What They Call a Poem by Praniti Gulyani (16, India)

I’m afraid you might have
just twisted your pen in the wrong direction 
causing it to swerve, skid, stop 
and perhaps be laughed and mocked at 

like a reckless driver, who’d skip 
the clarity of roundabouts and speed breakers 
just to feel the wind leaving frosty footprints 
on the flushed warmth of rosy cheeks 

---

like a photographer, who’d ride a surf-board 
into the middle of a frothing sea, and with 
one single hand, he’d grip his camera lens, and with 
the other, he’d sift the clouds, push back the stars
rip open the sky, and let an eclipse 
trickle from the entangled roots of blue 
and as this fiery eclipse would trickle into the waters
he’d pause, and then take a snap 

like an artist, who’d spend hours 
with this knees digging into the mud, and who’d
still emerge with knee-caps of soil
just to sketch that dewdrop, that dewdrop midway 
as it rolls down from the leaf 
nearly touching the soil 

like a bangle seller, who’d sit on 
her haunches, the cracks in her feet 
pouring with sunlight, moonlight and twilight 
and she’d display her fingers, that glinted in the sun 
fingers stained with glitter and glamour 
the colors of her bangles, the spicy shades 
of gossip and conversation, and she’d say 
that she climbs up a ladder, and measures 
the diameter, the radius of the moon and using
these celestial dimension, she makes her bangles 
and calls these bangles divine 

I’m afraid you might have 
just twisted your pen in the wrong direction 
causing it to swerve, skid, stop 
and perhaps be laughed and mocked at 
I’m afraid you might have just written 
what they call a poem 
like a photographer, who’d ride a surf-board 
into the middle of a frothing sea, and with 
one single hand, he’d grip his camera lens, and with 
the other, he’d sift the clouds, push back the stars
rip open the sky, and let an eclipse 
trickle from the entangled roots of blue 
and as this fiery eclipse would trickle into the waters
he’d pause, and then take a snap 

like an artist, who’d spend hours 
with this knees digging into the mud, and who’d
still emerge with knee-caps of soil
just to sketch that dewdrop, that dewdrop midway 
as it rolls down from the leaf 
nearly touching the soil 

like a bangle seller, who’d sit on 
her haunches, the cracks in her feet 
pouring with sunlight, moonlight and twilight 
and she’d display her fingers, that glinted in the sun 
fingers stained with glitter and glamour 
the colors of her bangles, the spicy shades 
of gossip and conversation, and she’d say 
that she climbs up a ladder, and measures 
the diameter, the radius of the moon and using
these celestial dimension, she makes her bangles 
and calls these bangles divine 

I’m afraid you might have 
just twisted your pen in the wrong direction 
causing it to swerve, skid, stop 
and perhaps be laughed and mocked at 
I’m afraid you might have just written 
what they call a poem