Two Poems by Akhil Katyal

23 Mar 2013

You


You push the bag under your seat,
sidle back, make space for more,
‘This is the Piccadilly line service
to Heathrow terminal 4,’ you see
attics pass by and vacant lots of
the city you are leaving make their
graffiti as if to say – a year later,
it is only yesterday, a year later,
it is only yesterday. And you think,
if you were given one more question
for her, you would ask, how long does
this year of separation last, how long
does it take for a shadow to fall
between what we love an’ what we
fear; you are near, the tube halts, you
take a long step out so as not to miss
the ground beneath your feet, how bad
a joke departure is, to leave everyone
you meet. You board your plane, take
your seat again, an’ by way of love, the
city tilts when you see it last, it begins to
melt as the plane turns around, you sigh,
for love, a bit like the seat-belt you tie,
guards you but always holds you down.


For the first few days


‘since I know you’ll be coming down the road;
since I’ve put away dinner ’til that time;
since there is grass under ground, waiting to grow.’
- Kyla Pasha


For the first few days, everything
here had a thin film over it, as if
I saw them from the eyes of years
before, that film is almost shed now
and there is no distance any more
between me and this gamble that
is now laid down, between me and
the places here where I am now
hesitantly putting this hope – let me
cope, after all, how tough can it be,
there was love and now the next thing
will be that which comes after it,
a kind of (I find) modesty, an aftertaste,
a willingness but without the haste
and a new sort of ability to know
before it comes, that trough and
that crest, to know when it is time
to go, and to know the time to rest.


Photo credit: visualpanic via Creative Commons

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