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Garvita Singh Poem
"Do not stand by my grave and weep", they said.
Here's something she would have said instead.
"Hey, smile, all of your smiles are beautiful."
Hers was more than that- contagious- magical.
She would have placed some affirmatives,
Lifted up some heads, made a few initiatives.
Would have shaken up something within,
For she preferred happy losses over wins.
She is a loss.
A sudden remorse.
She wasn't a poem you could recite.
She was a precious prose that could ignite.
Her passion could not be contained within lines.
It never knew where to stop, it defied confines.
She could blow up the stage, blow away minds.
With you, within you, she resides.
Nudging you to improvise.
Encouraging you to smile.
She was a sparkling river,
Flowing for many miles.
Rolling for miles,
Oh! Our Nile.
"Farewell to thee! But not farewell!", they said.
Here's what I tell you instead.
Your voice empowered.
Moved even a coward.
You had entered my room,
And the lights had showered.
We would relate,
And resonate.
We lost a guardian too soon.
Realization, I'm afraid, too late.
They say, "Nothing gold can stay."
A night has to pass to bring a new day.
Look! A shimmery gleam of bright light!
Only angels have to depart this way.
Copyright © Garvita Singh | Year Posted 2023
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Details |
Garvita Singh Poem
"Dead leaves lay still until the wind takes them
here and there: even the last flower is withered:
yet there is a beauty in decay. "
-Constance La France
This December night is especially dark.
The shimmery moon disappeared today.
He sits still by the window to wait,
And he knows it’s already too late.
The tiny blossoms are wrapped enclosed.
Their fragrance caged deep inside.
It’s just that gloomy apartment window,
Trying to enhance the dry night.
This wind is heavy.
Laden with evaporated cries.
Tears of pain, tears of laughter,
Tears of joy, tears of lies.
Tick Tock goes the wall clock.
He couldn’t guess what it says.
Let the time come- wait for it.
Or the time has gone- go away.
The leaves rustle in the dreary silence,
Some hissing sounds and the trees sway.
He listens hard for the moon’s voice,
Till the darkness fades away.
Then the bird’s chirping wakes him up.
The breeze feels cold on his tears.
The morning sun makes him squint.
Children’s voices soothe the ears.
He looks around- not alone but lost.
(Another day, He’s alive)
When he has all of it but not really a thing.
The whole of the sky to fly across,
But not the moon to glitter his wings.
(Is he broken in fragments? Each one would crave the moon.
Because it would know how it is to rise and rise and break too soon.)
He doesn’t want to cry; he can’t.
Ocean seems to be dry by the bay.
Look at him carry a charade for the sun,
Wishing the moon knew what he has to say.
The apartment lights no longer light up.
They are tired of glowing the dark night.
He sits by the window of his room.
Must have gotten used to the absence of light.
The December night would again be dark.
That traitor moon will not show up tomorrow again.
He still sits still by the window to wait.
He would still sit still by the window to wait.
Copyright © Garvita Singh | Year Posted 2023
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