Poetry Corner

In honor of April being National Poetry Month, we are excited to share a few poems written by Megha Sood and Aarohi Talati

Heritage Ask a child, ask a butterfly Poems by Megha Sood Those shriveled wrinkled fingers passing on that family album with a fleeting touch has passed on the generations under our feet Those quivering shaking voices singing the lullaby at night and the sparkling stories jumped hoops from generations, is scattering the wisdom worth eons in mere minutes Those bony taloned hands singing and crocheting the praises of the holy ancestors is bringing back live the drawing etched in the old forgotten caves Every small step counts. Every small gesture matters. Kindness comes in all forms. Accept and embrace it when you see it. Pass it forward. It is like the flowing river, shaping and changing the lives of those who come along its way. Keep flowing and Keep growing. Life never stops from growing nor from making mistakes. You stop and stagnate like the ditch of stinking water. Flow like a waterfall. A beautiful sight in its glory. Life is movement. Change is a necessary transformation. Ask a child, ask a butterfly. About Megha Sood

Those bay leaf cinnamon-laced fingers doused and soaked turning the wrapped yellow broken paper of centuries-old recipes is keeping the taste alive in the dying taste buds

That wisdom in the scriptures spanning the gates of times Our heritage, Our roots, Our road to salvation. Megha Sood is a two time State-level winner of the NJ Poetry Contest 2018/2019, a national level poetry finalist in Poetry Matters Prize 2019, Honorable mention in Pangolin Poetry Prize 2019, and Finalist in Adelaide Literary Award 2019. She is a contributing member at Free Verse Revolution, Whisper and the Roar and Poetry editor at Ariel Chart and Mookychick. Sood has over 350 works in journals and featured in 35 print anthologies by the US, UK, Australian, and Canadian Press.

Dance of L etters and Music of Words

The elegant script of calligraphy on yellowed paper, marred only by the spots of tears that had once been. The curves in every letter, distorted through the glass, a plea for help, an attempt at survival. Apart, the letters were beautiful, but together, dangerous. The loops of black ink played a dance with each other, twisting and interlocking, moving gracefully. Yet there was no mistaking the music that played, of darkness and depression and loneliness. The loneliness of a man, who had sent out a message, a note in a bottle, in hope of rescue. The loneliness of a man, stranded at sea, all those he loved dead all those he craved far. The loneliness of a man, who hoped to use his dearest possession to save himself. The loneliness of a man, whose dearest possession was faith, disguised as a piece of paper, a pen, and an empty bottle. This loneliness transcended through worlds, appearing in the music, the music of the words, at which letters danced and black ink cried. The music of the words, at which paper groaned to take the weight of letters both harsh and soft, dancing forever. Yet the sacrifice of the paper and the joy of the letters, the sadness of the ink and the music of the words, did nothing for the lonely man who was long gone when the note in the bottle had found a rescue. The lonely man had gone, cursing the note in the bottle for listening to its music and not to his desperation. When the man was finally found all that remained was a skeleton, clutching another bottle, another pen, and another paper, in the hopes that they could do what the first could not, and stop the music.

an angel cried the light in my life came from the lightning born of the violent storm inside of me. my heartbeat followed the rhythm of the thunder, the waves crashing against my soul. i thought i was free (my hands weren’t tied) but i couldn’t see the chains that weighed down my legs. my eyes were open— yet i was watching the world blind.

galaxies (my krishna) an angel couldn’t endure my pain and she cried for me and as her tears fell on my face i wondered why my own tears had never been this sweet. they were the stardust that i had never known i craved. i’ve felt now, the sun on my lips. it passed them, went onto my soul as the silver and gold flames trickled down my throat i felt the warmth that i thought i always had when i looked up at you i saw stars in your eyes and galaxies through your parted lips as if the entire universe was ingrained into your being. it was then that i made you my world— you were heaven’s and i was yours.

A found poem from City of Heavenly Fire by C assandra C lare

Displayed in deadly fans of gold and steel and silver, the glow of the broken moons. Climbing roses in red and gold and orange; waiting to be consumed by the fire like a medieval saint. Death on death, and blood in the streets. Motorcycles gleaming with chrome and bone and onyx, decked in silver armor.

Infinite sorrow; the last to kneel. A pride that transcended the emptiness of gestures. Heaven’s fire. Kiss of desperation as diaphanous as a sheet of ice; Insubstantial as air. The wishes of our hearts are weapons; staring into the dark heart of a black hole.

Dark in the land under the hill, a tattoo of disbelief. The purr and rumble of the dark; pepper thrown into the heart of a fire. An artist of lies, ready to stab and to betray. Modern Snow White in blood, char, and ice; the last of the embers an orchestra of fire.

Aarohi Talati, 17, is a senior at American Heritage. This fall, she will attend the University of Miami and is planning on majoring in microbiology and immunology to make her way to med school. One of her greatest passions is writing— she writes often in her free time, ranging from short poetry to short stories to chapters out of a novel. Singing and dancing are also both things she enjoys, and she is almost done with both the Bharatnatyam curriculum and Hindustani classical music curriculum. About Aarohi Talati

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