Anitha Krishnan writes Indian-inspired fantasy fiction with a dash of mysticism and soul-searching. She lives in Burlington, Ontario with her husband and their cherished child.
poetry
Clouds have a tendency to drift, To change colours and to shape-shift The sky bears mute testimony to their capricious dance The leaves are no less mischievous, How they cloak the world in canopies of green, Only to burn scarlet and gold, shrivel up and drift away, The trees
poetry
I press my ears to the wet ground, and listen to the song of the brown earth, My heart pounds my chest, the exertion of having run far too long Now it slows down, falling into step with the dulcet sounds of the woods Hush, now, I hear the leafless
life, unadulterated
Were it not for man’s invention of dates and time, we may not have had new years or birthdays or new centuries. Or, on the contrary, every day would have been a new year, a new day, a new century, a new cause for celebration. However you choose to
life, unadulterated
:) I have little else to say except that I love the date November 20. It is so special to me. Too bad it comes only once a year! I will write more ... soon ...
poetry
Hasn't it been woefully quiet in these parts of late? Where have the stories disappeared and the poems vanished leaving behind an empty slate? But mischief is brewing quietly simmering just beneath the calm facade Until the time arrives, and we uncover the cauldron then the fireworks will
poetry
Oh, yes, there was a time, not so long ago, when I could recall every crease of your beautiful face with perfect precision its smooth contour defined by your shiny brown skin how it crinkled up into countless folds and lines and I could see the laughter dance in your
poetry
At the sight of you My heart leaps like a splash of raindrop on a roadside puddle Dances like frail flowers tenderly bobbing their pretty heads when the wind whispers sweet nothings in their ears In your presence, I am a maiden twirling around to an invisible melody My billowing
poetry
I look for her in midnight stars, on moonlight beams, In lazy afternoons and blazing twilights, In the melody of singing larks and gurgling streams, In the deep, heavy silence of the mountains I seek her in colourful marbles and seashells by the shore, In the sand castles she once
poetry
I am breaking through the shackles of my limited imagination as you show me the unknown colours of the sky cerulean blue to lapis lazuli but they are not more beautiful than the tender mischief in your eyes until now I was a prisoner of myself but you freed me
poetry
Hey fire-breather, my arm’s length lover I’ve danced around you in ecstasy for a billion years, Never straying too far Nor getting any closer All day long you cast on me your roving eye Come twilight You rob me off all my colours And splash them on
poetry
O flittering butterfly Let your colours bleed on my petals Brush your weightless wings against my cheeks And make me blush crimson and scarlet Bring me stories from other gardens Tales from the fields you cross, Tell me about the fragrant roses you kiss And about the damsels who yearn
poetry
A melody somewhere drifting carelessly towards the setting sun leaving behind her abode in the bow and strings where the violinist had tucked her away, forgotten Where then are the verses, I ask All the stories are yet to be spun for the love, she says, is frozen in the