By Deepti Mittal
Depression is a Boomerang
They say write about joy
And of faraway ocean where the flowers are red and fragrant
And of peacocks and poetry and picture books and forests verdant
The song inside is more of sadness
Of something beautiful, breaking in a flash light
Or slowly bleeding, oozing crying sores years after
My friend leaving me mid-hug on a sunlit evening in Venice, city of water
Depression is memory that comes back to bite
In the sea waves that come and go
My friend, have you seen shoals of sprat leaping, falling
As we watch, playing on our feet, the water trickling from under our toes?
Depression is voiceless, eyes morose dead, vacant in its many faces
The other day I l painted a smile on, watched poppy fields turned green
While the abyss inside mirrors the one outside in a desolate seascape
Deep down the depression in me, in my body cells, skin and bones
Column-like touches the skies and boomerang-like pirouettes.
Memories of Father with Photograph
I have not kept
The one good photograph with my father.
We were sitting in my father’s vintage car,
And I was silent,
He was breathing and talking heavily,
Struggling for ventilation.
What is left of the photograph
Is just a bright sunlight,
Although it is more necessary to me
Than the preserved collection of photographs.
But I remind myself
That I was looking right ahead,
With my brain cells wide open,
As if I could see
What was coming.
What had already come
And placed itself between my father and me,
In my father’s light blue vintage car.
The old granny is the one who speaks to you in utter silence.
The old room is where you find the treasure of left behind novels.
The old home is where you fragrance the names of lost relatives.
The old buddy is the one who speaks of forgotten trees story.
The old shirt is the time machine that frames you in a perfect picture.
The old book is where you find what you have lost in time.
The lost relative is the one who knows your initial memories.
The lost key opens a forgotten trunk box with perfumed compile of letters.
The last minute is when you really think you understand nothing about life.
The old life is when you don’t remember what happens in the last moment.
The old window opens into a landscape where you were wounded as a child.
The old phone is where the ghosts of all the lovers exist.
The old cat is the one that is nearby you before you know you are alone.
The old bag is where you find a thing about yourself you don’t know.
Deepti Mittal is a content writer by profession for the website, A billion things to do. She has published in Indian Ruminations, We Palaver and Indus Woman Writing. She did her writing internship with NUDGE Foundation. Her interests are reading novels, writing poems, and working on articles.
Like Cafe Dissensus on Facebook. Follow Cafe Dissensus on Twitter.
Cafe Dissensus Everyday is the blog of Cafe Dissensus magazine, born in New York City and currently based in India. All materials on the site are protected under Creative Commons License.
Read the latest issue of Cafe Dissensus Magazine, “Shaheen Bagh and the Anti-CAA Protests: The Struggle to Create New Concepts”, edited by Huzaifa Omair Siddiqi, JNU, New Delhi, India.
Irish-language transcreation of Memories of Father With Photograph
Cuimhní ar m’Athair agus Grianghraf
Níor choinníos é, an t-aon ghrianghraf maith
Atá agam is mé i dteannta m’athar.
Inár suí a bhíomar i gcarr m’athar ón seanré
Agus ní raibh gíocs asam.
Bhí saothar air agus é ag caint
Ag streachailt lena anáil.
Níl fágtha den ghrianghraf sin
Ach solas geal na gréine,
Mar sin féin is riachtanaí domsa é
Ná na grianghraif eile a bhfuil dea-bhail orthu.
Ach meabhraím dom féin
Go rabhas ag féachaint díreach romham,
Cillíní na hinchinne is iad ar lánoscailt,
Amhail is go bhfaca mé
A raibh ag teacht:
Bhí sé tagtha cheana féin
Suite eadrainn ansin, idir m’athair is mé,
Sa charr bánghorm aige ón seanré.
Beautifully written poems and I particularly like the first one since those points have resonated with me through a broken friendship in my teenage years.