The romantic quill
and intoxicated ink
have been replaced
No profound implication anymore
in my handwriting skill
My words have been traced
Now professional text on page
By a new contraption
of the Remington age
Tlick tlick tlick tlick… shwing
A new line begins
The silence is filled
as the typewriter sings
Anindita Gupta, India
She sees starchy white sushi boats
flying pastel coloured flags
idling through Nori marshes
down pungent ginger rivers
that cleave wasabi fields verdant
under a tempura battered sky
heavy with fumes of Sake clouds
that yield fragile Raku plates
which shatter on the soy-stained earth
into smooth round Feng shui pebbles
that are strewn by the circling eddies of green tea rituals
into Kanji-shaped avenues
down which the saucy Teriyaki woman
with her languid chopstick limbs
and umami drenched lips
and her printed kimono breath
is bringing a tear-warm miso pail
into a lemongrass and bamboo scented dawn
being roused by wafting cherry blossoms
that have drummed a tattoo
upon the sliding rice-paper door
beyond which the low-table of waking
is kneeling, in barefoot hunger
Anindita Gupta, India
The Social Poet 