Rani Turton

Silence. Long moments that stretch into years.
Restrained words, sometimes gaps where names should be.
Words, prayers, songs, imagination inflamed by memory.
...

I walked down that lonely road
That sinuous, torturous bend
You know how I hated
The cold, the distance, my thoughts.
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You'll be my knight in shining armour
Shining so bright I can hardly see
The sunlight because of thee
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If you have some place
Some place you could well spare
Make a niche for me in your heart
To warm me within your space
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A plain wooden door, nerve-ridden
A carved metal key, in my pocket hidden.

And secrets that lie behind that blank facade
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I am an artisan of words
Which I sculpt, chisel and fashion the way I can
I am a creator of worlds;
I pour my emotion into the poems I write.
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Starlight, moonlight, candles burning bright
Oil lamps with flickering wicks
All this symbolises night
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My father, with his arthritic hands
Closes his door, picks up the bow
Tucks the bit under his chin
Tunes it real low
...

Dusk comes, softly, slowly, like a shy bride
Dusk comes with a golden-red veil as if to hide
The diamonds in the hair, the khol in the eyes
Heat arises from the earth and flies
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Draw the blinds, Time
Its time enough and enough
Time to grieve: I do not want
The sun to weighten closed lids;
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Like a soft breeze that, barely there, sifts the papers on my table.
A window, open, and the curtains move gently.
A memory, that should not have been there.
An emotion that barely acknowledged should have known better.
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A storm will arise tonight.

The wind has started ruffling the pages of my book
The open window creaks, curtains billow.
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In these closing years of your life
Each time I see your white hair that was once so black
Your body bent that once walked so straight
I remember you throwing me up in your arms
...

There is a clock on a city street
These pavings that have often known my feet
There is a clock, a street and a tower
That is the mystery of love's power.
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Poets have no tools, never
No tangible tools that is to say
Some people even call them fools
Poets have a different worldview
...

Yet again, a wanderer at your shore.

Asking and not waiting for your reply.
Waiting but not wanting; watching but silently.
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My soul wanders, erring; to my great surprise:
I didn’t know I possessed one.
That to this day and that when tomorrow should come
I will look at what I’ve become.
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As despair weaves a cocoon around my shadow
Alas, alone am I with my despair.
I had waited for these clouds to lift I had prayed
For these storms to cease
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When a woman goes to pieces
Hysteria and fragility are often evoked
When a man goes to pieces
Its often just workload
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I wrote this poem for you; just a lyrical fantasy.
Just some words that found their way onto a page.
Unasked for, unbidden
But not yet forbidden.
...