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The
Poetry of Ayesha Susan Thomas
BRUNCH
I'm so hungry
You could put a scraper
Inside of my stomach
And not find anything
But vapours
From the food I can smell in
Your kitchen.
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PEOPLE
I WAS
I like fruit
I like chocolate
Bright colours
And rooms without lights
Cold weather
Hot bubbling bathtubs
Coffee
Cream
And rubber slippers
Spicy curries
Pink gypsy skirts
New shoes
Old friends
Happy days
I like roses
Black white and red
Perfume
Cold water
Swimming in the sea
Somewhere somehow
Last millennium
Something happened
Somewhere
Somewhy?
I don't like children
They remind me of him.
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DREAM
Her hair is tightly wound, drawn into a
bun at the back of her head- twenty bob-pins and a little gel.
She is wearing a black, low-back swimsuit and white tights. And
ballerina shoes of course. As we watch, she lifts her arms, slowly,
softly…and then she is dancing, twirling, bending, an ecstasy
of movement, so purely beautiful. The auditorium is so quiet;
you can hear her arms cutting through the air, a whoosh as she
spins- it is as if the air is moving with her, jumping here,
falling there, flowing around her…you can almost- just almost-
see it.
The light is cold, white, single, drawing patterns on her black
skin, her feet as light as feathers, her eyes closed- iris pulsing
beneath. And yet, she radiates heat, those sitting closest, like
me, are already sweating. The curve of her back, black, babelicious.
A gasp as she stops, frozen in mid-step, and begins to shimmer.
At first we think it is our own eyes that deceive us, then blame
it on faulty lighting- but no. She is shimmering. Like gossamer,
blue oil on water, silk threads in a Cinderella dress… she
shimmers.
Back flip, she's solid again, bowing, turning, a hint of a smile
on her lips- a private joke with herself. Nobody claps. We just
stare- immobile- her fingers pat out a tune in the air- absentmindedly,
distracted, her hair is slowly beginning to come undone, her
skin glowing, radiating something akin to light but not the same.
And then she's gone. An empty, soundless stage. As if she were
never there at all.
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STORIES
EVER WONDERED, ABOUT ALL THOSE STORIES,
POEMS, ARTICLES, THOUGHTS, FEELINGS
IDEAS
BILLIONS AND TRILIONS OF THEM
ALL OVER THE WORLD
THAT NEVER GOT TRANSALATED
INTO PRINT
AT ALL…?
200 metaphors
Broken lines
Word choices
Scattered
Messy offices
And baskets filled with paper
Torn and crushed
Tears
Empty pens
Fingers stained blue black
Green and red with blood
Spent
Sweat washed
Saltily down the drain
With hopes and dreams
Flashbulbs
That never came
World of a writer
Poet Poetess
Spurned rejected
Volumes of language never
Ever published.
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Ayesha is a 16 year old homeschooler and aspiring poet from Bombay,
India. She has been blogging for just over a year now where she
is known as Maya. Ayesha would love your feedback on her poetry
and writing style. You can read more of her poetry at www.ayeshathom.blogspot.com
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