I remember forty rhythms,
twenty four months ago
a verse for each of the departed mornings
there - a tempo of banana cart processions
here - a beat in whitened solitude
I read each one as suggested
the ticktock of typical
once anesthetic
now surged vociferous
How much things have evolved -
For fun, I smile during the many repartees
But they are so meaningless
And with all the miles of earth and rock
sometimes I think I exist nowhere
Except in divaricated light
Reflected from my broken mirror

Forget me – forget me not
Forget me – forget me not

Twenty four months have past
looking in the glass at my One and Only self
the analog clock now discarded.
I hardly remember the exact forty rhythms
but they pulse through me with each respire
And I love their tempo
More than I did
Twenty four months ago

words © 2011 Malai Carrara
image by johanna knauer

All things were elegant and in their place
some things disguised as sweetened lemonade
It didn’t occur to me at the time,
That I could be sipping from the bleak cup of monotony
It didn’t occur to me that I didn’t know
Only that my knees hurt, it was difficult to swallow
and I was exhausted
I only vaguely remember when the warp of cold air touched
and chilled my bones
It was the clamour of sarcasm
slamming together as cymbals
that shook the apathy off my skin
all that I understood was rendered to dust
I was stranded in a fog sardonic wonderment
Little bits of my self, relics bare and bruised
And hungry for truth
a hunger so severe you ache
and yet
Occasionally, someone offers me a sip from the cup
No thanks I say - I’ll pass on that cool-aid

Words © 2011 malai carrara
image © andreeachiru

It was how they awoke,
Their fingers laced in light
recalling how the color of morning
washed through them with absolute truth
It was impossible to trace the beginning
Though it hardly mattered
Everything that happened
Was a thread of slow successive movements
Where gentle vortex of respire
muted harsh outlines once yin yang
Undulating until tightly wrapped in circle
and rhythmed quiescent
It is what we search for all our lives, they thought
And once calm, there is no reason to search for the end

Words © Malai Carrara
Image by yuri pritisk

I always have this dream of being winged
and flying toward the sun, my highest
gently, weightless and serene
I long to feel the ascension
To shake away my apprehension

It was with pained surprise
i thought - What was it
That my pride could be mistaken
For conceit
I overhear that bleat

of disapproval - ringing in my head
spoken shards of glass
Driving me underground
gradually tearing at my skin
wearing me thin

perhaps I'll soar tomorrow
for today I am fatigued

Words © Malai Carrara
Photography copyright © Nausher Banaji
all rights retained by photographer. www.Nausher.com