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New Poetry, Fiction, Essays

5 poems from Akshaya Pawaskar 

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Akshaya Pawaskar is a doctor practicing in India and poetry is
her passion. Her poems have been published in Tipton Poetry journal, Writer’s Ezine, Efiction India, Ink drift, The blue 
nib, Her heart poetry, Awake in the world anthology by Riverfeet press and few anthologies by lost tower publications. She had been chosen as ‘Poet of the week’ on Poetry superhighway and featured writer in Wordweavers poetry contesther passion. Her poems have been published in Tipton Poetry journal, Writer’s Ezine, Efiction India, Ink drift, The blue nib, Her heart poetry, Awake in the world anthology by Riverfeet press and few anthologies by lost tower publications. She had been chosen as ‘Poet of the week’ on Poetry superhighway and featured writer in Wordweavers poetry contest

 

 

Fitzgerald era

 

Welcome to the Fitzgerald’s kingdom
Burnt not faded, Glistering
Yet sadly jaded.

The Princeton slicker and Sayre, first
Flapper, golden mind and
Silver hands.

All the jazz age, we aped, they lived it
ending in decadence or paved
a way for it.

All the beauty masquerade of insanity
Until there was no difference
In the two.

And all Amalthean grey cells drowned
Themselves in liquor, got tight
And Alexithymic.

All Zeldas and Scotts of the world build
and destroy the other, bloom
and Implode.

All rhetorical questions and all platitude
Of replies, dulls not the glory
Of the Fitzgeralds
Don’t we know?

 

Mother is the midwife

 

I give birth to myself
In the midst of pains
excruciating, as water
Breaks like a dam has
yielded, flooding liquor.

In a crimson mess I lie
with a noose around
My neck cyanosing me
To Blue God like color
I cut it and gasp, breath.

I look at my own navel
On the belly of my child.
I Severe the cord letting
the soul free. Its lucidity
inked in black and white.

My fingers are midwives.
As they hold me between
them. Lanugo hair, soft.
It’s just as should be, pure
poetry as finally I am born.

 

 

Dreamcatcher caught

 

You hung like a dreamcatcher
looming over my body
And my dreams got
Cobwebbed in the net you
Weaved.

A spider, you hung from your
eight legs Spread eagled
And watched me twist
and turn and purloined
My dreams.

Ojibwe people said she was
A lady, protectoress
you twisted it, always
Have your way, hexed
me to silence.

My dreamcatcher stole me
and left a Ghost of my
Soul to grunt when hoop
turned into noose and
Noose into you.

Now I hang these willow

Hoops over my dear one’s

Head yet warn them of

Unfiltered demons

That lie in their bed.

 

 

 

Hearsay

 

She is a nasty rumor,
a starling.
Too chirpy for her own
welfare.
She has webbed limbs
Wingless.
Alighting on to stuffing
hearts.
with fire or flood as
it comes.
She doesn’t lie, merely
conveys.
Never fabricates but
enunciates.
As is from the mouth
of several.
But begotten from
Not a one.
Don’t tarnish her name
Blackened.
As she is just a medium
A séance.
like a game of Chinese
whispers.
Of deviously deformed
Carcinoma.
Look for the wishful cell
irradiate it.
Let her be freed, let her
Be saved.

 

 

Fostered regrets

He carries it in his breast pocket
And taps on it to make sure it
Jangles awake.
He burnishes it scraping verdigris
from its oxidised coppery make
Believe touch
He has come to behold it dear to
Caress it, that which encumbers
Like hand cuffs.
He walks with slouched shoulders
A purveyor of Stockholm syndrome
An epitome
It’s a pacemaker which steadies and
Dulls his tachycardia and keeps him
Grounded

That’s what he believes, the skinny
Old thing but leaden heavy with
Fostered regrets

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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