Tuesday, July 29, 2008

Shadow Harvest

In the middle
where shadows
converged, their
skeletons stretched
as they moved apart
and no longer bore
the brunt of flesh
one could no longer
be the centre,
or the sun, horizons
vanished in the dusk,
slurred by the sea and
nettled by the night

bones strung on
onion heads
clothes looked rags
no matter what brand

Shadows were alike
but in their blotched
irregularities, trees
hung on them like
giant feet stomping
light and movement.

pried on
and pasts,
flesh and blood
looked unreal
in their game

I walked past shadows and their
obsession with death and details

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

let pen speak the rest

the world in three dimensions
as we see is one thing,
another to fold earth
into a piece of paper
measure its contours
and crevices, then look out
from the window to see men
walking in slow motion
to sense life in its
atomic miniscule
even emotions are sprayed
as particles around without
you realising it even.

when thoughts creep up
like beanstalks towards
heavens wanting to cheat
the giant god out of his
wits and money bag, words
demure, either you wax
eloquent or let silence speak
through seasons, the gust
and the leaves that fall
on railway tracks that
beckon horizons. there you
see an old man pulling a
trolley over a gob of spit
that shone like pearl
studded on tarmac roads.
you can call it aesthetics
and let pen speak the rest

Monday, July 14, 2008

Being turned down is something
like a cloud not allowed to rain,
It’s no joke, the cloud hangs on
perspiring without end
to be honed into the hour glass
of eternal time, to be forgotten
easily as the wind blows
It hangs like the poppy smoke
endless laughter turning to
droplets, thirst growing
into the marrows of being.

Not surprisingly monsoon
failed the coast this year

Monday, July 07, 2008

Five years after my grandmother died

When my grandmother died
my aunt remembered her
clad in a yellow sari
kneeling on the pew
with a stream of sunshine
gently silhouetting her skin
My aunt remembered the halo
the church and the shine,
the brightest memory ever
salvaged veiled by a deluge of tears

Living in memory was absurd.I was
living in the present with a foetus
in its trimester. Mittens, napkins,
baby lotions,the anxiety of labour,
pain and sutures in the wrong places
The unborn was my future, the corpse
my past, Living in the present between a foetus
and corpse, committed to my future,
I tried not to remember

After five years between two children
an abortion, padded with wads of
flesh, I dredge the silts
of my past, a dry river in waiting,
to touch a pebble, the memory of
a chick perched on my grandmother's
toes, shook off with a cocky twist
his ruby snood falling over the crown,
squinted on her skin, pecking her blue veins,
a worm swathed in a thin film of
earthen flesh, frail bones and wrinkles.

After five years, I do not recline
supine, ruing over seasons
the showers and summers,
I dont remember my past just in
flashes of remembrances I feel my
skin flinch at every peck
as my aunt broods in a corner
hallucinating my grandmother’s
body clad in a yellow sari
touched by the last rays of the sun.

Thursday, July 03, 2008

Dreams Unbound

is a
bad poem
i dont write
good poems)
bad, so bad
that maybe its
a poem for you?
i know its hard to
please your senses,
propriety and finesse
how much ever hard i
try i look for that
spark of approval
in your eyes, like
a child waiting for
the judgement that
will either make or
unmake her dreams, oh!
@ @ @
I listened to the
poet who sang
how many years
it would take for us to
realise that we arent
that bird that
reclaims life
once burst into flames,
That was a live voice
on pod cast, poets
who lived years before
were ruffled too
by the wind,
the wind on the reeds
the wind that
passed words
shattered like pearls
in front of an
unforgiving crowd!
A motley
that chime and control
praise and deceive!

a door opens
only to be swung
shut again, as the
feather burns down
ashes to ashes
dust to dust


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