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Ampat Koshy reads My Favourite Chair and Why I Like It


Dr. Ampat Koshy is a writer and a teacher, and as a teacher— teachers are instigators—he manages several Poetry Groups on Facebook.

Though he is from India, and teaches in Saudi Arabia, he has a worldwide audience of aspiring writers who often come to his Groups for ideas, and to share their own work and create workshops. Recently, one poet, Lily Swarn, suggested that the poets write about their favorite chairs.

On the morning that Koshy and I got together for a Zoom conversation—late morning in NYC, late afternoon in Saudia Arabia—he had done just that, written about four favorite chairs in fact, which he was kind enough to recite, hot off the presses, on the Vimeo below. Enjoy.




My favourite chair was a red bean bag
They said it was from Italy
We bought it from Ikea
But the Ikea was in Jeddah
We were happy to buy it
My wife was with me and my children
We sent it back by air cargo
It sat in the front room of our rented house
In Bangalore
After a while, it developed a rent
The stuffing came out, small balls of white styrofoam pellets
We got it filled and the rents stitched
again and again
twice or thrice
It was everyone’s favourite seat
You could call it a hit of a seat, not a hotseat
Mine, my wife’s
My son’s
My daughters’
My nephews’ and nieces’
Their uncles’ and aunts’
And others on my wife’s side of the family
And friends
Like all good things must
The rents and tears multiplied disastrously
Gaping mouths one too many
Too worn and torn to be repaired
We put it out of its misery
It came to (an/its/the) end
But remains green in my mind
(Though it was red)
And in my memory
Who said things die?
If I ever get the chance
I will recreate it
A huge red bean bag with styrofoam pellets in it to make it soft
Hugging you
Lovingly, like the ones who love you
One that accommodates to the shape
Of the person sitting on it
And leaves an impression on your seat


I want my lap to be your favourite seat
Both of us wearing only skin.
I can feel your curves and you, my musculature
and together it seems we are catching fire and on heat
Something is stirring somewhere
And a blush steals across your cheek. I go bust
Get up and close the door
Driving the bolt in through the brass tack, and get back.


That day when he went out he did not know
– let us not give him a name,
he is a child from any place violence torn –
another had too with a bomb in his hand,
another with his mother.
They all look the same, said those Others
When the soldiers aimed their guns
they mistook one for another
and he it was he who died;
not the bomb thrower
When his mother came on the scene
weeping fit to wake the dead
she took him in her lap
a 21st century living Pieta
and he held her and before he breathed his last
he said, “mother, your lap
was always my favorite chair”
But her tears did not wake him from the dead
any more than his words could
What was done remained done
And what was said made no difference
to anything or to anyone.


Satin smooth
And ivory
It decorated the floor
On four legs
On damask
A living, moving throne
Only one could it ascend
And upon it, regal
Be seated
Be allowed to pat, caress
That royal steed
One alone climb astride
To rock or ride that horse
Gleaming ivory its haunch
Only one could straddle
Only one could stoop to conquer
Tame or break it
Take it to war
Earn its love and saddle, buckle it
In the land of love and lust
One get it to trust


Dr. Ampat Koshy


Ampat Koshy’s most recent book of poems is called Vodka by the Volga. It is written in collaboration with his colleague, Santosh Bakaya, about Russian writers and all things Russian. The Kindle is on Amazon.



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