Arambol (Goa)
The smell of hashish in the air is a dancing
thing. The girl’s small, curved hands are
like two shells in sleep. The bartender
raises his foot and brings it down on a
crab, spilling its meat onto the sand, leaving
a pattern in entrails. I eat my tuna salad.
The boys on the beach turn over in their sleep
and the one-eyed man in the café cups
his own face with two hands thoughtfully.
Such violence on gentle shores is common,
he thinks. In the distance, a blue boat
is a little blemish I could rub away, a
transgression. The beach continues to
burn in its silent, unstoppable way.
© Anindita Sengupta.
thing. The girl’s small, curved hands are
like two shells in sleep. The bartender
raises his foot and brings it down on a
crab, spilling its meat onto the sand, leaving
a pattern in entrails. I eat my tuna salad.
The boys on the beach turn over in their sleep
and the one-eyed man in the café cups
his own face with two hands thoughtfully.
Such violence on gentle shores is common,
he thinks. In the distance, a blue boat
is a little blemish I could rub away, a
transgression. The beach continues to
burn in its silent, unstoppable way.
© Anindita Sengupta.
Labels: featured post, poetry
Selected by caferati admin |
(Original Post) |
22:34 |
3 Comments:
I don't fully understand this... could someone pls explain what this means?? It does kind of play on your senses to create a magical kind of effect and the festive party seems to combine a kind of holy restraint as well as the usual festive touch... but I really don't understand who is being addressed and actually what is being said...
This is a wonderful collage of images. I have been to Arambol recently, and I understand how magnificent this display of contrasts, this imagery of shades, is. Write often, and spill more colours with your words and rhythms.
Lovely. I don't know Goa personally, but the soles of my feet tingled at the end ..
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