Poetry / September 2010 (Issue 12)


by Astha Gupta

It fell like fog, blue,
It fell like stupor, black,
Obscuring everything on its way
Clarifying and confusing
all at the same time

She clutched his waist
with one needy hand and poised
the umbrella in the generous other
it danced over his head, swaying
with the gutsy wind and with water balls
bouncing off it, drenching her pink

Like grains of rice
Basmati, that too,
not ordinary ones
the rain drew patterns
in front of the light post, shining
bright against its orange

Above it the purple sky
mates with the white thunder
and another pattern is born
in the cradle of night
that dashes across the mist
to meet its own lover

Underneath, he stood
Looking up at the glow
As if trying to decode the patterns
of the rice and the lightening
As if in the colors of the world
lay the answers to his unsolved riddles

Read Astha Gupta's commentary on "Rain" here.

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