Independant writer and poet originally from Delhi, now in France. Genre: Postcolonial (IWE) .
These poems are a selection of years of writing. They are all under strict copyright. If you want to use any material in the poems for publication, teaching, scolarship or reference they must be credited. No commercial usage is permitted. Copying, scraping or plagiarising is not appreciated. ... more »
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Rani Turton Poems
Silence. Long moments that stretch into years. Restrained words, sometimes gaps where names should be. Words, prayers, songs, imagination inflamed by memory.
A Mad Bird Was I
I walked down that lonely road That sinuous, torturous bend You know how I hated The cold, the distance, my thoughts.
You'll Be My Knight in Shining Armour
You'll be my knight in shining armour Shining so bright I can hardly see The sunlight because of thee
A Niche For Me in Your Heart
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
A Wooden Door, A Metal Key
A plain wooden door, nerve-ridden A carved metal key, in my pocket hidden. And secrets that lie behind that blank facade
Artisan of Words
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.
And Eternity Did Not Push Me Away
Starlight, moonlight, candles burning bright Oil lamps with flickering wicks All this symbolises night
My Father, With His Arthritic Hands
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
Analysing That Pain
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.
Draw The Blinds, Time
Draw the blinds, Time Its time enough and enough Time to grieve: I do not want The sun to weighten closed lids;
A Storm Will Arise Tonight
A storm will arise tonight. The wind has started ruffling the pages of my book The open window creaks, curtains billow.
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
A Clock, A Street, A Tower
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.
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
Silence. Long moments that stretch into years.
Restrained words, sometimes gaps where names should be.
Words, prayers, songs, imagination inflamed by memory.
Emptiness, loneliness, the world, the void.
Look behind, look ahead, look straight ahead.
The world is indifferent to your pain.
The world is indifferent to your sighs.
Nothing will ever be the same;
Nothing will ever matter again.
Will anything ever matter again?
Absences. Like a long lonely lane in an eastern land
With closed doors against the afternoon heat
Questions that taunt ...