Wednesday, June 25, 2008

Eating an Apple, Listening to America

So many poets in America
happy and framed smug,
intellectual scintillations
in a tepid world.
So many prizes in America
from a thousand dollars to fellowships
book grants and endowments

I too celebrate your poetry America!
I listen to your poets,pod casts

I bite into an apple, reach the core
nibbling every scrap of flesh
before spitting out the pip.
Pip-pops from my spout, hurts
my thrift, as I read through
more and more prizes
(hunger steadily growing in),
for Scandinavians, Chicanos,
Americans Black, White and Red
for translations, Pod casts
and regional poets,
some prize winners
wore the very same smile that charmed
the Black and White that framed them
with high resolutions, perfect angles
starry eyed, lip sticked, blazered
an excellent pair of well-set
teeth that continuously smote all
benevolence out of this world.

Night Compositions

I need a vision, to ergotise
myself to see a purple sky,
or tree full of stars, almost always
there's only a wild patched sky
that turns shocking blue
leaving behind just a transcience

when poetry thumps at my ribs
and escapes through my breath
shreds of memories I pick up
from blurred visions
are tipped into my ken
as erratic letters, words
meandering on dark gloomy
nights while a solitary fan
whirrs and poetry pamphlets
strewn allover become something
more complex than words, they
invade more like a passion
than anything else, say like
the intensity of intercourse
the ebbs, flows and the final
heave when pen stops, spurting ink
into the innards of my blank sheet

peace hereafter!

Wednesday, June 18, 2008

Love in the time of Moral Frissons: An Evening in Museum arboretum

Where have all the lovers gone? I wonder taking my evening walk around the Museum arboretum every day

Here, somewhere behind the high walled buildings, history sleeps in the canvasses of Ravi Varma and Roerich and in a few specimens of pre colonial artefacts

shored and preserved in glass boxes. They wear down, tear, fade and emit a mildewed smell, day by day, year by year

Varma’s ‘Shakuntala’ is also fast fading; her poise of removing thorn to take a clandestine glance at her lover does not look poignant anymore.

This city has buried her lovers, once they used to hide behind the bushes moaning at every touch, a kiss and smile

Now the police have muffled all the moan, they say it pollutes the crisp air washed and starched to perfection

By the wind and the leaves, the twitter of the birds and the canopy of bat droppings that manure the greens

I listen to hip hop with headphones plugged into my ears, to those voices seeking help from spiritual communities all over the world

A voice rapping, imploring cosmic connections to annul his unwise bondage between violence and frissons of calm

I longed for lovers, their ruffling behind the bush, sighs, raptures, these virtuosities to shatter the moral fa├žade of the city

The city of old men and women who shy away from holding hands as this man walks a mile ahead of his woman,

The carefully groomed sentinel holding the invisible strings of her chastity belt, keeping her in control through

tantrums and disorders. Ah these women! He gasps and turns back with a lecherous grin, gazing at her still-so-firm-tits

Even at dusk, the Museum is alive with health watchers; walkers like me throng the place chasing love out of its den

Health should survive love and love should die a natural death as age progresses, and silence should hush all words

We grin with a nod, killing words, our hurry makes us go round and round the outer reaches of the museum wall

Inside a wall a lion sighs a yawn, inside another Varma’s brushstrokes pale further

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

(P)reach me

I am still in my shell
uncracked, cocooned
they tell me they
will lead me to god

i tell them I have
found many on my own
in beads, prayer wheels,
books, idols and
in fervent prayers. in hate,
in lust, actions
spiced with virtue and vice

they tell me
its the black god
reflecting my mind

i tell then again
that i saw music
i saw senses merge
in my search for god
i have seen envy spread
its fangs, and desire
overtake propriety
in my search for love

they tell me
I am a sheep
gone astray

I tell them
I have seen
Baptists and Catholics
fight over me
and i stood like a wolf
lapping up their sap
I tell them that it
tasted so human
unlike the Christian blood

they look at me with hate
and tell me I am a
devil with a cleft foot

unburdened by sermons
I am on my own again
AND wary of god!

Monday, June 09, 2008

An evening with Leonard Cohen

An evening with Leonard Cohen
and a Spanish friend, Antia

Cohen says nothing

There's an eye of wisdom
glistening through
the innards of desire
when soul flies
from love to love
flowers to flowers
it becomes a song
filigreed with sadness
an archway to an
experience of being
so human, so inane
begging pain
in my bowl of being

Antia nods and croons
"You bring me lust
in my hours of sleeping
when I wake up
I find you sleeping
I am keeping count of you
I am keeping count of you
your hurts and gashes
and how I routed you
with the weight of my being"

Cohen smirks

I wake up to Antia’s old tape
as Cohen fades behind my bedroom drapes

Wednesday, June 04, 2008

An unborn neonate

II slurped first
then drank
greedily from
the same well
I drowned
my daughter.
thirst sated
my peace is sleep-
induced, rocked
turbulent , clammy
like death which
waking hours erase
from my dreams.

A dead child visits
me at nights, as my skin
chafes warm against
my living son.
I can only imagine
how it is in the depths
plummeted into the dark,
echoing the feebleness
of a life that
flickered to die,
you were a refrain
hummed and stifled,
oh my daughter!

I watched you,
legs akimbo
I was rational
to kill my desire,
my foetus yoked
in by tenderness,
membranes stretched
thin on the skin
I saw you, albumin
wrenched out of my
innards with scissors,
forceps and talons of
resentment of my mind
I saw you as a bundle
of blood and blue sockets
‘your eyes that were pearls’.


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