Blind date with a poem: Attempt 1

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Her Studio. © Vaishali Paliwal

How does she get to be the one giving you a book in person, in your air and water, under the roofs you roam back and forth in your mad robes sending me addresses I keep writing to, thinking that one day my cliched metaphors will break the envelope to finally reach your asylum only I can know of,

while I am here in my wretched city of only surface lights writing pages and pages away on how precisely and meticulously I will hand my book to you, placing it in your shapeless hands that have only ever waited for this book with its only one poem I continue to write and erase, with its only one dedication to a writer of snow’s greyest town slowly unknitting my unoriginal dreams every night with her trance.moons



Vaishali Paliwal

This cliched letter hasn’t secured the blind date with her poetry yet. More to dissect and bleed in pen. More to delayer and deconstruct before there is a place for this letter on your desk, dear writer.

I will quote here the first work I had seen that had introduced me to the world of this brilliant writer. There are very few who can combine great writing with brand new worlds humanity needs urgently. We are desperate to select our red of definition and then hold on to it for our dear lives. A brilliant poet shows us possibility beyond the red of definition and find our own red of ‘the airborne’ . Thank you for your extraordinary poetry and artivism, dear Shringi. Keep breaking walls for us who fall weak quite regularly. With love.

“That red, fell in flowers on night-gowns. It lay on hair strands twisted in tight plaits. That red, that threatened to swallow men, died itself stuffed in a cube chamber, shut.

The words were made of metal and lace, interweaved. The metal rusting the corners of the lace. The lace, snatching the stubbornness of metal. Women in long green skirts, were brought to gravel — what am I saying, these were not her words — at all.

Wide eyes, with clipped eyelids, that wouldn’t let it shut. Red eyeballs, turned pale yellow. The red dripped tightly through her body, while words became liquid and fiery mountains melted to rivers.

I love Plath, don’t get me wrong. I just think she looked better as a blonde and a bird. Beige and airborne.” — Shringi Kumari

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