By my grave they all stood,
As per post, they did brood;
My parents alone in pain –
I didn’t wish so, but in vain;
She who I loved yet declared not,
Ah, a tear! I know not her thought;
Ahoy lads! How well you do look,
Surely, you count the time I took;
Pity I couldn’t extend my charade
Of crazy tease, mirth and hopeful cheer;
But move on, wash not the broken clay,
You who stood by my grave. Or did they?
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Friday, January 29, 2010
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Sleep well, my love
Sleep well, my love,
tonight you and I
are safe together.
Let me watch you,
in child-like trance,
caressing lightly.
Do you wonder
why I am awake:
it’s too dear, this sight.
Do I wish for this,
every night:
just one night, I pray.
The parting should be
when we are sure,
we are close forever.
tonight you and I
are safe together.
Let me watch you,
in child-like trance,
caressing lightly.
Do you wonder
why I am awake:
it’s too dear, this sight.
Do I wish for this,
every night:
just one night, I pray.
The parting should be
when we are sure,
we are close forever.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
It Is i That Should Not Matter
to whom, for whom,
shall I write?
it does not matter,
I would like to think.
silence is a shroud
but pinpricks of light
do enter if I sense.
sweet whispers of nothing
through walls that fortify,
sight of lovers kissing
through lacy curtains.
but once unleashed, I reach far
to the hearts
and the heartless.
if only for a moment:
in shelters’ muddy cold,
with mother and child,
eyes blinded by death;
mother, hold tight,
deceive your child;
let him or her not believe
that your womb
is the cause for evil.
how easy it seems
to write, wishing.
but the pain of death
and the joy of life,
which is which,
do not wonder.
I do not matter,
a sip of love
is enough.
it is i
that should
not matter.
shall I write?
it does not matter,
I would like to think.
silence is a shroud
but pinpricks of light
do enter if I sense.
sweet whispers of nothing
through walls that fortify,
sight of lovers kissing
through lacy curtains.
but once unleashed, I reach far
to the hearts
and the heartless.
if only for a moment:
in shelters’ muddy cold,
with mother and child,
eyes blinded by death;
mother, hold tight,
deceive your child;
let him or her not believe
that your womb
is the cause for evil.
how easy it seems
to write, wishing.
but the pain of death
and the joy of life,
which is which,
do not wonder.
I do not matter,
a sip of love
is enough.
it is i
that should
not matter.
Supper at Hotel Rajesh … by the window …
By the pane, behind the pillar,
Away and near, a forgotten ghost.
With the usual thali, the usual waiter,
Rupees the same for the same minutes.
You might be away,
But your cheek rests against me,
And the hair still…
A couple, traditional, certainly wed,
Hand in hand, maybe they know why;
An afterthought or aftermath
Or strangely close or foreplay?
A fight below, close to the paan-wallah
With stained fingers ready with the half-pack.
The fight, the young, so shamelessly alive.
After drowning Ganapathy? Now, what?
A mother nearby feeding her child,
In everyone’s way - but not so, they say;
She glances at the kind gentlemen,
Her brother unconcerned – with reflections.
Outside, a mother guides her daughter,
From the youth, from any hand, for later.
A couple again, apart – is it the same –
No, there is merely a child in between.
The meal’s over, the time’s up,
Leaving ghosts for what’s left to look.
You might be away,
But your cheek rests against me,
And the hair still…
Away and near, a forgotten ghost.
With the usual thali, the usual waiter,
Rupees the same for the same minutes.
You might be away,
But your cheek rests against me,
And the hair still…
A couple, traditional, certainly wed,
Hand in hand, maybe they know why;
An afterthought or aftermath
Or strangely close or foreplay?
A fight below, close to the paan-wallah
With stained fingers ready with the half-pack.
The fight, the young, so shamelessly alive.
After drowning Ganapathy? Now, what?
A mother nearby feeding her child,
In everyone’s way - but not so, they say;
She glances at the kind gentlemen,
Her brother unconcerned – with reflections.
Outside, a mother guides her daughter,
From the youth, from any hand, for later.
A couple again, apart – is it the same –
No, there is merely a child in between.
The meal’s over, the time’s up,
Leaving ghosts for what’s left to look.
You might be away,
But your cheek rests against me,
And the hair still…
Seeking
Looking at the mirrors –
image on image of a dead image,
i’ve searched for simple words
to tell myself and everyone.
The brain numbed -
forbids that -
by endless fears, tears, losing
clarity of what i am.
Determination after insult,
strength ahead of necessity,
joker among those sure of life,
stupid - foolishly fought for right.
Free, inspired, respected, interested,
worthy, loved or hated, happy;
not all virtues – spiteful, threatening;
also – naughty, seeking, desirous.
Wronged at times, cynical always,
flirting with lonely hopeless void;
choices came, chosen;
paths splitting, taken.
Forsaking advice,
threatening surety,
fondling thrill,
facing danger.
Danger, where i am untaught,
that’s the source of my life –
not love nor victory nor respect -
Interest, that selfish desire.
image on image of a dead image,
i’ve searched for simple words
to tell myself and everyone.
The brain numbed -
forbids that -
by endless fears, tears, losing
clarity of what i am.
Determination after insult,
strength ahead of necessity,
joker among those sure of life,
stupid - foolishly fought for right.
Free, inspired, respected, interested,
worthy, loved or hated, happy;
not all virtues – spiteful, threatening;
also – naughty, seeking, desirous.
Wronged at times, cynical always,
flirting with lonely hopeless void;
choices came, chosen;
paths splitting, taken.
Forsaking advice,
threatening surety,
fondling thrill,
facing danger.
Danger, where i am untaught,
that’s the source of my life –
not love nor victory nor respect -
Interest, that selfish desire.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Soliloquy (Nearly) On A Honeymoon
Is this world I see, with you, today
Same as that I saw, alone, yesterday?
In stealth did it come that thought
Like that childhood game ‘I see – I see not’.
Was it by the sea? Then, the weeds were
Ghosts’ tangled tresses, with frothy gurgle
Of death from dark depths with white above.
With you, the ebb and flow of pregnant tide
And my passion tread the same measure,
From green shallows till the azure faraway.
In the train? The past’s already vague -
Inert, staring blindly through grills; now,
Pressed against you, heart’s chugging along.
Around the lake? Then, with self’s company,
With blank verse to fill blank life, mute;
Now - walking, holding, living - silence speaks.
I had to tell you, it’s late I know.
I had to see your eyes when I told you.
Tired you must be, it’s late I know,
When you turn away with “Whatever”.
Same as that I saw, alone, yesterday?
In stealth did it come that thought
Like that childhood game ‘I see – I see not’.
Was it by the sea? Then, the weeds were
Ghosts’ tangled tresses, with frothy gurgle
Of death from dark depths with white above.
With you, the ebb and flow of pregnant tide
And my passion tread the same measure,
From green shallows till the azure faraway.
In the train? The past’s already vague -
Inert, staring blindly through grills; now,
Pressed against you, heart’s chugging along.
Around the lake? Then, with self’s company,
With blank verse to fill blank life, mute;
Now - walking, holding, living - silence speaks.
I had to tell you, it’s late I know.
I had to see your eyes when I told you.
Tired you must be, it’s late I know,
When you turn away with “Whatever”.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Sketch … of you and me …
How blank this appears:
Each word seems to mar
the empty depths of truth.
From this crushed cursed cushions,
Her eyes seem to spy upon the hidden.
Image of my reflections, shy away,
Bring not shards of memory to mould,
as life prances on razor’s edge.
An apparition she certainly is?
Why do you leave your abode
of banished silence
to be by my side, to whisper, to soothe –
how it aches,
how it pains,
don’t you know?
Maiden, how careless, your hair
seems as if a thousand hands
have caressed,
tenderly tousled tangles,
wishing the one would fondle;
as early light casts a million shades
but never seems to rise,
to remove the shadow that lingers
ever growing
upon your brow –
Bruised, scarred vast expanse
that never hides
the mental torture;
each line faint upon the gentle skin,
each throb pulsates a measure –
which balm will ease you,
which hand refused,
the sacred silence shatters,
a single word would be enough
but none seems to bind
the mind
that wishes no longer
to be whole.
Cool these cheeks,
such fires burn life’s embers;
hurt not your lips so,
so swollen, so expectant;
this beauteous mould,
erase such a grimace –
sorrow by the right,
smile by the left,
place it not upon such a rack,
would understanding set it right,
would a few words do,
but what reason
could have blinded him
of this sight
of blossoming love –
how he should have plucked
and let it not wither.
There’s no place, but there
let me linger awhile –
Your hair I cannot caress,
the brow seeks balm I have not,
these cheeks I dare not hold, they burn,
these lips are not for me to kiss,
the mould of mortal clay is not for me
to mend,
to set aright;
For I am the child of your glance,
it is these depths that lure,
that which sketches more than you can tear,
Blink, little one, hold on no more,
let the tear slide along,
from furious rapids,
from scorned depths,
from discarded abandon,
from deafening silence,
from restless rest,
from love unrealized,
from innocence raped,
from time that speeds by,
from shattered mind,
from barren womb,
from bleeding heart,
let the tear slide along –
it may not mend,
it may not erase,
it may just carry
a little pain.
I shall not look further,
Blurred vision
or
hastened departure
but for sure you know,
that I will be
by you –
In mirth, let’s cast eyes;
who is within,
who is without?
Each word seems to mar
the empty depths of truth.
From this crushed cursed cushions,
Her eyes seem to spy upon the hidden.
Image of my reflections, shy away,
Bring not shards of memory to mould,
as life prances on razor’s edge.
An apparition she certainly is?
Why do you leave your abode
of banished silence
to be by my side, to whisper, to soothe –
how it aches,
how it pains,
don’t you know?
Maiden, how careless, your hair
seems as if a thousand hands
have caressed,
tenderly tousled tangles,
wishing the one would fondle;
as early light casts a million shades
but never seems to rise,
to remove the shadow that lingers
ever growing
upon your brow –
Bruised, scarred vast expanse
that never hides
the mental torture;
each line faint upon the gentle skin,
each throb pulsates a measure –
which balm will ease you,
which hand refused,
the sacred silence shatters,
a single word would be enough
but none seems to bind
the mind
that wishes no longer
to be whole.
Cool these cheeks,
such fires burn life’s embers;
hurt not your lips so,
so swollen, so expectant;
this beauteous mould,
erase such a grimace –
sorrow by the right,
smile by the left,
place it not upon such a rack,
would understanding set it right,
would a few words do,
but what reason
could have blinded him
of this sight
of blossoming love –
how he should have plucked
and let it not wither.
There’s no place, but there
let me linger awhile –
Your hair I cannot caress,
the brow seeks balm I have not,
these cheeks I dare not hold, they burn,
these lips are not for me to kiss,
the mould of mortal clay is not for me
to mend,
to set aright;
For I am the child of your glance,
it is these depths that lure,
that which sketches more than you can tear,
Blink, little one, hold on no more,
let the tear slide along,
from furious rapids,
from scorned depths,
from discarded abandon,
from deafening silence,
from restless rest,
from love unrealized,
from innocence raped,
from time that speeds by,
from shattered mind,
from barren womb,
from bleeding heart,
let the tear slide along –
it may not mend,
it may not erase,
it may just carry
a little pain.
I shall not look further,
Blurred vision
or
hastened departure
but for sure you know,
that I will be
by you –
In mirth, let’s cast eyes;
who is within,
who is without?
Friday, October 9, 2009
Releasing blood
‘A poet’s work,’ he answers, ‘To name the unnamable, to point at friends, to take sides, start arguments, shape the world, and stop it from going to sleep.’ And if rivers of blood flow from the cuts his verses inflict then they will nourish him.
From ‘The Satanic Verses’
…---…
Listen to me while I suck my own blood.
Release of that which weighs me down –
life blood!
Remember…
Her dark hair straying across that beauteous face,
Black eyes filled dim, alight yet through the full race,
Tear stained cheeks glistening like moonlit waters anew,
Long wet lashes as reaching branches dripping dew,
Blood stained lips trembling, lucky breath to kiss her tender,
Yet not touching, harming her no more but silent yearn render.
O lover! What remains of that but a jester forsaken, tear torn tear -
A letter unfolded tracing creases to be folded again – does life bear?
Fools’ fate foretold – ‘Curs’d be a lover – to tears, one on one, to pain.’
And again…
Wrong mind setting thoughts right, leaders behind the masses led,
Patient pained pawns wait for death, pray gently be bled;
Deafened by clamour, he hears not the heavy tread of Death,
Blinded by tears, he seeks solace in frightful sight’s dearth;
Laid inert by gloom, he begs his brethren to swing the sword low,
But a last hope to quench life’s thirst – a manna of love from below.
Ah hope! Where was the brother – which eye did he close: that to you or his pleasure?
Images to images, rock to rock across a river, each tread to this fancied measure –
Learn for once, survival’s silent password: ‘Do unto others as they do unto you.’
Alas…
Enmity, jealousy, agony, torture – of self and others – life a row,
Blasphemy, thraldom, hopeful – salvage of a wreck sunken low,
To little capsules: shadows flitting by, enticing gestures in misty night
Whence senses may seek repose sans alarm, darkness to tunnel of light;
Intoxicated in the dark, arm in warm waters, the other for the dagger,
Release to bonded dreams – refreshed breath, life at stake, soul to stagger –
What would this life be – in the promised hundred – if this be the remembered one?
Born to be one, the heart to pound alone – betrayal, pain, illusions: none!
Any company but solitude be folly, any thought but oneself is just to be sorry.
Yet, one dances on the razor’s edge,
Forsaking reason, hope on love’s pledge,
In a path in the wilds, round and round,
Losing, realizing the right path – yet nowhere bound,
That be the fate of souls mould in mortal clay,
Bruised or hurt, seeking unknown pain each day.
Releasing blood, sucking one’s in,
Hither to thither, but to abide within;
There’s no release, by one’s self.
From ‘The Satanic Verses’
…---…
Listen to me while I suck my own blood.
Release of that which weighs me down –
life blood!
Remember…
Her dark hair straying across that beauteous face,
Black eyes filled dim, alight yet through the full race,
Tear stained cheeks glistening like moonlit waters anew,
Long wet lashes as reaching branches dripping dew,
Blood stained lips trembling, lucky breath to kiss her tender,
Yet not touching, harming her no more but silent yearn render.
O lover! What remains of that but a jester forsaken, tear torn tear -
A letter unfolded tracing creases to be folded again – does life bear?
Fools’ fate foretold – ‘Curs’d be a lover – to tears, one on one, to pain.’
And again…
Wrong mind setting thoughts right, leaders behind the masses led,
Patient pained pawns wait for death, pray gently be bled;
Deafened by clamour, he hears not the heavy tread of Death,
Blinded by tears, he seeks solace in frightful sight’s dearth;
Laid inert by gloom, he begs his brethren to swing the sword low,
But a last hope to quench life’s thirst – a manna of love from below.
Ah hope! Where was the brother – which eye did he close: that to you or his pleasure?
Images to images, rock to rock across a river, each tread to this fancied measure –
Learn for once, survival’s silent password: ‘Do unto others as they do unto you.’
Alas…
Enmity, jealousy, agony, torture – of self and others – life a row,
Blasphemy, thraldom, hopeful – salvage of a wreck sunken low,
To little capsules: shadows flitting by, enticing gestures in misty night
Whence senses may seek repose sans alarm, darkness to tunnel of light;
Intoxicated in the dark, arm in warm waters, the other for the dagger,
Release to bonded dreams – refreshed breath, life at stake, soul to stagger –
What would this life be – in the promised hundred – if this be the remembered one?
Born to be one, the heart to pound alone – betrayal, pain, illusions: none!
Any company but solitude be folly, any thought but oneself is just to be sorry.
Yet, one dances on the razor’s edge,
Forsaking reason, hope on love’s pledge,
In a path in the wilds, round and round,
Losing, realizing the right path – yet nowhere bound,
That be the fate of souls mould in mortal clay,
Bruised or hurt, seeking unknown pain each day.
Releasing blood, sucking one’s in,
Hither to thither, but to abide within;
There’s no release, by one’s self.
Tired?
Tired, can I be? Hoping for a wish.
Staring at scrap – old photos, old life.
Staring at scrap – old photos, old life.
Scream, shall I? Mourn, maybe.
I won’t cry, mourn, seek love stupid.
O poets, I can love. And fight wars.
Brood about a world going waste.
But the traitors, where are they?
They will say it’s an old story.
Tough they are with no hope.
With wise words to soothe or sting.
Do you know the rotten cuckold?
Or the poor guy who died poor?
And the usual death and love?
Or the tale of one with no tale?
Mortals’ usual woes, not so new.
Then, is there reason to write?
I am tired. Tired being tired.
I won’t cry, mourn, seek love stupid.
O poets, I can love. And fight wars.
Brood about a world going waste.
But the traitors, where are they?
They will say it’s an old story.
Tough they are with no hope.
With wise words to soothe or sting.
Do you know the rotten cuckold?
Or the poor guy who died poor?
And the usual death and love?
Or the tale of one with no tale?
Mortals’ usual woes, not so new.
Then, is there reason to write?
I am tired. Tired being tired.
Oddity IV
A canvas for the mind – that be life –
No marred margin mourned and gilded edge shorn;
Labour be so, too – through joy or strife –
By whim or intent it’s coloured, shaded or torn.
Much could be philosophized on the above –
Much with ignorance, much for comfort thought;
How could the defeated and rejected in love
Engrave what he knew not and what he was not?
But with surety could he fill a moment of repose
Looking at the workings of the mind – his sole guide –
In loneliness company made, in silence a tune to rouse,
In gloom a smile to blossom, in dying life to be astride.
A wayward dream to be structured, sans sense, a soulmate;
A mate who merely smiled made a rack – of torture and pain;
In pain did descend dearly into depths too black – reason too late –
Too late – fiery lines slash upon lighter blue as a growing strain.
The jasmine bought do not bring a gentle sight
Nor the dying aroma a few borrowed pleasures,
The bed is cold with sweat on this winter night
No tinkling anklets, no soothing caress nor measures.
If it’s reality to be marked upon the canvas:
Weary mind, take the leave for long you sought.
The white should speak for itself, honest, unless
It would be better suited to mark the predestined dot.
No marred margin mourned and gilded edge shorn;
Labour be so, too – through joy or strife –
By whim or intent it’s coloured, shaded or torn.
Much could be philosophized on the above –
Much with ignorance, much for comfort thought;
How could the defeated and rejected in love
Engrave what he knew not and what he was not?
But with surety could he fill a moment of repose
Looking at the workings of the mind – his sole guide –
In loneliness company made, in silence a tune to rouse,
In gloom a smile to blossom, in dying life to be astride.
A wayward dream to be structured, sans sense, a soulmate;
A mate who merely smiled made a rack – of torture and pain;
In pain did descend dearly into depths too black – reason too late –
Too late – fiery lines slash upon lighter blue as a growing strain.
The jasmine bought do not bring a gentle sight
Nor the dying aroma a few borrowed pleasures,
The bed is cold with sweat on this winter night
No tinkling anklets, no soothing caress nor measures.
If it’s reality to be marked upon the canvas:
Weary mind, take the leave for long you sought.
The white should speak for itself, honest, unless
It would be better suited to mark the predestined dot.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Wake
Reading news a week old,
with old music stirring the stifled air;
having supper of coffee, salami
and dead bread with no spots of green;
fresh and free of yesterday’s phlegm –
I am here, with you, safely with you.
There’s time to tell stories, to listen.
There’s no race, no desires, no needs.
Nothing that death can remove.
with old music stirring the stifled air;
having supper of coffee, salami
and dead bread with no spots of green;
fresh and free of yesterday’s phlegm –
I am here, with you, safely with you.
There’s time to tell stories, to listen.
There’s no race, no desires, no needs.
Nothing that death can remove.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Trying company (1999-2001)
I watch the clouds, and fit company they are.
Hesitant, wondering whether to part, to yield to that above,
Or, to remain, in a sullen pout with dark cheeks just a little wet.
But there is the whole world to see, I have been told,
Without.
And so I watch.
Like the clouds above me,
But no, not in that vein again.
At first, I try out the reflections but I see myself and I do not wish to, not even I.
It is no crime to look, I am told,
But one never knows when it will be.
Across the aisle, in my row, is a blonde whose tresses cover her study.
When she came, relaxed, letting go of the load, sighing,
Her legs stretched and apart, fingers strumming her knees, eyes closed.
But she had to sit up, cross her legs, and from a black bag came notes to save.
Before me, by the door, stand a couple, close but closer they can be.
Whispers, kisses and looks well-known. They even give zwei marks to a beggar.
She has a dark line carefully drawn on her lips, thin they are but enough for him.
The station arrives, he pats her bottom, to push off to another scene.
A bunch of kids block my view. With earphones on, before they try louder giggles.
A petite nymph for a boy, pimple in one hand, the other lunging for her flesh.
There is the usual company, a lady in a brown coat, hair in careless girlish scatter,
Forty or fifty, who cares, she could be twenty for me, but wait a moment,
I wonder why she stares out, blank to the world, hurt and licking her wounds.
I am tired with company, for they make my loneliness pain even more.
No, I am told, try for a little longer.
It gets better with time.
A woman, grey-specked hair, but with no wrinkle upon her face, a mother,
I suppose, with a bag but nowhere to go, and there is a smile on her face. So peaceful.
And how did I miss him? A lad, little jerky, munching on a grey sandwich,
Glancing at me, others, everyone, interested, amused, and with a smile on his face.
I am scared. I turn to my clouds. Scared to smile. Or cry. Scared to be crazy.
Hesitant, wondering whether to part, to yield to that above,
Or, to remain, in a sullen pout with dark cheeks just a little wet.
But there is the whole world to see, I have been told,
Without.
And so I watch.
Like the clouds above me,
But no, not in that vein again.
At first, I try out the reflections but I see myself and I do not wish to, not even I.
It is no crime to look, I am told,
But one never knows when it will be.
Across the aisle, in my row, is a blonde whose tresses cover her study.
When she came, relaxed, letting go of the load, sighing,
Her legs stretched and apart, fingers strumming her knees, eyes closed.
But she had to sit up, cross her legs, and from a black bag came notes to save.
Before me, by the door, stand a couple, close but closer they can be.
Whispers, kisses and looks well-known. They even give zwei marks to a beggar.
She has a dark line carefully drawn on her lips, thin they are but enough for him.
The station arrives, he pats her bottom, to push off to another scene.
A bunch of kids block my view. With earphones on, before they try louder giggles.
A petite nymph for a boy, pimple in one hand, the other lunging for her flesh.
There is the usual company, a lady in a brown coat, hair in careless girlish scatter,
Forty or fifty, who cares, she could be twenty for me, but wait a moment,
I wonder why she stares out, blank to the world, hurt and licking her wounds.
I am tired with company, for they make my loneliness pain even more.
No, I am told, try for a little longer.
It gets better with time.
A woman, grey-specked hair, but with no wrinkle upon her face, a mother,
I suppose, with a bag but nowhere to go, and there is a smile on her face. So peaceful.
And how did I miss him? A lad, little jerky, munching on a grey sandwich,
Glancing at me, others, everyone, interested, amused, and with a smile on his face.
I am scared. I turn to my clouds. Scared to smile. Or cry. Scared to be crazy.
Love to murder (1996)
Look at him –
The little bird that’s fallen off the nest:
do I gather him and care,
do I let him be,
and walk away?
Let me watch him grow
under my eyes – proud and a little selfish:
how he shall glance at me,
how he shall love
in helplessness!
He and I shall part for a moment
as it needs to be in natural ways –
will he stumble and starve,
will he fall prey
to the unloving?
Let him be in young abandon –
orphan, senselessly dying –
let him slip away unknowing,
let him know not
future despair!
The little bird that’s fallen off the nest:
do I gather him and care,
do I let him be,
and walk away?
Let me watch him grow
under my eyes – proud and a little selfish:
how he shall glance at me,
how he shall love
in helplessness!
He and I shall part for a moment
as it needs to be in natural ways –
will he stumble and starve,
will he fall prey
to the unloving?
Let him be in young abandon –
orphan, senselessly dying –
let him slip away unknowing,
let him know not
future despair!
Oddity I (1992)
I am bound to act by another’s whim –
A little puppet! But who is Master – a mortal or Him?
Or Mistress – if it is laconic Lady Luck?
Ever in silence – but with with fanciful and secret touch
Coyly nudge me on from joy to pain with not even a hunch,
And leave me with not a mutter uttered!
A gentle caress and a soft whisper: “Life! Awaken!” her only call,
With a vision splendid, a hopeful heart, an unfettered soul:
Azure deep, blossoming fringe and chirpy clime.
And with not a dark cloud the glory fades,
The day creeping ahead in unnatural shades –
Waxing and waning till midnight chimes.
But that be a rarity – for Sleep stealthily shies
From the tortured depths that beg – be fair, only till it dies –
Much like a maiden well-versed in life’s chicaneries.
Teased with little joys and taunted by endless nightmares –
“Life! Are you awake?” What a state of affairs!
Fit for a mortal – creatures of paradox – born unasked to die unasked.
A little puppet! But who is Master – a mortal or Him?
Or Mistress – if it is laconic Lady Luck?
Ever in silence – but with with fanciful and secret touch
Coyly nudge me on from joy to pain with not even a hunch,
And leave me with not a mutter uttered!
A gentle caress and a soft whisper: “Life! Awaken!” her only call,
With a vision splendid, a hopeful heart, an unfettered soul:
Azure deep, blossoming fringe and chirpy clime.
And with not a dark cloud the glory fades,
The day creeping ahead in unnatural shades –
Waxing and waning till midnight chimes.
But that be a rarity – for Sleep stealthily shies
From the tortured depths that beg – be fair, only till it dies –
Much like a maiden well-versed in life’s chicaneries.
Teased with little joys and taunted by endless nightmares –
“Life! Are you awake?” What a state of affairs!
Fit for a mortal – creatures of paradox – born unasked to die unasked.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Scavenger
Loneliness has been the trashcan
To huddle around, to burn memories,
With the company of strangers,
Nothing new and nothing to get used to…
Found an old album in the junkyard
Useful to borrow kith and kin,
Even love, when noone looks,
For an hour, or a day, no more…
Quite rarely an old familiar peeps
From a distance,
Fearing the disease of need,
Embarassed too...
Craving any addiction
But company
Anything to hurry Time
But not to maim…
He's no reason to live nor die
He's no karma nor bhakti to guide
He gathers pain from every corner
Searching for some way, some answer…
When one fears not death
Can one be mortal
And love, and dream,
And live, and pray...
To huddle around, to burn memories,
With the company of strangers,
Nothing new and nothing to get used to…
Found an old album in the junkyard
Useful to borrow kith and kin,
Even love, when noone looks,
For an hour, or a day, no more…
Quite rarely an old familiar peeps
From a distance,
Fearing the disease of need,
Embarassed too...
Craving any addiction
But company
Anything to hurry Time
But not to maim…
He's no reason to live nor die
He's no karma nor bhakti to guide
He gathers pain from every corner
Searching for some way, some answer…
When one fears not death
Can one be mortal
And love, and dream,
And live, and pray...
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
14/03/97
The beach-
lonesome, it seems-
apart from this little girl
and the eyes that watch.
She
glances awhile,
searching
for the helping hand.
Gentle sand,
playful ebb and flow,
caressing breeze-
company for the child woman.
Sand castles,
tear washed as they crumble
but the sparkle lights
as she tenderly builds.
The beach teases,
extending
her stay-
in embrace forever.
Patience anew, and
hope, the only support,
within her bosom
there’s love that binds.
There is the hand
that awaits
for a mortal grasp-
not knowing how.
The moment of birth
lingers
awaiting joy-
an immortal child.
lonesome, it seems-
apart from this little girl
and the eyes that watch.
She
glances awhile,
searching
for the helping hand.
Gentle sand,
playful ebb and flow,
caressing breeze-
company for the child woman.
Sand castles,
tear washed as they crumble
but the sparkle lights
as she tenderly builds.
The beach teases,
extending
her stay-
in embrace forever.
Patience anew, and
hope, the only support,
within her bosom
there’s love that binds.
There is the hand
that awaits
for a mortal grasp-
not knowing how.
The moment of birth
lingers
awaiting joy-
an immortal child.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Wish I Could Say Something True, To Me … (1991)
If the words do come from within,
If the hand that writes is mine,
If the thoughts spelt make sense,
If my heart pours into each mark,
If all that I do were truly, truly
For me, then I could say with cheer
“I am not alone”. But the tragedy
Is in the final dot, for it speaks
Of the loss of clarity, hope and care,
For these scattered dregs of sweet life
Seem to be for another’s – not mine.
If the hand that writes is mine,
If the thoughts spelt make sense,
If my heart pours into each mark,
If all that I do were truly, truly
For me, then I could say with cheer
“I am not alone”. But the tragedy
Is in the final dot, for it speaks
Of the loss of clarity, hope and care,
For these scattered dregs of sweet life
Seem to be for another’s – not mine.
The Garland (1993)
Behind wrinkles her merry eyes twinkle,
Weaving the low-down string through jasmine;
And I to weave another tapestry – a travesty,
Weariness to be dust and the day’s disgust
From the armour well worn, of self-assertion.
The garland’s wrapped and it’s time for the parting chat.
For the expecting wife she prays, and me she praises-
To have each detail is her part till I depart.
A boy or a girl? A baby – the reply to please, maybe;
Of trying trivial troubles, of morals, money, mortals;
Ration, labour, savings, in-laws and to-be-siblings.
Forward she stretches, and closer attention she fetches:
“A grandchild! You are now man enough for them?
Your ancestors arrack-dealers, hers by royal stealers;
And now by no coconut grove or royalty, but in the ministry;
Do they now complain of the miscast match?”
Awhile in pregnant hush, I spot a blue scar she masks in a rush;
Queries are not for me to utter, of her mate she dare not mutter.
It’s time to part, and she nods at my pining heart;
And hands me the love-pack, the saviour from the rack-
A husband’s tensions of how to please; she mentions
Of how it differs, from those of early customers
For greedy monetary gods, and here to love, the God.
Here, at my walk’s endis the lover, father and husband;
The padlock never oiled creaking, the door never open, complaining;
To sit on the floor of cold stone, to count the moments alone,
The garland still in my clutch, dreams before decay are such.
Weaving the low-down string through jasmine;
And I to weave another tapestry – a travesty,
Weariness to be dust and the day’s disgust
From the armour well worn, of self-assertion.
The garland’s wrapped and it’s time for the parting chat.
For the expecting wife she prays, and me she praises-
To have each detail is her part till I depart.
A boy or a girl? A baby – the reply to please, maybe;
Of trying trivial troubles, of morals, money, mortals;
Ration, labour, savings, in-laws and to-be-siblings.
Forward she stretches, and closer attention she fetches:
“A grandchild! You are now man enough for them?
Your ancestors arrack-dealers, hers by royal stealers;
And now by no coconut grove or royalty, but in the ministry;
Do they now complain of the miscast match?”
Awhile in pregnant hush, I spot a blue scar she masks in a rush;
Queries are not for me to utter, of her mate she dare not mutter.
It’s time to part, and she nods at my pining heart;
And hands me the love-pack, the saviour from the rack-
A husband’s tensions of how to please; she mentions
Of how it differs, from those of early customers
For greedy monetary gods, and here to love, the God.
Here, at my walk’s endis the lover, father and husband;
The padlock never oiled creaking, the door never open, complaining;
To sit on the floor of cold stone, to count the moments alone,
The garland still in my clutch, dreams before decay are such.
Seasons (1994)
Summer’s heated passion lingers over,
Among sweat soaked sheets, like Past –
All alone. Could it have been better?
Shriveled residue like a shrunken raisin,
Awaiting morning dew to fill and cry.
So light is the air, it cares not to caress,
As in winter’s cold, wrapped and fondled.
Spring and Autumn – awaited lovers:
To break the fidelity to lonely extremes.
Among sweat soaked sheets, like Past –
All alone. Could it have been better?
Shriveled residue like a shrunken raisin,
Awaiting morning dew to fill and cry.
So light is the air, it cares not to caress,
As in winter’s cold, wrapped and fondled.
Spring and Autumn – awaited lovers:
To break the fidelity to lonely extremes.
Setting (1992)
Cursed be this son – victim, vandal or voyeur?
Each fleck of ash from the pyre be sin’s attire!
Blame the brother – of bondage – that be the mortal excuse!
But seeking no reply – each cry, tear and look forever accuse!
Gentle vines, dew tipped leaves, tender branches fanning over,
As waving tresses, joy laden lashes, caring limbs to reach forever;
My face laid against Her – past’s pleasure pains present – to hear,
A lullaby, of Life lingering about Mother’s womb for solace dear.
The gentle breeze brought songs from them in flight – like Heaven’s rite,
For a newborn era – as I gazed at my love in yonder hills clad in white;
Across green vales – bejeweled, fluttering like a dainty maiden – to meet,
Did we not walk together hearing the river ripple like whispers sweet?
And here I watch! Those tresses by the roots shorn of a mute mangled prey,
Limbs scarred, pained bosom heaving, shattered within – and I merely pray?
Clarion calls as dreadful dirges deafen, the river gutted, black – Death’s haven,
Poisoned air to rupture sight; my love gone, gaunt, grey – and silent heaven…
Each fleck of ash from the pyre be sin’s attire!
Blame the brother – of bondage – that be the mortal excuse!
But seeking no reply – each cry, tear and look forever accuse!
Gentle vines, dew tipped leaves, tender branches fanning over,
As waving tresses, joy laden lashes, caring limbs to reach forever;
My face laid against Her – past’s pleasure pains present – to hear,
A lullaby, of Life lingering about Mother’s womb for solace dear.
The gentle breeze brought songs from them in flight – like Heaven’s rite,
For a newborn era – as I gazed at my love in yonder hills clad in white;
Across green vales – bejeweled, fluttering like a dainty maiden – to meet,
Did we not walk together hearing the river ripple like whispers sweet?
And here I watch! Those tresses by the roots shorn of a mute mangled prey,
Limbs scarred, pained bosom heaving, shattered within – and I merely pray?
Clarion calls as dreadful dirges deafen, the river gutted, black – Death’s haven,
Poisoned air to rupture sight; my love gone, gaunt, grey – and silent heaven…
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