Dead furniture

Her balloons are cat-headed
And blue-fished ,oval-shaped,

Animal souls drifting in room
Only to pop from boy’s hand.

We would leave a peacock’s
Morning cry for my evening,

Its colored tail danced away.
They were only 123 of them.

We would collect red shreds
And all our peacock feathers

After they had the souls left.
Their dance was for a cloud.

The clouds would drift away
And our balloons would pop.

There are not many feathers,
Only dead furniture in room.

(Reading Balloons , one of the last poems of Sylvia Plath before her suicide in 1963)

River island

After dam it is a temple and pilgrims,
Ancient memories of the after-world.

A snake turns into many small snakes
And boats heave only high on people.

Island is  holiday from river touched
By a wind and boats bringing motion

For people to nest in shadow houses,
Copies of concrete holes back home.

(On a visit to the Bhavani island resort in the Krishna river near Vijayawada)