there.

Neither a star nor simply dust.

Her face steals colors from the sky

her braid, the stars.

She waits

a cursed goddess with an empty half.

One foot rests on the seasoned trunk

the other hasn’t found ground yet

on the high peepal branch.

Her sighs moisten the mountains

tears flood the rivers.

She has changed many faces

like the sky changed rainbows.

3

Hegemony

Hyperboles are iced cakes in virtual markets.

Well-manicured monopoly

only hate in fingernails...no blood trails

only the lust for omnipresence in a wart-sized world.

Sell what sells best

names look good in bold italics.

You know the worth of your name.

Here your fingers burn a night lamp

and there a door opens to the wolves.

You have nothing to lose

you never belonged to any of these rooms.

But when you must answer that eye

locked in fear to the rosewood door

look away...walk away.

What free tongue

that cannot simply liberate itself from its own dark

alleys

that has no vision beyond its own leaning.

Leeway of an eclipsed moon

growls of the sorry moorland

strands of silk lost in the ruffian bronze.

You must know

the house you live in is not yours alone.

How many suns more we need to see together.

How many crops of bajra we need to reap together.

Here we are. You and me.

I am pinching my eye for a horseshoe

and you burn the last straw.

Here we are. You and me

one soil

one allegiance.

No crannies

no room for split talk.

Belong

to earn the ground beneath your feet

and then it doesn’t take long to love.

Well

how far stretched can a war be with oneself.

4

Kanakambika

She says destiny engraved it on her palms.

She says she was twelve

yes, twelve

when she submitted her hands to arishina shastra, the

bridal turmeric

her feet to belli kalungura, the silver toe rings.

She says by thirteen she rolled out perfect round rotis

puffed them on high flame

roasted fenugreek seeds and red hot, hand-picked

chillies for the curries

lolled her head to the rhythm of the grinding