Shape of Emptiness

By Chumki Sharma

The lyric gift of Chumki Sharma’s poems in this collection crumples convention with a whimsical soft touch. Her drug works quickly in poem after poem, whether she is summing up the whole universe of single motherhood in “My Little Van Gogh” or letting the coffee cup of no substance disappear into herself as in “Shape of E

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vine Leaves Press
• Release date: Sep 26, 2017
• ISBN: 9781925417609

Chumki Sharma

Chumki Sharma is a poet from Calcutta, India. She is published by various small presses across the world, and has garnered the respect and admiration of fellow poets through her fresh and exciting poetic voice. "In a transient world, words are the only things that stay, and so I use them to write poems of leaving." Connect with Chumki online: Twitter: @onlychumki Instagram: the_high.priestess

Book preview

The Disappearing Act

Chalice on the mantel broke,

the light bulb burnt itself out,

the refrigerator quit,

lilac paint of my walls faded

my favourite jeans frayed.

Nothing lasts.

Not breath.

The heart beats its last one day.

I try to pay attention,

listen keenly to the blood

rushing in my veins,

but my lungs go unnoticed.

In the night sky

the crescent moon

disappears

behind clouds.

The Train Missed Me

Thirst so old, it becomes the air I breathe.

Between a cup of tea and Valium,

I choose the latter,

relish the sweetness of pill after pill

melting in the heat of my mouth.

Hypnotic song of the morphine in my veins.

And rain, after many days of no sunset, rain.

The drops vanish into my barren fields,

vapour hisses from the cracks.

Rain lashes on the window,

sprays on my bed, pillow, face, hair

and all I can smell

is the beginning

of the end.

Reaching the station

just as the last train leaves.

The Undying Visitor

Once again

I sleepwalk this night,

wander into the living room

where the ghost of a lover visits me.

Still boyish, a cape on his

forever youthful shoulders.

I try to remember

If he was my long lost uncle,

my lover, my friend, my son?

He sits on my window ledge,

our fingers build a minaret

and lock warmth inside,

and he tells me-

life lasts forever,

love is forever,

before vanishing into the mist.

But who was he?

who am I?

what worlds have I known

before I knew this one?

The antique wall clock

chimes three,

the darkest hour

before dawn.

I set the time

an hour earlier

and stalk loneliness.

Stranger In