Three Poems

Barnali Ray Shukla

Pluto’s Kitchen

It's not like they call him Pluto
for nothing, he ran cold in his
orbit of doubt
with bouts of nerves
as he cooked meals for a village
that laughed at him
for all that he served
on their plate

Pluto is nine
eight cousins to feed
stuck to recipes that stayed
when his momma left town

He learnt to sail a little
fail a little, smile a little more
every morning
he stoked the fire
Pluto prayed
It was time again
To wok the talk
‘Lovable, if edible,’ the village said.

The sea bellowed afar…

The wok was tense
with tempering
crackling, hasty,
confessed to a
Pluto running cold
‘That’s not my kettle of fish’

The sea began to murmur…

Pluto spoke to the voices
in his head, slayed them
with oil, hot with joys
of the batter, in a chatter
of fume as blossoms of
vadais spoke well of the
lentils soaked in time,
ground, battered, skimmed
through oil, deep fried, tender.

Soon the sea came in walking…

He heard nothing, missed the walls
of water that tore the coast, swore
at large, wore moss and kelp.

Pluto stayed lost in the crisp gold
he mined, the vadais piping hot,
waiting to be loved.

The sea sneaked in, hungry
It missed his vadais
The sea went for the village
A village on a platter

                                      for the tsunami.

 ‘Lovable, if edible,’ they’d said.

— —

Jomon has nine lives

Jomon asked questions
unpacked ideas, left them
fallow for someone to come
grow a beanstalk

He was friends with cats
mostly black that were lost
to ideas that they luck you out
he cared a dime for loose talk

Jomon spoke in Braille with the
tabby, didn’t see colour of
his furry lady, she now carried
kittens in her waters,
knew no lord no master,
she knew food, shelter and
wanderings…few with her
tabby, few on her own
and one with Jomon

Jomon played cards
with storms, for tides
to change,
in times to come
and they did…
that Sunday morning
after Christmas

He didn’t know he
had aces, till the sea
gulped him,
wore him in its belly,                                                                               
threw him ashore
with a winning hand
of spades and hearts
no clubs or diamonds

Jomon was last seen
living in a coffin by
a beanstalk
doing small talk,
with kittens and cats
so black, they remained
a secret
in their new home

Coffins don’t mean an end
some are beginnings
gift wrapped
held close to a chest
of treasure, like Jomon.

— —

Still searching

Her mother ran her fingers over pages
moist with breath of mothers and fathers
who poured their hearts
over miles of names
sundried by the shore,
still searching…

Momma Paro looks for her Mira
not on pages written in salt
but on sand
looking for a sign
of her child Mira
for a peacock feather tattoo on her calf.

Mira had stolen a bike, broken rules
gathered her pieces of shame, held her young belly
proud of the little one in her

Mira was almost a mother
and now missing
Not missing, says Paro,
just hiding to see the sea
on her own
her naked belly
swollen with water,
In her, around her, within
and without her…

Mira was last swimming
against the tide, says Paro.
She wants Mira home,
at home with her belly
and tattoo, black nails and
tell tales of how
a mother was born out of her baby.