Somebody called my name

               

             Somebody called my name

                

Once, I thought I heard someone...
Someone surely called my name!
I paused,
 A shiver in my knuckles,
crawled up my finger tips.
I heard my sister chew and fold the chocolate foil,
'Crisp' ,the sound oozed off the edges of it's folds
And yet,I heard nobody call my name.
It now feels so strange,
because the shiver was one that crept out
of a spring of content
And shook me to life.
So tell me,
As I need to know...
Wasn't it you who searched for me...
Wasn't it you,
Who spoke that word,
That word that contains this cluster of a million memories
The word, I dread
But if you you ever call
I'll smile and raise my head,
And maybe say a 'yes'!

Movie nights

                           Movie nights

      

Your hair,
It tickles me
near the nape of my neck,
When you sleep with your head rested on my shoulders.
I try to balance the luxury of your comfort
And sit upright, not moving an inch!

You shrug, and fall into my lap,
The black and white characters on screen,
Seem to move at a faster pace now,
The white incandescence falls on your face
You frown and bury your face towards me.

My fingers draw patterns on your scalp
And your soft hair, cushions them.
You are fast asleep,
And these are the romantic movie dates,
I await..the black and white screen
With your sleeping face rested on my lap
And your face ever so serene!

So tell me,
When would you like to visit again
I'll keep my father's movie collection here
You can pick one out 
And fall into a blissful sleep

Prism

                                Prism
 

I remember the hardened face,
It was seen, but not felt
Or rather felt, but not seen
Was trying to hold the dream in a  bubble,
When it scattered into a million rainbow hued sprinkles.
Tried to seek myself in it
And here am I,
I am that minute prism of light
Through which scatter ,
rays of  uncertainty.

Distortion

                   
                              Distortion

Crumbled papers lie huddled on my floor.
Crush crush, they whisper
My silenced sobs float around 
the nib and the edge of a paper

                       
                              Nostalgia

      
                 

Thick nails and wrinkled fingers,
Rest on the rusty balcony rail
Grandpa's reminiscences have gathered yet again!

Old and young

                         Old and young

                               

Do old poets write better poems than young ones
And is it because they have more years in their pockets...
Or a grey old beard to stroke!
Or maybe because they've known
the vacant feelings wrapped in little giftboxes,
ones that escape like the scent in the box 
that begins as a sweet fragrance
But holds nothing more than
 your room dust and the laundry smell
Once it has been there for long...


Or is it because
their old heart  belongs to the past
And in their poems they can pour in bits of it,
People and acquaintances wiped into ashes, 
And all that stays
is only a rhyme of the words...
That still clings on to those old grey cells
That has outlived them all!

Or perhaps the present 
is what ripens a poet's soul
The sentiments haven't collected a layer of dust
And are plucked while there's still that throb in the pulse 
And that creative rush...

And either way,
whoever writes a better poem
Is a futile thought
For haven't you known
Nobody reads these poems
That are only good to be left 
as fragments of somebody's soul..
Old or young,
It's all the same...

But I'd like to think they stay around
For no one to see or know
But unable to be destroyed or restored,
They'll turn into dust...and stay...and stay...and just stay...
For they refuse to be alone.

At times

                                At times

         

At times..at certain times,
I'm not hungry but I eagerly await the cooker whistle to let out that steam and hiss...
You know, 
it helps to closely listen,
Listen...when your mind is sneaking out of your head,
And the whistle can let your ears sting
But pull back,
that chunk of your meandering mind.

At times...certain times again
I watch my neighbor fix the light,
And I secretly hope, 
That he stays on the ladder for a while...
Why...for it brings back memories of a lover,
who once climbed down a ladder in defeat
And coyly suggested
that the candle flame holds more romance than the roses,
And maybe we should let it flicker all night.  

And then again...at times,
I dip my head in a bucket of water.
And in my mind I see myself,
sandwiched amidst the blues of all shades
wrapped up in a single wave...
I'm quite sure I smile,
Until I lose my breath and pull back
holding on to the round edges of my bucket,
And stare down at the tiles... 

But rarely do I write down a poem
To confess that there are such times,
And to convince myself that it's okay to collect them
And jot them down as a few lines,
For as incoherent and absurd they do seem
On a piece of paper,
it all settles and breathes fine...

Throw a card

                            Throw a card

           

It might sound like
an exaggeration
And even as I'm afraid that's true
I feel, I've nothing left to see or loose,
I've met everyone I ought to meet
And no one else do I wish to know...
You might ask me
Why it's so...
I feel so old already
Can you spot those wrinkles around my eyes?
Even at this ripe age of twenty two
I feel there will be nothing to perceive
and take me by surprise...

I've met and known my
friends who'll stay
A woman like me 
Will only polish her old pearls 
and would'nt replace them with new beads...
For I've also had  friends
who betrayed
And taught me to part ways 
with companions 
who then become acquaintances
to strangers who are soon forgotten...

I've also known male friends
who preached feminism and Beauvoir!
But seldom lent an ear
to any opinion I dared to share
Amidst their disputes and debates...
And needless to mention their countless infidelities and affairs
Of course, women are too complex,
Unlike Beauvoir who was simple 
and they liked to read and discern...


I've had good teachers
Who taught with a passion that made me learn,
I've also had ones who made me question life...
Their or mine,
I now fail to remember!

I have known a love...
and convinced myself that it's not here to stay,
Like a paper boat that wobbles in a bucket lake
And then fails and lies to rest in that little space...

I have been desired by an older man,
Who tried to get closer and touch my hands
I can't remember his face,
For an image of a green reptile now clogs my mind
A reptile creeping up my arms
I shrug and dust it away...

I have failed my parents and myself
And seen failure, jeer and mock at me
I have had sleepless nights with yellow and red pills by my side
Singing a lullaby filled with lament
Trying to put myself asleep...

I have known the temporary trance that a success can endow
while it smirks at my face
And makes me the fool...
who is left alone to gape at herself...

I've also felt an ecstasy,
in feeling every touch,and stare
and even a friendly gaze I've shared
I 've also felt the urge to rip apart that
little throb in my pulse
And close my eyes to a red that'll blind me
and put me to an eternal rest!

And whatever is to come,
could it be very different  from what I have felt or seen?
Similar people would I meet,
Ghosts of friends,lovers and family.
'Uncertain life',  full of twists and turns...
I throw my card on the table,
Why don't you throw yours and play this game with me?

Reflection

                              Reflection

           

Mother says "shush"
When I address you affectionately with that name 
One, that I rendered you with the warmth and devotion of a daughter's love,
But mother worries the others won't  understand
And think of me as a flippant child
A situation, she'd highly dislike!

But you know better,
As you've grown used to it,
At times you only respond to that childish nickname!
And that you're my father,
 needn't be confined to a tradition
that demands me to address you that way,
For any observant person who'd see daylight...
would know,
that this little woman with her oblong face and a book in hand
Shares a kinship with you.
And mother knows this well,
Why then, does she say "shush"
You must ask her that...

At times you look at me
and frown with disgust
It's something I hate to see...
I am like you and built from you!
I then, hate to think that you might frown upon yourself
For I have always seen myself
as an incomplete reflection 
of your benevolent soul!

You say I read people well,
And hence I'll always have good friends
This isn't quite true...
And I must confess to you,
For anyone who has mocked you
in the slightest manner,
I've refused to recognize...
Relations begin and end with you
And of course, 
this is a fragility
I would like to keep aside!

Your childish grin, 
You're very conscious of it
But it always does add a pinch of brightness to my day,
For that smile does spread across your face,
And reaches your eyes
that hold all those guileless sentiments together
And always does
give you away...

You're suspicious of men who talk to me,
For you haven't seen anyone like yourself!
And so you tend to protect me in this man's world
that is a metaphor of vile sentiments
and elements contrary to your innocent self!

I like it when you're protective,
For it gives me a pride in being your daughter!
But do not frown upon me,
and believe in yourself,
For you've always managed to succeed,
And you just can't go 
wrong here,
In fathering a little insane,
a little broken
But yet, a child who loves you
so immensely!

Ciao

                                    Ciao

                     

 I think of you
quite often Brunelle,
Is it strange that you still 
linger in my memory?
We only met for a few hours,
But a part of your life had you  shared 
and I attempted to do the same
as you were a foreign traveler in my land!
And you looked at me with such eager eyes
That spoke of your curiosity!

I remember your eyes Brunelle
Grey in colour
old and tired, 
and yet they held the  fervor of a traveler's soul
Short blonde hair, fell to your shoulders in curls
it was fading into a grey...
the shade of your eyes!

You wore your spectacles,
when you took out your phone
and showed me  many pictures of home
Such luscious strawberries grew in your backyard..
"This is little Joseph",
you introduced your little grandson
His cheeks like
they were brushed with
the nectar squeezed from those strawberries!

You asked me to share
the pictures of my home
It's all so...varios, you said to me
"Italy is a small land,
not as big as your country!"

I showed you pictures
of the mountains of the north
and the seashore from the Southern parts to where you were flying
You promised you'll come back Brunelle,
Come back to India, 
to explore each hidden trove
Enfolded in its mysterious bends and curves
The deserts, the mountains and the waters,
"I'll be back to see it all", you'd said.

I hope you're still there,
with little Joseph playing in the backyard,
That your passions and love haven't submerged in this pandemic
Which, I hope is soon restrained!

For those hidden troves await you Brunelle,
And so does my country
await this traveler...
who saw nothing but beauty, wonder and allure
even in its spices and the scents!

"Ciao", you said your goodbye,
A strange feeling now lurks in me...
I wish you hadn't said a 'Ciao'
But something,
that could assuage me at
such a time, 
Knowing that your memory isn't the only thing
that I'll revisit in the years to come 
And the hopes I keep!
 Dear Brunelle...
Do you hear me?

A search

                               A   search

I dont remember,
whether I was sleeping or waking
I sure was struggling somewhere in between. 

I don't know if you've
ever been there
It's a place where 
you can see...
An orangish red ocean, 
like a curtain drawn behind your eyes!

Three white spots
I saw sinking in this red ocean 
Glaring at me like those of a camouflaged monster stranded somewhere amidst that vast
red expanse!

The eyes grew bigger 
And scattered the red
back into a black hole.
These were white tunnels 
that seemed to pull me in,
I wonder if it was
A bright light that lead me to a resurrection,
Or the dreadful monster 
Sharpening his claws that can rip apart my flesh and skin!

Whatever it was,
I opened my eyes
and woke before
I could tell.
I'm left to think about
it over and over...
Until I secretly wish 
that the white tunnel
Had just swallowed me in
And not left me here
to brood over and think..

And so, I lie awake these days
Waiting for that red curtain to be drawn
And for those mysterious spots
To visit me again
And take me to this place
I've never been
And unveil a secret
that was hidden from me!

Bring me a rose

                        Bring me a rose 

Bring me a rose,
And pull a chair next to me
Now lower your face,
such that I can fit in a little whisper
 into your ear...
I hope it doesn't spill out
For the walls to hear...

Now here are the things I'd never tell you otherwise,
And listen to me closely
For I let go of my pride
that used to infatuate me
And you do know,
that this happens not often
but very rarely!

Here, are the answers you seek
That I hid under my pride
The answers that can fill every 
curious rift in your mind
But here,they are for you
to uncover 
Wrap your arms around it 
And gather all that you can
For I won't offer it another time
Not quite so generously...


You taught me to love
For I knew not what it meant
You had read and researched it so immensely...
I looked down upon how you dictated of a love
A love,that I thought you'd not felt but just read
And yet you spoke of it
So very passionately

 I love how you hold me by my shoulders
Once I've closed my eyes.
You gently spin me around to yourself
"Open those beautiful eyes of yours and look at me
Here's all the hope and  the love you'll ever need!"
And you laugh into my ears...
You laugh so loud,
It silences all those sobs and tears!

You sleep while you talk to me
At times, you dream a dream in a minute
And wake up to narrate it to me
I've seen my little cousin sleep like that
And thanks to the sleepless nights I have
I have watched your childlike face sink into that pillow,
and wake for a few seconds to 
bless me with a smile
And then fall back asleep!

You amuse me,
When you have no complains
Little grudges you hold against people
Only speak of your callowness 
Which I wish I could've shared with you
Like those grapes and nuts you crack,
To feed yourself and me.. 

I like it when you see
me in the little birds in your balcony,
"She's tiny,just like you...
And yesterday I saw a cat,
 who looked at me like you do..."
The birds,they make you feel less alone,
But I've found nothing that'd quite replace you...

Your face I trace out with my fingers
I do that because I wish to trace myself back to you
Even this poem of mine,
Will stay here for me to come 
back and find you within these 
words and the little spaces amidst them
Find me a bird or a cat 
would you?
But until then,
sit next to me on this chair
And let me whisper all this to you
Do listen to me patiently...

Poems

                                Poems
         

            

Am I writing this poem?
Or is it writing me?
Which is what
And what leads me to it
At times I fail to see...

But either way
It seems to me...
That once I write 
I own it no more.
It takes its form and breathes its unique intensity,
That may 
then be endowed
by a kind reader to me!

What remains of me then?
I'd be like one of those
toymakers
Who'd collect the rags and scraps of metal
To make a toy that's only worth
A few moments of whimsical childhood 
Then broomed away 
to be left in misery...

For even these lines of mine
May rest in a crumpled paper
Thrown in a box that labels its worthlessness...

But,even then am I
Obliged to write.
For,I needn't be aware but believe 
that this poem writes me well...
Way better than I have written it or any other.

For it's not just the words on the paper that I see,
But a transparent medium that allows me
A glimpse of myself!
And through it,
I do see and can breathe in
an essence of my reality!

But here's the sad truth,
and it hurts me to tell...
This poem does perish
once it has written itself,
and plucked a few buds of life for me!
As for me,
I callously allow it to rest in my old diary...
Waiting for a reader to come my way,
And share with it some meaning
That might bring it back to me...

Yarn story

                               Yarn story

                 

       The grandmother, she came and sat on the same bench
It was green and stood under an aged mango tree.
Her knitting tools were gathered in a blue cloth,
That she knotted with a learned patience
that only a sixty or so
years could teach!

Every day,she would spend time here,
Knitting little sweaters and socks
Once she knit a little hat
with a bright orange flower
 placed at its centre.
When she'd finish her work,
She'd spend an hour
bestowing upon it a perfection,
Only to please herself
Which was then expressed in
a gracious wrinkled smile...

Surely, you have an image of her,
Yes,she wore sarees in subtle colors
And wore spectacles that rested on the tip of her nose
At times she'd lift her gaze from her work
Tilt her head backwards 
to get a better look at the teenage love birds..
Who'd  scurry to find another corner
and escape her!

This one day,
She came with a little toddler,
Who held a bright red ball in hand,
She placed him on the tender grass
And he sat there holding the ball in a curious manner
Looking at it and then his grandmother,
who untied the blue bundle and threw him kisses in the air. 
He reached out,
entwined his fingers in his soft round curls
"Search the kisses...for they are stuck 
in there", she chuckled, as her needles clicked together!

But then, 
the toddler hid beneath that bench,
She placed the needles on her lap
And paused to look around
The bright red ball became a symbol of dread!
For its little owner,
was nowhere to be seen 
She got up and gasped...
The needle and the yarn dropped down near her feet
"Where is my child"?, she mumbled 
with her shaking hands rising to her chest!

There came a little hand from under the bench
It held the yarn of wool which was followed by a peeping head
The grandmother bent down to pick him up
Rested his head on her shoulders and dusted him well!
She kissed those curls a million times
And moved ahead taking long strides.

The yarn,the needles and this part of her life,
Was now forever left behind...
For I've never seen her since that day
I imagine,she's throwing kisses in the air
at her little toddler
To while her time away...
I would like to know she's still knitting 
And momentarily thinks about this park,
the bench and a stranger who came to
look at her everyday!

Colours

                            Colours

     
             


I want a man to dress me up,
I'm curious and wonder how that'd be...
I wish to assemble all kinds of attires
On a table, lit with the subtlest of light.
And then, I'd ask him to have a gander
At this naked woman, 
Ordinary or alluring,
I secretly hope
his eyes to mirror that for me!


I wonder, if he'd pick the  bright blue cloth
and just drape it around me,
Well why blue then...
Because its warm and gracious
And most likely the color that soothes his vitality.

Or would it be a red,
Because he sees in me a Lolita!
He might dress me up in it...
And stare at me
for a while,
And then decide
That some bright lip shade would be required,
To bury that innocence
I'hve dug out from my 
childhood days
To keep myself alive..

Or would it be a yellow,
Because he's had a sad day.
And the colour might just brighten up,
His dubious ways that are about to let him sink,
Or because it pays homage
to that glass of red wine 
That's there to sooth his soul
 and help him forget that forlorn day!

Or would it be a pink
For of course, to him
That's just more feminine...
He might ask me to let
my hair loose 
Such that it  falls down to my waist,
The cloth he'd drape such that it'd allow him a glimpse,
A glimpse of my womanliness
That keeps ablaze his virility...

Whatever colour he picks from that table
I'm quite sure, 
It  wouldn't hold
even the faintest reflection of me...
For that'd be a drudgery
He's sure to evade,
And instead he'd like to build his fantasy..

For he's a man,
And haven't you heard?
They've always been the builders, the painters and the sculptors.
And hence, they tend to build and sculpt
whatever it is that they wish to see!
Oh, do not blame them
For they sculpt a woman
 with nothing but 'love',
And believe, it's what she would
like to be!

Pumpkin house

                           Pumpkin house

        

I want to live in a pumpkin house
I'd have to get used to those orange walls
And light scented candles for a variant smell
I'd sit next to a carved out window,
And stare at the same tree everyday
My door, I'd decorate with crystal shells and yellow bells!

For breakfast I'll have a pumpkin soup, 
Lunch will be pumpkin pie with pumpkin juice
For dinner I'll have pumpkin gravy and rice
And that would suffice my appetite!

At times I'd have some friends over.
They'd talk about their cucumber and mango houses,
"Cucumber house  is better in summers", one would tell...
"The mango house always smells nice before the winter spell".

One would tease the yellow bells
"You should have stuck to orange...
To soothe the mind, 
camouflage does help..." 
But,I'd still have the yellow bells
and wouldn't have a mango scented candle,
Even for its smell!

Cucumber peels I'd have as curtains
Just to appease my orange walls...you know,
A plant I'd grow near my window 
and water it, 
to sit and watch it grow...

Would you like to  pay a visit then?
You're welcome with your friends...
You could see my little plant and the orange walls,
Feel the scent of my lemon grass candle
And admire the crystal shells and
those yellow bells...
Or maybe you've felt that you live in a similar house as well?
A house,that remarkably pleases you,
but no one else!

Only if

                                 

                                Only if!
                   

Only if...you knew it's bliss
to sit for sometime
and just blink,
Blink for it might feed you
a sense of being alive,
that might console you 
at such a time!

Amidst all that juggling
You should have paused,
Paused while you carried a coffee mug to that car,
Or rushed into that bus
pushing someone aside,
And impatiently breathed into that telephone!

You should have learnt
To build your mind fort
Where you'd stay and maybe grab a drink with yourself...
Made stories about that bald guy with the grey eyes 
Who you'd pushed aside,
And make a song of how your dog licked the coffee in the mug!
And followed you around with a coffee breath!

You should then worry a little,
For your edginess over that call
Maybe you should have closed your eyes,
taken a deep breath,
smack your lips and said,
"Yes miss,take your time,
For I'm still here...
Trying to catch my breath 
and sound all clear!"

Only if you'd built a mind fort...
You'd have felt fine.
But because you didn't
You can call yourself sane,
And the whole pandemic you do blame!
But it's been ages since my mind 
has been quarantined.
And at a time like this,
I'm sorry ,but I feel fine...
And here's a funny poem
I haven't written in a long time!

Sure...you love me!

                       
                        Sure...you love me!
    
          

I know, I complain
And forgive me dear,
As an overwhelming feeling of disdain
does cloud my judgement,
Time and time again...

But I wonder
where I'd hide...
And if I did, would you try and seek me,
Once you begin to fathom this colossal misery
You see, as this,'thing of beauty'!

Who is it then,
that you see?
It surely must be someone,
who only holds a faint resemblance to me.

For if you really saw 
how wretched I could be,
You might have to envision
A new sentiment towards me...

Now that'd be difficult, dear
You say you love me
now...
And,we know how
that has been  a denouement,
You were trying to evade!
For love used to scare you
And now that you've embraced it
You must hold it near,
And assume that it's for me...

I'll let it be that way
Until the day you decide to awake 
And notice everything disarrayed!
I'd like to know then,
Would you still embrace your love...
Or would you hold on to me
'Me'...this object of affection
that only you could ever see!

Aura

                                Aura


                 


At times,
I find a corner of a room
And crouch there,
My knees bent to my stomach,
My chin I rest amidst my breasts,
I then, take a deep breath in...

"I am, I am",
I say to myself
As a sour spice of my being
Tickles my nostrils 
And a sweet aura of my womanhood
I sniff and immerse myself in...

Something in me awakes
I'm nothing but this smell
A cluster of cells
That might shatter and break
Like a droplet that contains the rainbow hues
Sprinkles out into 
a million transparent dots
And leaves nothing but that soapy smell!

There's something,
rather intimate about a smell!
As I crouch here,
Amidst all this chaos,
distanced from me,
by a door...
I become that little space I crouch upon,
I become that smell
tangy yet sweet,
Like that coconut mist I rub on myself,
This is all me
I am...and will be
only this,
For nothing more do I wish to be...

Delusion

                             Delusion

                



It must have been
the same road then,
for it held those familiar
boards and bends...

The hospital signboard
was crooked as always,
The 'o' in it's name
 was missing since our graduation days!
The footpath sheltered the cigarette stubs,
Callously thrown around
by the amateurs to the nicotine buzz..

Gigantic faces, 
awaited at a distance,
Wry and rusty...
They were  faces
with limbs that I 
barely could see...

They mirrored the stern 
glare of the sun.
Although, anchored to
these little limbs
They now seemed to move
or rather, they lumbered,
in the attemps of a run...

An unhurried recognition
now dawned upon me.
These faces I knew 
As they knew me...
But never did they pause
or greet 
Instead they stumbled,but moved
To escape that intense glare from the sun!

And if this ambiguity,
That drapes this poem of mine
Hasn't yet warped your mind,
I'd ask you to wait
And bear with me,
As more have I to write
about the things I did see...

These known faces
begin to melt,
Fragments of the discolored, rusty, gigantic faces...
Slowly faded into a mushy fluid
that made clumps and moulds
They rolled as pebbles and settled in the crevices
of the tarred road!

And me,
Was I even a participant here?
For I felt nothing,
And yet,I moved ahead 
on that turpid road..
Each step of mine, 
placed on those pebbles and clumps of clay,
That now disintegrate
 to merge with the dust 
that flew away...

And now, dubious figures await me
Hollow structures,still unformed
Gaze at me from 
down the road,
Where am I headed, or who are they
Will I now be
A clump of clay?

As I stop writing,
I question myself...
Was this a dream posed as a poem,
Or a poem dressed like a dream?
Maybe neither...
I might have just said goodbyes to old friends,
And seen their hollow remembrances...
In the ones I'm about to meet...

Here

                                 Here

Here, I visit everyday 
And more often than not,
I wish to transfigure, 
into that wooden chair,
this table, or even a leaf
that's here to stay...

The lamps light up,
when the light is scanty.
I know,
For many evenings have I spent here.
The lamps have aged along with this place,
And so have I,
wishing to be molded into their frame...

The floor is concealed,
By the mango flowers,
That we  dust off our
shoulders on an autumn day
They seem to clamber back on the branches
For I have to pluck them off my hairs
The very next day...

A wooden windchime
Hangs on our old mango tree,
it swings at times,
But no sound have I heard.
Nevertheless, it's younger than the tree
And my old soul,
Which pays hommage to it's silver bells
That sometimes, 
grace me with a glimpse...
from amidst those branches...

Is it absurd..
You tell me,
If I wish to be molded into or transfigured
Into that lamp or the tree.
For I wish to stay here,
as long as forever!

So, here's a request
I wish to make
Would you be so kind,
To pour me into that lamp frame
Or hide me in one of those branches,
like that windchime that momentarily glances?

Femme

                           Femme

Do you want to dive,
into a nectar bowl?
You might even take a dip here,
If that is what you wish for...

The nectar at first,
won't make you dizzy
But yet, you might 
hold on to the edges
If you want to stay afloat...

Close your eyes,
while you're here,
For you might feel a quiver at the nape of your neck,
As the nectar entwines and knits your toes together.
Your legs bound to each other 
Your hands must you rise
and submit to the expanse of the bowl.

The dense palatableness,
Will slowly slide down that collar bone
You'll gasp and hold on to the dear bowl
As it edges towards that hollow bend in the collars
And waits for you to sink
Sink in the beatitude of 
the exhaustion it caused...

And while you're there 
You dress it on your lips 
And drink it until a blurry conscious resides in your mind
When you awake,
Give it a little thought...
Did you relish the dip
Or were you devoured?

Write me a poem

                        Write me a poem
                      
                    

                                 
I want someone to write me a love poem
He should have a pencil,a paper
And a lit cigarette
to smoke in hand.

This person needn't be my lover,
For every lover does become a writer 
And there isn't anything extraordinary about that!

This could be a stranger I spoke to,
Who hasn't read or written poems
But I want him to take a pencil and sit,
Sit cross legged 
on a rusty iron chair.

He should chew at the pencil's end
And ruffle his hair
Beat his fists on the dingy table..
And take an eraser to clear up the blank paper,
That helplessly stares...

Hours should be spent
Scribbling down the words and erasing them...
And then he should decide to nap,
And dream a dream
Hoping he'll wake with a blurred
vision of a poem!

On waking up,
He should let go,
Let go of the ordeal of writing a poem!
But that paper and pencil
He should bring to me...
For I can run my fingers through the blank page
trying to trace out the imprints of a word  or a phrase
written and then erased..

And then can I tell him
He has a poetic soul 
For I could trace out a broken poem
And no one could write 
A better poem
When they have found a muse in me...

'For' or 'about'!

                           For or about!
  

I know a boy who sniffs at my poems
And so I should write him one.
For or about 
I can't quite decide,
As I have known him well.
Nonetheless I will write
And let my poem tell..

He had his regards for Pound and read deep into Ezekiel's poetry.
He thought Byron to be a better romantic..
Ofcourse,far better than Shelley...

He wouldn't watch anything that didn't have a Kubrick or Godard label 
A clockwork orange he's both read and seen..
And mentions when he's asked about
his preferences in the movies..

He frowns upon me,
On finding me with a copy of
 'Norwegian wood'.
"Why would you read Murakami 
It's a book that everyone reads
I haven't read and never shall read"
This he said as he stubbed his cigarette
Holding his gaze with me!

And so I write these lines,
For I know for sure 
He wouldn't read...
But,I willingly agree with him for once,
As anyone can knock up a few lines together
And dare to call it poetry..

About these lines I'm not very ambitious
And unlike anyone,
 I rather not call it a poem
The words or the rhyme I have casually skipped,
And a poetic idea I have none
Although the few who read this 
Need to know..
I have a friend who sniffs a poet
Even before he has read one..
And I guess,I scribble down these lines
As an ode to this sleepless night,my boredom, 
And a dear friend who's not forgotten!

Crimson memories

                        Crimson memories
           
                     

             
It was an ordinary sunset,
But I must acknowledge
the hues of passion,
It generously shared with me.
And even with the sour and salty notes of the breeze
I crouched in the sand to soak the colours into me...

Broken beer bottles
lay idle 
with their bodies
dug deep in sand
They were remnants of a
hazy evening,
That now meant nothing
Or perhaps were remembered for the sake  of the sea banks...
Or the beer they held in hand..

Golden foils of chocolate,peanut skins and crumbled papers that once held roasted chickpeas
They're all inhabitants of this seashore
Only at times are they tossed
Or swept into the sea...


And then there were those orange shells
I pick them up to see
Crumbled peels of an orange 
Roast into a crimson shade 
A crisp crimson 
that an artist's palette might crave
They rest next to my feet..

I pick one up,
Curled it around my toe
It made a pretty ring...
I slyly slid it into my pocket
And hence here's an apology..
An apology to the seashore,
"For I'm sorry, but I like to carry my crimson memories..."

Depression-ll

                         Depression-ll

It was a monday afternoon,
Warped up in an inertia
Now so familiar..
And me, I chase the motion of a wheel
like a helpless hamster in its cage!
You know he runs,
And yet,he stays
where once he had begun the chase.

A bald torquoise
head now appeared
Torquoise like the water that thieves the shells
His eyes 
Rest diagonally on that bald head
Hollow yet shimmering 
Like dews that rest on a dry Anthurium petal.

Slowly he pulled the strings of the wheel...
And here I wither away
My hands and legs 
All tethered by a string were now snipped away...

Pick me up,I pray
and put me in a bowl
like one does to the beads that fall
and go astray..
And patch me back ,like a voodoo doll
And in that monstrosity will I rest
For now,when I see a turquoise head,
I'll stop the running,
pull my strings and stand erect!

Depression

                       

                           Depression     

A numbing spell was cast upon my mind
Which pricks and rots
About this rigid space.
And here,
it stays and grieves to death
A twitch in the eye or
a quiver in my finger
Is now...so deeply felt!

 I can write a better poem,
For, I'm not so dull..you know
But perhaps not now..
For now, has never been a good time...

I rest here in a glass ball,
Like an obscure little doll with a contorted face.
It might snow,
or rain glitters here,
And..I'll turn and spin around
to the strains of music 
Spun by my inert mind.

 It's not an act dear mother,
The spinning wears me off,
I want to break free out of here, 
Rest my face in your lap and reflect the warmth
In your tender,loving eyes...

And you should let me cry,
"Hush..hush..." you should say as you put me to sleep
And in my dreams I'll put together the fragments,
The broken fragments of what I used to address as 'me'...

The laburnum blue

 

               The laburnum blue.

Have you heard of laburnum blue?
Neither have I..
Laburnums blossom in yellow hues
Laburnum blue just sprung in my mind.

It held no meaning
But in my mind it dangled
and swayed.
It wasn't the blossoms...
But the word,
The roots of which carved an ambiguity in my mind.

It must be absurd
I think,
To chase a word 
to a meaningless end..
Or a blur image that dilly dallied
In some remote corner of
my existence..

And now, I write
to relieve my mind.
As within that ecstasy 
it rests..
The more I write 
I'm tied to it,
And it weighs me down to see
I become the laburnum blue,
As it has become me!

     

You're here

         

                          You're here...

       There are all these little things...you see..
The window pane is blue
 And I have blue mornings these days
But then...you're here
With your head rested on my shoulders,
You ask me to think..
think of the bright yellow sun on a pool of honey
This you do..
Before you rise and open the window for me.


The coffee mug burnt my fingers...
it was too hot...you see
And then...you're here
You sit on that chair,
and your feet rest on my table.
You chuckle and pinch my nose
"You have such little fingers"..you tell me.

Evenings can be really quiet..
Spent here...on the balcony
And here, I see you...
Leaning on that railing
With your neck arched backwards
Your face soaks the dimming hues of the sun
You drink it gluttonously...

The dust of the city
rests on my old albums,
And  here...you pick one out..
Beat the dust on your khaki pants,
And kiss pictures of little me.

Only that you aren't here...
I fix my gaze on the chair
Or that railing
And then you seem to appear.

And I..
I patiently wait to read out,
these lines that I'hve penned.
For when you come,
you'll rest your head on my lap..
My fingers I'll knot in your hair
As you look at me vacantly,
"Tell me" you will demand
"Do you ever think of me?"