How To Run Away
slowly pry away every hand that wields
the nails that dig into your skin, crisscross
scratches shaped into dry throats and the
taste of dust glistening through humid, hot,
sickening summer air sinking into your bones
use your fingers, use your words, unravel
the knots that hold your feet in place, that
nail your tired, broken skin to the ground that
has built your body with its dirt; wipe your
fingerprints off every surface you have touched
slit through every string that ties you to these
lives that have to bend and break to make room
for you, smooth and untouched pieces, clean
breaks all over the floor: dust off the empty
promises and send them somewhere better
scrunch up every muddy, murky memory into
your trembling fist – you exist, and they don’t
anymore – keep them safe somewhere in your brain,
for you will need bricks to build a new home
Vagabond
My heartstrings have been knotted
carelessly, messily, tightly, into place
in countless little corners of the world,
tangled in hi(stories), dancing, pulsing,
with the sound of hurried feet on stone
and sand and sleet, racing hearts and
fleets of fluttering eyes ferried through
streets of gold, dust upon dust upon
dust, upon stones that cover little bits
and pieces of the past, buried in the
corners that hide in the shadows but
sometimes glint like taunting eyes in
the yellow glow that covers the sky
on days that colour the air grey, laced
in sweet smoke, as sweat chokes me,
for every change in the weather, every
shift from seamless simplicity is (not
seamlessly) woven into me, there are
jagged bits of me that lay messily
scattered on pavements that couldn’t
know less of me, there are wisps of
air in hidden alleys that know my name,
lost among winds and blizzards that
break through walls and through me;
My heartstrings are rather fragile, they
sometimes tremble, and they crumble
onto me, and I am aching for something
resembling stability; there is much more
that I have left to see
Withdrawal
For Shashwat
You come in waves, warm
fluttering figures dancing off
of silhouettes -- flames licking
memories off of summertime's
skin, you come in shadows, lost
to my eyes but always shivering
at the edges of my tired mind,
like waves that had last kissed
the shore so very long ago but still
carry the scent of its salt in their
curling forms -- you are the fire
at my feet at the end of a day
spent carving blisters into my skin,
you are the soft laughter in the
depths of my pillowcase that holds
me as I sleep, you are the little
corner of memories I keep hidden
and safe and covered in gentle
sighs and the hurried goodbyes
that have coloured every inch of
of our knowing each other -- I could
tell you the colour of your eyes and
the way that they sparkle when they
meet mine and I could tell you of the
way your laughter rings through my
chest even though you're so terribly
far away, but I do not have words, I
do not have any language that could
hold the weight of your existence,
I do not know how to bottle you up
into a poem and pretend that it is
enough: you come in waves, you
always have and always will, and I
will be patiently waiting at the edge
of the sea
Home never felt like spring
strings tied, kites flying in the back of my mind;
colour seeps into my blood and sweat pools
beneath cotton that runs against me like winds
that carried sweet smelling marigolds and
rajnigandha that sang of nighttime, drums beat
and flowers sway in sunlight that soaks me,
head to toe in heat that had alway been uninvited;
my skin is tired, scathing rain and sleet have
scraped the edges off of me, the skies rumble as if
they are coming to swallow me and I
raise my arms waiting
to be taken, but the sun dapples shadows onto
my skin and a forgotten, crumpled thing resembling
illness
bursts out of my chest, cracking like soil,
welcoming blooms and buds and softer, quieter things
than the angry thunder that winter brings;
I know now that
home will only ever feel
like spring
Slice
a mirror lies enough it does not paint me a demon
it does not slice through me like the knives
that live in my throat swallowed along with all of the
fruit I stole from the orchard I wished was mine
germination needs sunlight too I could swallow the
ocean and it would not be enough to grow trees
inside of my lungs
The Myth(?) of Sisyphus
“One must imagine Sisyphus happy.”
- Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus
One must imagine Sisyphus happy,
clockwork crumbles under the weight
of stone and pelting skies and lines that
cease to mean more than a smile that
never formed to begin with, and one
must pretend the tumbling skies are
untraveled roads, unturned stones, un-
known folds within cloth and skin
and stories spun from darkening nights,
sordid sights, unsightly voices that
sink to their knees and pull the strings out
from below your feet – the clouds do not
move in planetary trajectories they do not
curl in the shape of time, feet do not
rush after the turning hands of a clock, they simply
turn and trudge within themselves, you see,
the sky is no great adventure, the earth is no
endless sea, the ocean is waiting to swallow
the last bits of us, and our moments of breath
do not draw any more oxygen than
that which exists within the bellowing of thunder
and the swaying, singing, shifting trees
that dig their roots so very aimlessly, one must
imagine Sisyphus happy, or the voices
may someday win
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“Slice” and other poems © Umang Kalra |
Umang Kalra is an Indian poet and a student of History at Trinity College, Dublin. Her work has appeared in Tn2 Magazine, Coldnoon, The Rising Phoenix Review, Porridge Magazine, VAYAVYA, and others. She has previously worked with Inklette Magazine, and is currently involved in a year long mentorship programme for women of colour in Ireland, under the bilingual poet 
Chris Murray 