The Watering Hole: Anirban Roy Choudhury

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Poet, writer, and tattoo artist, Anirban Roy Choudhury is the first feature on The Watering Hole.

 

Before the Blackout

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Everybody is taking a walk

In reverse,

On infinite roads of time.

Houses on the street

are forever quiet

Miffed doors shut,

Their lights have been left on

lest they feel alone.

Children play marbles on the pavement.

The older smoke weed,

On the rock of front doors.

The oldest,

Fly around in wheelchairs

Scattering colors from spinning spokes.

They fly past forgotten windows

Ducking at ropes

That drip water from clothes

left to dry.

They wink at pretty ladies from the past

At a wedding below

The bride in

Patterned dress

Coiled and colored

Hiding the white.

Then the lights go out

All but,

A closing star

From top-left of the sky

And novate the new

Through prisms of shade

in ruby-red.

Some paint the skin,

Trees,shops and bus-stops.

Some like,

Raindrops in white

smudge the edges

and fade in.

Carnival and confetti

Stops.

Marbles won and lost.

Joints abused.

Wheelchairs come crashing down.

Waves on the Wall

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The sea returns

all that it takes

Not mend broken shells

on the shore

buried in sand

with cigarette ends.

She finds them

digging out

a small hole

with fingers dirty

unpainted.

The sea returns

all that it takes

Not mend broken shells

in her bag

buried in the bottom

with candyfloss.

He leaves them

on the beach

candies,shells

and cigarette ends.

Finders, keepers.

Sheltered Shells

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She saw everything.

She saw through everyone of you.

With her eyes searching amongst stars,

countless tales and their female protagonists,

standing tall against the dark sky mute.

How easily she could brace the night

and the dauntless spirit of well voices,

That breathed battered passion

and dreams on her roof.

This is where she lived.

He felt everything.

He fell down the well of reveries.

The moss that grew on the stone walls

were soft on touch, slippery to grasp,

making him drown with pleasure and solitude.

He spoke with bubbles

which lived awhile scared by your contempt

and scorned by the stars above.

He never liked the skies,

that chained the birds in endless flight.

This is why he lived down a well.

As the queen’s army flooded the desert

Raising storms that blinded your eyes

He roared about the noise

from a glass bunker beneath.

She saw the well from afar

tied her paper-horse to the air

and walked up to the well with curious eyes.

She leaned over,

she whispered a wish with a coin in her palms

and dropped it with eyes shut.

The bubbles were lost to ripples born

careless and in conflict

that made clear the colour of his eyes

as they looked up to meet.

Silent conversations collide and conquer

the well and the desert storm.

He would beat on the walls

but could never learn to swim.

So, he dug deeper down

to find a way under the desert-floor

that would lead to the setting sea,

where she would sulk and shine

leaving the paper-horse behind.

He hollowed out

a crafted cavern

in a fortnight and two days.

He found her coin and kept it safe

for when she would come

and drown in a well

and be with him,

sheltered from the rest.

And feet,

lost in the clouded sea

found her way back home

with sea salts and turquoise

in a wine bottle;

while searchlights

of a tangled universe

flashed against the waves

that splashed and roared

with hail and silent shells

over the night beach

that glittered yesterday’s moon

every noisy morning.

The sea that strands its shells

Should not be trusted.

(All rights for poetry and artwork reserved by Anirban Roy Choudhury. Kindly contact the author before reproduction)

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