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Papa 2.0
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It may start with him walking backwards and sitting
in his rattan chair, a rose sinking into its sepals.
He does not take out a cigarette to turn
it into smoke and scald the coconut ashtray.
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Ready for a new future, he sheds the excess sugar
in his blood, growing into a bigger body,
his chest reappearing, his cheeks softening,
teeth popping back into his gums.
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He can make everyone love him again
by spitting the liquor back into the glass, by forgetting
that other woman, by coming home earlier
and swallowing the swear words he used to throw at us.
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It may continue with him taking up his tools
and building new houses with his own brand of honesty.
He does not need to work for charlatans
who turn him into a robot and exploit his naivety.
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With a football back between his legs,
he gives up on gambling but eats as many dhal puri
as he wants, diving into Flic-en-Flac like a seabird
and bursting skyward like a flying fish every Sunday.
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That’s how I want to bring my Dad back.
It may end with him never getting old, listening to
Elvis non-stop and dyeing his hair with youth;
a father is a father unless he paralyses you with his sting.
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Self-Isolation & Shakespeare
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A nameless day, I see myself leaning
on a Malboro backstage, my green tongue
in love with borrowed smoke. I talk of
dreams; I am the musical Mercutio.
Stickmen on fire queue up for my concerts.
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A blank night, I find myself in seiza
at a shrine, gargling with sweet, warm water.
An Asian Orsino, I chew music;
I am the scarecrow stuffed with red hay,
whose harmonium goes wild and mild.
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A dateless noon I see myself digging
into an oyster; I am Bassanio,
the gambler. I rejoice in the absence
of the sun, trying to lure a mermaid into
the spirited marrow of my drained skeleton.
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I have no regret as my beard falls on
the cracked window sill. On the old table,
fresh newspaper. Covid count. Coldest rain.
To be Romeo, or not to be Romeo?
Back to my boulder, I am the snowman
cheating invisible death, in his blindness.
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Amit Parmessur’s poetry has appeared in over 165 magazines, namely WINK, The Rye Whiskey Review, Night Garden Journal, Hobo Camp Review, Ann Arbor Review and Ethos Literary Journal.
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North of Oxford 