Sunday 22 December 2013

New Year

We give birth in a bloodbath 
A bloodshot sun glares 
At bites and scratches 
On parched lands 
Tramped upon by the millions 
Rejoicing the beginning of a new era. 

 Only young blood is spilt here 
Hot and impassioned with wrath 
It is the only kind of blood that boils and bubbles 
In our test tube babies 
For we create clones of our expectations 
And shatter them as we fail to live up to them. 

 As the salted waters rise again 
To rinse the healing sun 
Heads bend in furious prayer 
To eclipse the terror of an end 
And procrastinate living 
Till another night, 
Another starless dream sequence, 
Another heady daze 
Another maybe, another might. 

 Eyes rubbed and rubbed and rubbed again 
Set with a bloodied sun 
Shards glisten, 
Weeping clouds that could have been 
To mask the hurt of howls and hyenas 
All settle now under a shroud 
Till another morning, 
Another dew-soaked dawn, 
Another lukewarm warning, 
Another blood-soaked response.

Sunday 20 October 2013

Making Memories

I walk a hundred steps a second. And only some left steps feel right. How you live knowing where each breath goes is beyond me. You know I was never good with words.

I look for you in the pauses, in the crevices of my dreams but I find only gaping holes, some insect bites, some already filled.

The bitten leaves I stared at for hours were not ours. Our hearts are whole and full of fresh blood. And beat thickly no matter what the day was like. But I was never good with words. And I cannot say. It wasn't us. Neither you nor I. Our hearts were not to fathom why.

And I wondered why I smiled or cried and I looked at leaves and wondered why. The knowing smiles were lost on me. It was you I knew then and know it now. I cannot love as you do. I cannot hold on tighter than you. In front of yours my love feels small. And she sits by the window and pouts. 

I have stamped my foot, I have laughed, I have smiled and I have wished and wished and wished I was another, almost anyone else would do. 

Tomorrow is tomorrow and tomorrow is some other day I have no need to concern myself with. Mine may cloud over or shine in the blinding light of bikes on nights like these. But it is yours I wish was ours  for I can see the fireworks that'll dazzle onlookers and foolish strangers who have wasted lives wondering what love is.

Do not waste yourself on me. I am a bunch of lies that made itself up in your head. That is all I am and all I can ever be.

Maybe one day you will believe me. Maybe one day I will really be the dream you think I am. I was real. But I became illusory in your fingers. Dont ask me how or when or why. I do not know. I do not hope to understand. I am less than illusory now. I am the lines I traced on your palm. I am the wish I blew off your cheek. But I am there. I am more real to you than I am to myself right now.

And that's all, I cannot continue. The words I frame are too vague and blurred just as mine always were. Maybe that would make for a memory.

Tuesday 24 September 2013

Those Unseen Sounds of the Night


A yellow leaf falls quietly to the ground
Nothing stirs, nothing frowns
Black holes yawn at drowsy cats
Another battle, another night
For hearts have stopped before
Muffled like drums on weeping nights
A thud somewhere, a low groan
Passed off as one of those unseen sounds of the night.

Trees have fallen before
Roots trenched firmly underground
Come gravedigger
Pull me out.

Here lies a bundle tightly curled
The softest wind will wake him, tread light
Black holes yawn at drowsy cats
Morning cowers from the blinding night
For hearts have stopped before
Muffled like drums on weeping nights
A thud somewhere, a low groan
Passed off as one of those unseen sounds of the night.

I watched as the minute hand moved
And then the hour
I watched as our faces glowed in the dark.

Let the sleeping lie
At least they breathe
At least they sigh
Petals form roses
I cannot get them right
My fingers slip off buttery window panes
The world condenses on our hour glass
I wake him with a whisper
And still he lies
Standing by a leaning wall
Eyes close all thought of him
For  hearts have stopped before
Muffled like drums on weeping nights
A thud somewhere, a low groan
Passed off as one of those unseen sounds of the night.

We whizzed past dreams
And lowly sights
Wiping sleep from cloudy eyes
I cannot lose what I cannot hold
I cannot have a falling star
But  hearts have stopped before
Muffled like drums on weeping nights
A thud somewhere, a low groan
Passed off as one of those unseen sounds of the night.

Thursday 12 September 2013

Growing Up

The sky always fascinated me. When an airplane cut across the sky, all the children would run after it, shouting and waving. But that had never been what interested me. I always looked beyond those airplanes, deep into the sky, at the stars that never failed to twinkle back at me, reciprocating the same unconditional love that I had for them.
Every evening I went to the market with my parents on either side of me. I never looked at the houses towering over me or the people who exchanged pleasant greetings with my parents nor did I ever see where I was going. I simply held my parents' hands and trusted them to take me with them wherever they were going. And all the while I had my eyes fixed heavenwards, watching the moon teasing me from behind little puffs of clouds.
At night, I would lie next to my father on the little cot out on the terrace. He would tell me to count the stars and obediently I would start to count until his breath came gently and his lips twitched along with his moustache and I would put my head on his stomache and listen to the slight rumbling noises in there and all the while I would keep counting. I was afraid I would have to go back indoors once I finished counting. I was afraid I would run out of stars to count. So I would count the same stars again and again until I fell asleep right there, cuddled next to my father.
Today, when I walk down the road, there is no hand for me to hold. I can no longer trust somebody else to take me along, and so I stumble along by myself. But even now, sometimes when I stand by myself at night, I count the stars. I continue to count the same stars again and again and again just so I don't have to go back inside.

Monday 9 September 2013

Big Loves and Small

My love sits in a corner of a brightly lit room. Hugging her knees she rocks herself to sleep. Her frame is small and frail and she cowers from the light. There are bigger, greater loves than hers they tell her and she shrinks further into the background merging with the soft cream and peach of the ideal lover's den. If it be small, is it not love? How can she lift her chin and face your love if you tell her she doesn't exist, if you tell her she is not enough? It has been a while since she stopped believing in herself. It's been a while since she could speak or stand. Take her in your arms when you have time. She grows weak and flutters helplessly with every harsh wind that blows. Hold her and gently press your lips on hers. For even love needs loving sometimes.

Monday 1 July 2013

New Love and Light Rain

The lights that glittered were far away
Raindrops clinging to the railing shone pearly white
Trailed softly down my throat
Blurring the empty space around me
Cornering me in the centrality of my vacuum
Illusory fingers slipping away in the dark
Promising comfort
As the fading echoes bounce back upon themselves
And dissolve.

I want to feel skin when I reach out
I want to see the air cloud under warm breath
I want yellow lights
And a place of our own
Where blankets stay in closets
And summer dresses fly in the breeze
I want the new sun to bless us
Not under gulmohared shadows or stony crags
But on sandy beaches and open seas
I want freshly mown grass to run barefoot on
And curtains that're only drawn with the setting sun
I want new life wrapped around my little finger
And a mischievous twinkle unseen over its head.

New love is for children and I feel old
My daydreams rustle restlessly to unfold
The unspelt impatient to draw ink
To run dry or forever flow.

Tuesday 25 June 2013

Lil Ol' Boy

My old boy
Retired into decision
Of dreaming in the head
Precisely

My old boy
Swimming in a distant thought
Swung back and forth
From me

My old boy
He likes to fight
When no one's around
His left fights right

My old boy
My very own boy
After my heart
And how

My old boy
My very own boy
Warring with himself
In love

My old boy
My very own boy
Drowning everyday
Inside

My old boy
He says to me
I love the sounds you make
And sleeps

My old boy
My very own boy
Keeps running away
From what we could be

Love less, my dear
Dream less
Don't try to hide
And fail miserably

Love is what you'll let it be.

Sunday 2 June 2013

Wait Until Dark

Our dreams float dimly illumined like stars, like folded fireflies, like lighthouse beams. Step after blind step we trail after the light at the end of the tunnel following the whiff of warm trains wafting along on wintry nights. Our soft ambitions lull us into these twilight dreams that lie with us through haze and drifting sleep. Do we want to reach the end of the tunnel, or catch that train, or touch that shore? Would we not rather lose ourselves in embers than play with fire? The light on that other dreamy end would blind us. The candles we light are neither for burning nor for heat. The torches we light are for others to find the way. Our own light would blind us, so we look away. Dreams should remain dreams that flit in and out of drifting sleep. So dream away, sons and daughters of my own homespun cloth. Let not the sun wake you, it is but noon yet. 

Wednesday 29 May 2013

This post expires in 10 days

This post has now expired. All that remains is what you remember of it.

My love cannot have the hold on you that it has on me. For a fraction is lost in the reflection you see and another fraction lost on its way back to me. 

Friday 24 May 2013

Panic Waves

My heart was pounding all around me
Blind walls seemed suddenly closer

The ceiling whirred faster over my head
Words expanded till they blurred my vision
Forked feet lay rigid on the table
Tensely posing for a capture
The air condensed on my shoulders
Heavy arms made one last weak attempt
Put down the leaden instrument
And watched it drip and blot

Monday 20 May 2013

Refrigerated Love

Even the dead buried
Watered give out brilliant leaves of rust
And great pale flowers of liquid gold
Waiting for an unassuming passerby
To be taken into the pretence
Of the intoxicating luxury
Of the warmth and the faint smell
Of refrigerated love

Jaago Grahak Jaago

Refrigerated love going stale in packets whose shelf life promises years of never ending intoxication. In between lines that rave about the ingredients in telescopic font is that which never gives them away. The best before two months from opening part.

A Happy Place

You're allowed to break here.
Magnificent wall stained, cut and bruised.
Freshly painted for daily use.
Weekend passes for the young.
Free for the weak, unpopular, unsung.
They've gifted me a crystal  for this special occasion.
Custom-made red cut glass.
Easy to throw, difficult to pass.
It has a quote on it,
Ironic enough to blindly hit the mark-
"If it were now to die,
'Twere now to be most happy"
Indeed, I smile 
As the dazzling diamond dust dims the dark.

Tuesday 14 May 2013

The Young That Grew Old


Dropping crumbs on dusty balconies
Licking empty ice-cream bowls clean
Decadent post-retirement age
Preaches determined delusionists
To dance

Feeding dreams with dishwater
Untying laces, breaking watch straps
Gravelling through grimy mornings
Living sodden after sunset stories
And sleep

Once pebbles fell and did not break
Promises were made and fulfilled
Love’s dreamy nights ended on its knees
Names were engraved on stones and rings
The young grew old and lived the same dream
Of sighs that once were wishes
That children shut their eyes and blew
That fluttered into darkness
Trodden underfoot 
By the young that grew old

Dig now under piles and piles of regret
And miles of sand and sawdust
And through the bone dry surface
Grow leaves of untrodden faith yet
Gleam emerald-like in the gloom
Until plucked again
Maybe, maybe we’ll grow glass cases some day.

Monday 13 May 2013

Court In Session

Wooden floors convulse at the approaching bands of termites
Restless curtains still to the broken thrums of the generator
Fingers leap on hot phones, shrivel and melt away
The forbidding air holds council with blank walls
Too old for decisions
Ivory gavel strikes for order
Bed and slippers stare mutely at the ceiling
Who will plead not guilty?

All rise.

Judge takes off torn, tired robes
Thrusts swollen feet into the same slippers
Breaks into the mechanical arms of the same bed
Leaves curl in heavy dreams
Waves of wires swirl in metallic grayness
Men bounce off walls and try again
Women press against glass doors that cannot budge
Children sit in corners and bite their nails

Judge’s eyes flicker and open dazed
Ceiling fan cutting and churning stale air

All there is to see.

Tuesday 30 April 2013

A Day Broken Off Time

Morning of waiting dew
Last night's stifling stillness forgotten
Skies lighten at the tips of my toes
Shut off to the broken chimes of time
Nuzzling a dying rose
Hoping to revive her
Or me

Friday 26 April 2013

Just Another Day

No matter how wonderful we want our stories to be, there must be normal days in the interstices of those too. There are unwritten days in stories, unwritten moments in days, and today is one of those days. Today is not the day we met. Not the day I stood breathlessly at the door waiting for him to come out. Today is not the day we lingered under the stars just a little longer than we usually do. Certainly wasn't today that he went down on one knee as the world slipped into sweet oblivion. Nor has there been a bitter exchange of burning truths that neither of us wish to see. Today is not the day I shall stare musingly at the trickle of blood from a rose-pricked finger. Today is none of those days. Today is that unwritten moment of that unwritten day that stories leave unspelt. Today is just another day. It is the unseen substance of our story without which the beginning and the end would be no more than just days.

Wednesday 24 April 2013

Must I Fight


Write write write,
She said
Each word more impatient than the last
And all I saw was sunflowers wilt
And gulmohars broken at the hilt

Write write write,
She said
Her dark eyes imploring the words to implode
But all I saw was great heights melt
The horizon meeting its own end

Write write write,
She said
Each word restless in the fixity of its self
And all I saw was red ivory
Blue nails and limp carcasses

Write write write,
She said
Each word tipping recklessly over the edge
But all I saw was the rocking horse toppled over
Little fragments of wood and dried glue

But write Write WRITE,
She said
And I slashed paper with ink
I watched as the wounds grew damp and dark
And white flesh faded into pools of leisurely love

Her hungry eyes watched lustily
Waiting for miraculous transformations
While I
Gently laid down stained nib and body
Opened its leather case and let it rest
Eyes shut in heavy prayer
Refusing to open to the battlefields before me
Refusing to see the blood I had shed
Refusing to see the people killed
The branches broken
The petals wilted
If it be this that I must cause
Let me not write at all

Sunday 14 April 2013

Complex


Musty waves of stillness
Amongst hot breath and candle light
Stale yellow pages
Leave me with smarting cheeks
Ink-stained fingers shy out of sight
Into balls of melting and hardening humility
Hiding uneasily below molding wood
Scratching at the surface
Too ashamed to get out

Thursday 11 April 2013

The Juggler's Cap


A tiny mercurial ball
Tinkling like fairy-laughter
Struck my little left toe

A giggle
A gasp
And fading claps

Dissolving with the silence
In little stagnant pools
Of shivering ignominy

Heads bobbed curiously up
Ragged roar of remonstrations
Monstrous black balls of tumbleweed

Scattered glasses, egg shells
Humble footprints headed off stage
And the juggler’s cap
Once the yellow yolk of English breakfast
And the rich red evening tea
Spread-eagled there on dust motes

Tuesday 9 April 2013

Through the Looking Glass


Half way through torn flesh and bone
I have bitten back the name
That flows so quick from your lips
Smooth as water over pebbles
Effortless as summertime game

Yellow clusters gnash at each other on the windowsill
Mute, terrified faces point to my shoulder
Pincers flick lazily as I turn
We are indifferent now
The expected pause has reached a full halt

Rough cloth against glass
And yet the smudges stay
Try resting it on your nose
At least a part of me will still be yours
To have or simply watch

I trace streams, form pools
Off tables and sodden pillows
It is in darkness that I see your face
It fades with the morning light
Maybe I’m colour blind

But it gnashes again
And I know it’s there
Waiting patiently, maybe impatient
I wouldn’t know
I will let you crawl again

It is easy to shower affections on creatures
Their love is preserved in jars
Broken, smashed and delicately lost
You will outlive their love
As you will mine

And yet I sit with stricken cloth
Rubbing rubbing rubbing
Do you see me?
Do you see me?
Do you see me now?

Saturday 6 April 2013

Punching the Clock



6th April

3.34 am

Feathers lifted lightly off our bed and drifted out the velvet window.


2.23 pm


A light draught unsettles the trailing sheet. Revealing a pair of unpainted feet. 



2.38 pm


Faint trill of a yellow bird. Maybe red. Maybe blue. I wouldn't know..and dreams breathe heavily again.



2.54 pm


Interpreting dreams..is there another way?





Vasily Kandinsky

b. 1866, Moscow, Russia; d. 1944, Neuilly-sur-Seine, France 

“We are still firmly bound to the outward appearance of nature and must draw forms from it” 



3.27 pm 


Always miss the clock ticking in the middle of the day. But there it is now.




3.35 pm

Resting my chin on my knees. Staring at the floor between my feet. Occasionally wriggling my toes. But of course.




3.44 pm

Do tongues keep growing?

"
The human tongue stops growing when you do. The age is slightly different for everyone." As an afterthought, "there are exercises to make it longer."


See? I don't need you to answer my questions.

<pause>


Have I stopped growing?


<sigh>


I do. Who am I kidding?




3.54 pm

Curtains flutter. Houyhnhnms trot in through the open door. And drag me away.


4.28 pm


Houyhnhnms tamed for the time being. I come riding back. Trumpets. Horns. The whole show. 

Oh there you are.



7th April

12.07 am

Hanging off cliffs again. Rescued by a star. Frenzied flutter of paper and floods of ink. A nib through my collar and I'm set ashore. Been a long day. Time to lie awake again. Are we afraid of the dark?


Wednesday 3 April 2013

Swans or Plastic Cans?


There were white swans in green grass
And blades of lust
Wings flapped
And I held my breath
They were but plastic cans in dust

Our yellow blooded creatures
Have grown since the winter
What lightly tickled then stings now
And draws more than just yellow blood
I recoil now from what I dearly loved

I shut gates
And doors and closets
And windows
For I may walk in
And find you there

What season is it?
You ask, hoping for spring.
And it is spring, and you are right
But I am the creature
That’ll die by night

See them now
Those plastic cans
For what they are
Not as you do
For what they could’ve been

But why not?
Why not be swans
In blades of lust
Who are they to tell us where we belong?
Let’s hold our breath above water

Who says we can’t live in vacuum?
Who says we need to breathe?
Who says we are swans or plastic cans?
Who says we shouldn’t be?

Tuesday 2 April 2013

Unlearning Us

You are no more now than the spaces between the letters of your name
Cramped together in suffocating proximity
Or drifting apart in whirlwinds of empty time and space
It is all the same

I thought bricks would make stepping stones to climb
But they only hold us down
Sinking us into the cool depths of yesteryears and dreams
As we try so hard to rhyme

Tongues twist and roll in the back of our mouth
Holding back words and puns and turbulence
And we look into hooded eyes
Trying to shout

We should have licked
Tender lips and left
Raw skin is better kissed
And left unspelt

Thursday 28 March 2013

First Love


Sunrise. Salt.  And so we met.
Music. Midnight. And we moved.
Pigeons. Pockets. And we hid.
Swings. Sweat. And we danced.
Distance. Dampness. And we ran.
Football. Facade. Drew new lines and overstepped.
Cake. Closet. Hid beneath the sheets.
Secrets. Slippers. Tore at promises and all that bothered.
Grass. Gullies.  Tread on each other’s feet.
Lips. Light. Raised bars, chased cars.
Stories. Sunburn. And we were left untold.
Rain. Red. And we tasted the gods.
Words. Walks. Stranded at crossroads.
Blanks. Books. And we were empty.
Dates. Dogs. Fancifully fed.
Nails. Nests. We drove into walls.
Goats. Gates. Bled together, sharpened swords.
Laughter. Letters. We wrote ourselves anew. 
Toothbrush. Terrace. And we fell off beds.
Skirt. Sofa. Lay quiet under rustling leaves, shouting guards. 
Buses. Binoculars. Tied ourselves to rocks and jumped.
Guitar. Games. Bruised and bumbled.
Movies. Metro. We flashed in motion pictures.
Album. Arms. And green strawberries.
Shower. Shade. Swirled jam and cradled water.
Orange. Over-bridge. Freshly baked, burnt and spared.
Petals. Pulse. And we played to the beat.
Fury. Fantasies. And the bubble burst.
Cricket. Cats. We blew a new one.
Finding Neverland. Here we go again.

Thursday 21 March 2013

Sticky Feet


Even now
As my feet fill in the marks of yesterday
The sand covers them
Holding them where they are
The heavenly comfort of stillness
Of having been here before
Keeps me stranded
For a while

Even now
Yesterday seems sepia-tinted
And the colours stand out
Sunflowers more yellow than they really were
Suns blush brighter than before
Petals thrown up in the air
Rain down like in the pictures
For a while

Even now
Swings move to the gentle rhythms
Of our background score
Park benches remain empty
Waiting for those who first claimed them
Or pretended to be the first anyhow
And I linger by the gate
For a while

The sands will shift
Tides will rise
Other feet will fill the marks I left behind
Do not despair if you miss me
Come stand on this spot right here
And you will see me
I am that girl
Building castles on the shore 

Friday 15 March 2013

My White Lie


Edged out on blackened stones
I trip over white lines
Stick to it still
Seems like miles
But runs in circles
So I chase my shadows
Across vales
Out of windows
Over drowning sails
I crossed the smudge in the end
The beginning
Or somewhere in the middle
Tapped it with a toe
And tread lightly on
Should I stop somewhere and leave a mark?
Stay long enough to make a start?
Leave a coloured dot
Smudge another part?
Show the world I was here
Been there done that
Silently smirk
And depart?
I stared and stared
And shut an eye
I swear it moved
I bent the line

We move awkwardly now
My pirate eye
My white lie
And I

Wednesday 6 March 2013

Yellow


Stark flowers
Left white on graying lines
The petals don’t match
And we don’t like the same leaves.

We rose
Preparing to spring
You to Jan,
Me to December
Both cold, distant places
Poles of our similar seasons
Distinguishable to none.

Did I say we rose?
For yes, we rose.
But left only one.

I lazily flicked it away
But it came crawling back up my finger
I watched as it circled my nail.
It runs when I follow,
Creeps back when I turn away.

Why do yellow-blooded creatures remind me of you?

But there was my bubble
Glinting in the afternoon sun.
It was now.
It was my turn to leave.


Monday 18 February 2013

Miri


We scratch nails.
Peel paint.
And suddenly we can cleanse ourselves.
Suddenly we have power.
If only everything peeled off.
Dry skin.
Potatoes.
The plastic covers on books.
On shoelaces.
And everything else that matters.
For that's all she does.
Bites lips.
And winces.

Living Off The Living


...off-putting information political dimensions of British Romantic-era Trollope's notoriously vitriolic weirdness of Americans slightly unfavorable ritualized sameness anticipates complaints about the same offense evident with hindsight engulfed in an infernal hell...

waves come crashing at my feet
shake wind and webs and veneers
even flooded lands dry
leaving cracks
like gashes on a withered, wrinkled homeland
too old to keep me
i want to stay
but i cannot swim
i cannot stay afloat
so i throw away plastic armour
build my own webs
and climb onto another's back
spurring them on
i shut my eyes
and hope their shells are waterproof
or can be blow-dried

Wednesday 30 January 2013

The Last Letter

How much do you change between a few sheaves of paper?
A few lines that hold the power to mark the end. A moment stretched and stretched and stretched and stretched. Lingering at every letter, every syllable, every period. But the last punctuation lasts forever. And we depart. The same lines that brought us together for that brief ecstatic moment severs us. For good. For good. 

I have ground those words to infinity
I have shredded and powdered them to dust
And yet it is me who is dusted off travelling cloaks
And metaphors

Dribble only makes it stand out more
Acutely fresh and stark in the dirt
Teeth can tear only bark
Not memory

And so I drain ice
And pomegranates bursting at the seams
Drops trickle down
Smearing what is now grease
Leaving fingerprints
So some part of me stayed with the letter
I am not wholly inconstant
There is still a moist place where we touched
Where we used to be.

Monday 7 January 2013

Leaving Thornfield

A violent ejection of memories
A repulsion of touch once sought
And voices shunned
A welcome vacuum
And empty space
Bare as fragile branches
Unflinching as on dead windlorn mornings
I sit
In narcissistic mourning
In Ms Eyre's ditch
And sneeze.