Plaited hair
shiny, dark
adorned with
contrasting
colours of
jasmine and crossandra.
The bangles
jingled coyly
when she stretched
out a hand to grab two
white chickens
from the cage.
The cleaver went up,
then, down.
Rivulets of red
went hiding
into the feathers;
white, dishevelled.
5 comments:
Hmm, interesting! I am yet to see a female butcher, and that too 'beautiful'. The similarity between crossandra and blood on one hand and Jasmine and white feathers on the other - good. I dig your poem. Stark visuals thrown up at the reader's face. How did the jingle of the bangle and the croaking of the chickens rhyme?
stunner of a poem!
the naked unsentimentality of the diction is like the cleaver that goes chop, in one single swing.
powerful.
Balan Sir: Yes, she was beautiful. I saw her while coming back from a friend’s place early morning on last Sunday. Does beauty lie in contrasts and contradictions? I didn’t hear the croaking. The chickens might had seen enough life (or death) to realise that there’s no point in making a fuss over it. They accepted it silently. Thank you.
Venu Chettan: Thank you very much.
clear. perfect. 100 points :)
Sumi: 100 points from someone like you means nothing less than a 1000! :)
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