Column 24

I love poems that seem to crackle with energy, like this one by Nisha Bhakoo. There’s something in the combination of the domestic scene it describes, the choice of words and the contradictions and self-refutations that gives it such dramatic tension. It’s from Bhakoo’s collection You Found a Beating Heart, published by The Onslaught Press.

Shouting hour

The wind is all verbs
in this shouting hour –
I’m a brown leaf
crunchy in death
(except I’m not dead)
it’s the wooze of the gin
that makes veins, green
in the back of my hand,
a dehydrated
snakes and ladders,
in this shouting hour
(I’m not shouting)
I’m making a summer salad
in autumn
(or is it
winter?)
floating the eggs
like witches.

 

Used with kind permission of Nisha Bhakoo and The Onslaught Press.