Nithya Sivashankar is not a poet. She finds most poetry pretentious, including the ones that she has written. She has a soft corner for Shel Silverstein and Sukumar Ray though. She has given up writing poems and is now an Editor at a leading children’s publishing house in Chennai.
A blade of grass,
The sight of the distant oleander.
Translucent fluid green
Muted, smoky incense-laden air.
Filtered memories of Vasant Vihar
The plant, I made my own.
The printing press.
Filtered memories of my Park Town morning.
His pink flesh,
His left foot,
The odd blue.
And my tumbler of chai.