Published May 1st, 2023
by Zakir Aatish Khan
(Raniganj, West Bengal, India)
It cried seeking sun last night.
Ringed about its emerald tip,
the profitable lies of the florist.
The forsaken, the forgotten green pet
dug deeper for orgasm in a language green.
Red is mine, what colour is yours?
A mug of water placed by the vase
consoled in a language utterly wet.
The desk crooned in a language wooden.
Grey is floor's, what colour is yours?
Plants have poetic neurons,
susceptible to the kind of words you say.
Woman next door had a breakdown last night.
Five decade of mundane and household brawls
crept into her nerves.
Obscenities are eggs of patience.
The plant received profane recipes
of her curses in a language bloody.
Black is blood's, what colour is yours?
The cobwebs enmeshed the martyr's corner.
hum jingle of martyrdom in a language woven.
Green is revolt's, what colour is yours?
Exposed to the scorching summer –
Bare chest twigs lay there awaiting remnants
of ancient instincts, ancient skills
to cool down its boiling roots.
The skull of the dead plant can't reminisce its history,
finds it hard to believe
it dreamt in a language passive.
White is dream's.
What colour is yours?
Zakir Aatish Khan, a self taught writer, residing in West Bengal, India, has a decade long experience in visual arts and literature. The prolonged familiarity with their intricacies has led him to choose literature as his prime art form. His fictions have been published in literary journals like Kitaab, The Bombay Reviews, and Muse India.
This poem is included in Poetry World #6, published in the Wax Poetry and Art Library.
Previously published in India Poetry Magazine:
Being a Girl
by Himani Chauhan
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