Tuesday 1 September 2015

Poetry 2015 Shortlist, Shubhada Pujare


I am not dead.
I am decomposing like
so many corpses and carcasses.
But I feel good.
They taught me in school,
different types of soil,
peat, clay, sandy, silt
and so on...
I do not know which one I am.
The farmers, they put me
into some potion and worms today.
The worms are good.
I am not grossed out by their sticky skin
as I used to be when I was a human.
Another girl came and took a handful of me.
She planted a sapling.
I sway to the winds as a pretty rose,
blooming with fragile petals on a sole branch.
She may give me to her boyfriend
when they meet over brunch.
I hope I make him smile.
And then parts of me are in the farm
down some flourishing region in north.
It rained and they ploughed into me today.
It felt more better and comforting than it had felt
when he entered into me on that fifth date.
Harvest is near and I will soon be reaped.
One grain makes no difference,
in the tons of output that spreads out.
I may fall out when they transport me to cities
or I may end up in someone's hearty meal.
And there are so many million possibilities
that I could tell you.
For all I will tell now is,
I am yet to live so many lives,
and unlike humans I am not going
to figure them out ever.
All it matters is,
I am alive.
And I will live.
Something which I forgot to do,
when I was a human.

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