Offerings from 2007 - ii

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.

**************************************************