For Amruta Ghate
Far from people getting nuts,
partying, drinking, throwing up
(why is it called throwing up, when pukes goes down?)
from the honking cars and mazes
made out of vehicles on Bengaluru roads
there was a hospitable place on first floor.
Twenty something people coming up
with themselves and some poems
instantly made like maggi noodles
performing and all bodies receiving
like they were the ultimate gift
hand made like this page I’m writing on.
A girl freshly pressed from Pune
took stage and confessed in an
innocent defence that it was her first.
She focussed a memory saved on mobile
and kissed the words, hands
waving eloquently in expression.
When a poet leaves the stage there is
a body tremor of triumph that of
a canoe boat which had entered the ocean
on a full moon, but now has found a bank
full of people to listen to and
to lock their attention with your stories.
I don’t know of anybody else, but
I noticed the inundated eclectic electric
current passing through your body
evident on your face as you seated back.