I write
I have nothing to say
Insanely something presses against me
Do not read
Do not talk
I make this a moment
for
rambling
as if it were enough
for me to write
and you to read
no bicycle bells ring here
tea houses and coffee shops
they are a different world
you will not meet my twin
prosaic
dry
modernist
but you may bump into her
if you do
will you pretend it was me?
Embrace...
Once we were lost, and now are found.
We met at a moment when,
You were not you, and I not I.
We journeyed together to the cliff at the top of the world,
And from there we leaped into the beyond.
We heard the music of the spheres together,
And to it we danced - the perfect dance.
Soon, all too soon, the music stopped and the dance ended,
Perfection never lasts for more than moments.
Now, instead of the music, a silence plays,
And it says simply -
My friend, Farewell.
*************************************
Spaces Revisited
The ever-flowing stream of chatter,
The quiet buzz and loud rings of cellphones,
Silences that situate themselves in between,
Cars lined next to one another,
The solitary dry tree in the midst of it all...
The crowds of people walking in and out,
The red brick of the buildings beside,
Rings of cigarette smoke that fill the air,
Animals, birds and insects all demand their space,
The I in the midst of it all...
The street urchin that begs for a morsel more,
The tea-vendor who supplies the daily necessities,
Raindrops that splatter on the ground,
Ink that flows and marks the page,
The eye in the midst of it all...
The lovers that meet and part,
The workers that seemingly never stop,
Corridors that resound with the laughter of friends,
Posters that mark the walls around,
The cry of ‘Aye!’ in the midst of it all...
******************************************
Sounds that barely whimper,
Silences that stifle screams,
Shouts that are never voiced,
A Whole is made of this
Shards that pierce the skin,
Fragments scattered in the wind,
Blood that flows unabated,
A Whole is made of this
Death awaits behind a smile,
Lives flicked away like ash,
Statistics that remain,
A Whole is made of this
*********************************
This is being placed here on a friend's (Akhil's) recommendation. He felt all my poetry and work must be on one blog, and not be scattered all over; no matter how scattered and fragmented we as beings were.
Adversaria scripta
Things written on the side, Latin.
Little inscriptions in the margins,
Doodles of dogs and men,
Squiggles in red,
Collections they were.
Meaningless marks,
Two lines, highlights,
Questions, lovers’ names,
Notes exchanged, archives created.
A struggling poet’s attempt at creation –
The sixty eighth page of the book,
“Burial of a butterfly”
A little blue butterfly, dead.
Ants nibbling at it.
I wanted to give it a burial.
Another attempted a photograph,
Framed beauty, life – freeze.
(For the wings fluttered in the breeze)
Desecration said one, deification remarked the other.
And the butterfly – sealed in wax.
Dead, but stolen from a worse fate...
That of ants nibbling at it.
But the main text.
Kafka and Karnad, the important things are...
... ... ... ... (Tap, tap, tap ...)
Sense or nonsense? Never mind that.
These were things written on the side.
**********************************************
Itinerary
Days spent in longing...
Nights in sleep...
We toss and turn and turn and toss,
Must we, Oh must we sweep desires away?
***********************************************
Puppet on a string…
The light danced at the corner of the stage,
As I did at the other, pulled along,
As the banjo was plucked,
As the women embraced,
As the audience stared.
The spider seemed to keep time,
As it left traces behind, silver – grey,
As rags and blocks mounted,
As grease and dust mingled,
As guarding doors slammed.
There, just there... I was tossed,
Behind those doors,
Thinking I was wooden,
Tugged by strings, no flesh, no feelings.
Did they not feel the sticky blood?
Did they not hear the cry?
Did they not see that I was a not a toy?
Did they not know I was a boy – Pinocchio.
***************************************************
Of What I do not write...
I write of desires and flesh,
Flames flickering black and red,
Touches as light as summer rain.
I write of marks and letters,
Ink that displays itself,
Silent pauses in between.
I write of sunlight and flowers,
Gossamer threads of a spider’s web,
Dried leaves twirling in the wind.
I write of spices and spaces,
Aromas that waft in through the cracks,
Amber liquids swirling, half-stubs burning.
Notice of what I do not write.
I write not of silences and screams,
Nor of the blood that drips onto the streets,
No rape mars my verse, no riot erupts,
No prostitute sells wares,
No lives, money, blood and flesh traded.
I draw the veil over their existence as others have before;
I join the ranks of history,
Comfortable.
Numb.
And judge myself guilty.
**********************************************
Frames
Green tendrils trodden underfoot,
An earthen pot blackening
Over a long lit dying fire,
Glass fragments strewn along the path,
Strangers kept in, kept out and flung.
Yellow leaves caught in a whirlwind,
An old rusted grill sticking
Out of the window sill,
A barbed wire running along the wall,
Pictures captured, framed and hung.
Crimson dripping at the end of the blade,
A twisted brown cane that has seen
Many hands, many backs,
Oxygen-less existence,
A body bound and a corpse strung.
****************************************
Tales Told
Empty rooms, silent spaces
Each with tales to tell,
And what tales they told,
I listened,
Tales of experiences felt.
Bottles of whisky and broken glass,
Empty inkpots and scattered pages,
The mattresses on the floor,
Cigarettes stubbed out long before.
Games played - those won and lost,
Shadows that danced through the arches,
The tinkling of the doorbell,
Blows that fell.
Roasted cumin, gingerbread; coffee and cinnamon ground together,
Rituals that made up each day,
The paint splattered on canvas and ground,
Children that ran around.
Empty rooms, silent spaces
Each with tales to tell,
And what tales they told,
I listened,
Tales of experiences felt.
**************************************************
