Tuesday, December 29, 2009

New year blues?

Another year
burned out
in the horizon,
don't count the
dark clouds
in a sky swept
clean by a blue;

a blue that
has no tinge
of green,
let all green
monsters hear,
let hulk dis-
engage himself
from the sky;

the blue has no
tinge of red,
let passion die,
let hopes die with
this blue;

this blue is
indeed soothing,
not exciting,
not turbulent
like the storms
and the cirrus
wisps, we can't
play hoola hoops
in the sky,
or stirrup
our fertile minds;

this blue has no
rainbow in it,
its just a blue
that strums the
cord that's
banal, this blue
has no music,
no passion
and no feeling;

another blue year
for you?
sorry, mine had
all colours in it;

passion red,
envious green,
crazy yellows
tame whites
purple sloshes
insane grays

So, this new year
explore the blues,
turn it to a
dervish rainbow
that will decorate
your brows and
your smiling curves...

Saturday, December 26, 2009

If only it had rained...

If it had rained over
that small hut
mossed out of
nature's canvass
by palm fronds;

If it had rained over
the half-dead river, dug
out of her sandy rib-
cages caressed by the
wind, that flowed
like pus on a
wounded face;

If it had rained over
the hills, undulating
the vales, to spread
a rainbow smile on
the sky;

If it had rained over
the waiting peacock
feather, if drops had
slithered down the velvet
water-proof plumage,
like fancy on
a poetic quill

If it had rained over
the lethargic ochre
sand,or the green stagnant
waters flooding the dam
of emotions

If it had rained over silences,
If it had rained words to an eerie silence,

If it had rained over the
cities without flooding,
if it had rained over the concrete,
if it had rained over
a cloudy dust storm,
If it had rained to quench
all thirsts,
If it had rained over me
If it had rained over you...

If only it had rained....

Monday, December 21, 2009

If we string different
dreams together, like jasmines,
we will get a narrative.
we can notch our silences, like bricks,
to build a saga of words
if we persist to write, like the rain,
through life's jerky rides,
an epic cannot be missed

If I hold your hands,
many times, however briefly,
we will be wedded to
our inseparable destinies...

Friday, December 11, 2009

Over the Round Table

It was over this round table
we sat and hatched the dream
of our freedom. Our eyes
mirrored heaven on earth;
steaming gingered tea
could never scald our
spirits those days

Over the same round table,
we lisped about the building of
our dreams and the common man,
our rockets and their crops,
our moon and their harvest,
their money and our mission;
dedicated to life's crosswords
and verbal ploces we spoke
through our optimistic stammer

Over the same round table
we heard some who never had
the right spoke too;
we knew how to silence.
Even silences disturbed
with their clarity
there should be the martyrs
on whose blood we can
build up those dreams
which we often talked about

Over the round table, we draped
our blanket of silence,
we heard not sighs or giggles
but resigned selves where we ruled
the roost. We triumphed in their
petty quarrels we doctored,
their tailor-made suits of armour
sealed their mouths once and for all.
The silent ones remained silent
and more passive admiring the
mahogany glow of the round table;
this dystrophy was convenient

Over the same round table,
we knew the history's entropy
as we played out our games ,
our power was our freedom
and bondage as well,
while our lips mouthed speeches for
the crowd, they distorted
spineless once in a while.
This paralysis could
be only hidden with a mask,
at the round table, we met
yet again and we talked over our
dreams, dilemmas, trepidations;
all the while waiting for the huge
lump of cake and ale which replaced
our tea cups long ago!

Thursday, December 10, 2009

Dust your life
pick the papers
on the floor
clear off the litter
though these are not very easy to do.
I was five when I wrote
my first verses on a
white washed wall, in the
veranda which led patio,
it was about a coconut
falling from the tree,
its desiccation and its
delicious magic turn-into
steaming string hoppers
in my grandmother's kitchen.

I misspelt string hoppers as
grasshoppers which tickled all,
it was deliberate as I let it stay,
it was then I started living on
my delusional lies, as they were
real I could repeat and gloss over
them, first in my mind, then
spontaneously in my conversations
No one saw this strange fix
of the real and false mix up in me.

Later, I was one who could lie with
a straight, innocent face, my stammer
and panic were hardly delectable,
there I learned and r migrated
to the virtual to live
a life of deceits.
The Jekyll and Hyde I became
bore the brown-black shade of
an Crow Pheasant, its flight
which I watched often
shimmered in a double-coloured
deceit,only its red-hot told
all the truths that the world
sought to comprehend.

In this world I had no clues what
politics was all about, my battles
were all in my mind of my self and
the animal, the world mattered to me less
or I mattered less and less.
Till one day I realized when I was
seriously in love the first time
that women should either be
beautiful or brainy, though the
brainier are less preferred,
so frost urged me to take the
road lesser travelled, as i
had no other way out.

Monday, December 07, 2009

Happy Birthday Mikhail

"I've always wanted to improve and expand on the good name of my weapon by doing good things."


You have turned ninety
may you live longer to
see a thousand suns more,
like the sages who levitated
death through their wisdom,
you have won over yours with
your mighty magazines which
always staked claim to your fame

Sure, no one would have
remembered you as a man
had you no machines,
You breathed life into a bullet
to kill more effectively than many.
Sure, you wouldn't have known what
fear tastes like, at the tip of
that barrel, has sweat trickled
down to turn to ice in the
blazing sun? Or has your
heart frozen like Siberia
while the nozzle chilled
your cells from forehead
to spine, at least once?

I know that fear that
you must have been spared,
it crept up my 5 storied
apartment floor like algae
in those drenching rainy
days, then perched on the hills
and stared unblinking at me
for days and days together.
I saw your guns nozzle eyes
stalk where ever I went.
They were hungry for flesh
and blood. I feared for my
son, my neighbors, knowing
a shot would cut open a wound
to wipe out a smile from people's faces.

Later, you wished you had made a
land mower instead, a hero in your
homeland, you steadied the dying honour
of a sprawling nation
with your barreled batons.
All will look up to you, Kalashnikov,
for that machine which has
killed more than death himself.

Blood ties

My child,

The pool of blood
from where you were
drawn could not be
either smelt or tasted
under my anesthetic stupor
Now I know how it smells
tastes and feels, blood
hurts as well when you are hurt.

In your cleft skin
my red blood flows deep
like the crimson afternoon,
the pain which stings your
eyes creeps over my skin
your screams come from my depths

Close your eyes my child
I will feel your pain
I will bear your wound
and sheathe you within
the mother's shell, till
you sprout your wings and take flight

Smile at pain my son
as the sutures tie your
wrecked flesh into one
tomorrow the remnants
of pain would only remain as
these words penned by a mother's grief.

Saturday, December 05, 2009

the love lyric in a folded napkin

what parted us first
were the clock hands
that combed our
forest depths
into two distant
terrains in time,
they drew a vast
ocean between our lands,
destiny and
distance distanced
like wanton boys.

Jogging folded miles
in memory's tread mill,
distances can be
folded into a napkin
to write love lyrics
when drunk with your eyes
in our primeval forest.
I write to you
"Our lips have all
The wild honey I seek .
You eyes hide the
seas to sate my
generation’s thirst.
Your Adam's apple
sheathed in your
neck swallows your
wanting for me,
you inhale my skin
and breathe life
into me with
your touch"

Have we not recaptured
the lost time and space
in the love lyric in
a folded napkin?

Wednesday, November 25, 2009


We beseech you, O Lord, pour your grace into our hearts, that as we have known the incarnation of your Son Jesus Christ by the message of an angel, so by his cross and passion we may be brought to the glory of his resurrection; through the same Christ our Lord. Amen.

We can only sit in our
isolated worlds and blame
each like hurt children who
still nurse a broken wing
or dig a sore when we are
away from another. Have you
wondered why distances distance
and proximity brings us closer?

Have you wondered why our hearts
spill blood every second for
our life? We need not talk about
our lofty ambitions in our life.
We snuffed the fire in your youth
and when we rekindled, it burst into
flames that were blue, red and orange.
We watched the flames dance in the
middle of the lonely night where
we felt safe by each others warmth?

Now when the fire dies, we can fan it
with our grief and sighs, we can watch
comets heading nowhere and compare them
to our destinies. We can even think
of the light that once shone so warmly,
crackles and spurts, we perspired only to
dab our dirt on each other, otherwise
dont we know we are angels who have lost
their halos when the day died in the arms
of the twilight, the fire winked with the
cold that chilled the night, and rapped
the cradle that froze our dreams?

Have we not deciphered our
dialects close to our hearts
that lay deep buried in
the archeological recesses of
our primitive selves?
can we weigh fire's warmth
or count the solace we shared
like petals, or the blessings
of touching each others soul
with our eyes that could look
deep into our selves than anything else?

Monday, November 23, 2009

Your Silence

Your silence
breaks not my heart
in the much hackneyed fashion
but trickles
down choking my
arteries, wiping off
the violent beats that
your presence once gifted me

my heart beats slowly now
your silence silences me

Friday, November 20, 2009

It rains outside my window

Resurrecting a poem
is as good as waking
up memories, do you need
unpleasantness to walk
on slush and feel good
about fingering sores
and fisting abscesses?

The spectrum of rain
when we cry, and the peacock
feathers that paint joy
in our world, laburnum
showers on our frequent paths
even the songs the wind
whistles to us. Even our
hand shivers at each others
pain, no matter how much ever
we spear each other in
a barbecued ordeal.

I can see rain drops
stream outside my window panes
and I can inscribe my penance
in the nature that nurtures.

Every night I go home crying because I'll have to wait until tomorrow to see you again.

Tuesday, November 10, 2009


Calm chalices
brew a storm
that lick
every leaf; bitter,
sweet, tartaric,
tastes have passed
the wind's tongue.

This breeze
gives flight
to translucent
wings of a weasel
then human dreams.

A rising storm
flickers lights
in a city it
snuffs lanterns
in its fury.
or hurls heavy
stones defying
gravity, it uproots
complacent trees.

As you breathe
do you know it is
the hurricane you
are bottling up
in your depths?

Thursday, November 05, 2009


The seas would have always
shouted about its depths from
their depths
The mountains would have always
shouted about its heights from
their heights
Earth would have heaved
a million volcanic sighs
to her sun
orbiting her diurnal path
The trees would have longed for
the stars
and the huts for the spirals in
the clouds
the storms would have gathered
to unleash their passion,
but, there was always the desire that
remains yet to be communicated
nature says it all.
then how will a woman heave a sigh
and tell her love that she loves
like the oceans, the hills ,
the earth and the sky ?

Tuesday, November 03, 2009

Poetry for Poets and Others

Poetry can spring out of
rugged spaces where you
watch your steps as you
tread, it can also bloom
out of the blood which you
fear to spill, it mushrooms
like a silent killer as
you have seen in the sepia
printed sites of Hiroshima.

It can destroy your nerves
with its venom that spreads
its fangs on you, politics
can be poisoned with your
hidden arrows of derision,
Wasn't that why Plato ousted
all of us from his desired
land that flowed of milk and
honey? we also nurtured seven
poets in courts for panegyrics
knowing well that no can can
lie better than a poet, Kalidasas
often cuckold the kings with
those lines of a rain drop
falling on lashes and slithering
from a woman's breasts to her navel.*

Poetry can also sprout out of fire
and anger, you can spew poetic
flames as the crowds would doubt
your sanity. It can also well out
of despair that again amounts
to madness, it can be written with
a feather, a flap of the wing, a tear
and a smile. You can write them for
men or women, depending on their
taste. Mix sarcasm, abstractions
or satire with words or dip them in
tears , emotions and anger, it
will be easily palatable. You
can be as political as Akhmatova,
philosophical like Szymborska
or angry like Kamala, its your choice,
they would call you a woman still.

I have seen poets rap, perform and
sing in the streets intimidating
the beggars with their versatile
words. I have seen poets out do the
mad with their seri-cultured brains.
You need no laboratories, no universities
to be a poet. Gaddar sang from the
shades of a gulmohar, also called
the 'flame in the forest'.

Poems can also be written and stashed
away in the web, then wait for the
spider who will come dawdling one
day to sup on your feast. While you
wait,make sure the poems don't rot
before they are found and eaten.

* "Pausing a moment on her eyelashes,
beating against her lower lip,
breaking up in the fall
on to the protrusion of her breasts,
slithering into the three folds of skin below,
the first drops of water
eventually reached her navel."
As Parvati is meditating, the first rain drops of the monsoon fall on her. Translation David Smith

Sunday, November 01, 2009

Bike Ride: A Birthday Poem 2009

The motor bike caught speed,
whipped up a wind that
ruffled my hair
tousled my scarf
I smelt danger in race

I have never felt so
wildly attracted to the
para-glide to dangerous
brinks resembling death
This was new, yet so
refreshing and fearsome

yesterday this ride would
have touched my marrows,
grown into them with your
daredevil speed, I would
have been the wind,melted
into your skin as your
inseparable sheath.

This evening, I fear the
wind whistling in my ears
I just have my autumn to
give. Yellow, ochre tones
of a dying season,no dreams,
no promises, but I believe
I can spare these dredges of my life
to have another bike ride with you

Friday, October 30, 2009

The Moon Sea

Like the moon rippling on
the seas, bracing each other
with a calm content,
far they live in their orbits
and shores, we had our waxing
and waning too,our ebbs and
flows have settled to
nature arms that nestles
the embryonic kernel of our love.

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Pied Piper Returns to his Cave

You can go to sleep
to the warmth which
you can retrieve like
a magician, you lured
the mouse-girl with your
magic flute, thats past.

She has disappeared
into the cave never to
return, you venture out
to avenge yourself
the city dwellers
have wronged you
they shall reap what
they deserve

you can return to your
warmth where the mouse
disappeared, your cave
is always warm, welcoming
its frosty silence begs
your presence, its perseverance
of being your exclusive
abode will be paid.


Talismans have a sexless plurality.
They can be tied as one single thread or
as many colours or metal shards on
your wrists or other secret hideouts
in your body so that no one dares to
even look at you with an evil eye

I have one wound on my wrist that dangles
from its knots precariously, if you smell
it has my sweat, bathing soap, oil mixed
with perfume in it. I like smelling my mess
though it stinks. You tied it on me to ward
off my bad luck, evil eyes, most of all to
get rid of the stammer and low-esteem I was
born with. I admit, this talisman tied on
my wrist with all the magical mumbo-jumbo
has helped. It is in my mind, I say.

I wish there is added magic
where you could win your lover's
heart unconditionally with the
dexterous halving of a betel leaf,
or the abracadabra that would make
my poems loud and seen, or some magic
potion that would vanish my flesh
to travel the world unseen,
sneak into places and to see, hear
and feel people without them knowing.

I also wish this piece of thread
with mantras written on it, would
be mass manufactured to bring in
a wink of sleep at nights for the
sleepless lovers and despots like me.

Monday, October 19, 2009

Body Remembers those Roads

These roads lead to my heart,
pathways of shrouded trees
shower flowers on the tarmac,
they wind like shed hide,
fresh skin grows in place of old

This road that curves
to two by-lanes reach
entrances which arch
like my nostrils, they
have your scent now

The sea is my eye
it longs to see you
on my shore, tears
blur my horizons, my
eyes see nothing
without your anchor
by its golden shore.

Caves had tongues
which wound us tight
we explored, we tasted
the salivating joys,
obstructed by a
stalactite silence
that warped our lips

These are the cliffs
from where you looked
out into the sea,
it rained that day
we lowered the blinds
to listen to the wind

The vales we walked were
dark and sinuous, only both of us
decoding those secret runes
scribbled on caves, we woke up
to hear rain inside our warm covers.

The plains held keys to the
music we both longed to hear
when clouded the humid joys
of flesh held us like sweat
that clung like skin

These roads are deserted now
you do not tread these paths,
I can only exile or exhume me,
my body remembers all trodden
paths ; without your pug marks on my
skin-slush, my body should leave
flesh and take another form


Poems are tears
words stirrup the deluge
there's a flood here


I caress your name
on the screen
the green light
is on
I know its
not for me
I will remain
invisible and mute
but in my muteness
I have a million
words to whisper to you
the way I whispered
to you , your head
on my lap,
our bodies one,
loving another,
was is yesterday
or years before?
My memory fails

Sunday, October 18, 2009

Birth of a Star

Every stain has a memory
every breath wilts a hyacinth

For example

I can strum
your veins
with my fingers
search for
lost galaxies
of your arterial paths
still you say
my tears arent
enough to taste
your celestial music

I can see multiverses
sing hosanna with
lyrics pregnant
with love
still you say
my voice doesn't
reach your mind's
nebulae, where
thoughts are born

I have even pawned
my heartbeats to
buy that glitter
and shine,
your refusal
to believe,
shining in your
incredulous eyes
is another gem
to be preserved
in my memory.

you just have to see
outside your frosted
eyes to see the night
forget politics and
vile for a while
to see the birth
of our stars
taking place in
the depth of
this ebony night.

Monday, October 12, 2009

Planned Harvest

you mark my trunk
feel my bark, see
the crown to gauge
the density of my love
then you can prepare
for a planned harvest

you smell my roots, then
scan my age, your laser
eyes count my rings
your microwave vision
zooms down to measure
the fidelity of my flesh

before chopping me down
you study how forests
change, you comb my leaves
first, then my twigs
then saw my trunk
and soul with your razor-
sharp knowledge of me.

Saturday, October 10, 2009

That Night When Anna Danced

When Anna danced on the danced floor
her lover slumped in a corner sipping
beer first, then vodka, Anna could
stop in between and take a few swigs
to get her into her mood to capture
the universe in her twirl, the cosmos
swung to the rhythm that her hips didn't lie,
The censorious glimmer she ignored
dancing alone, to tarantella, an occasional
gig, hip-hop, twists, she let her hair down
tasting the joy of youth that she lost in
another world that was not her home.
When Anna danced probably many wanted
to dance with her, people were non-existent,
while her own children slept like sweet angels
at home, her joy caught music in a crescendo,
her body became music.

In the dance floor there were many
wanting to dance, her life was her own
for a night, the music became she.
When Anna danced, she didn't know the
simple fact that the floor was for men
or for women who please those men
she didn't brush past men, she wanted no
punctuations to her joy and hers was a
simple joy in dancing to the rhythm the
world could not translate or comprehend.
When Anna danced, she hardly knew that a few
months later men would trace her down
haunt her mind with guilt, Anna couldn't
understand why she couldn't be a woman
like any other, she couldn't understand
why she's an Icarus, she didn't care a
damn for she loved her song of freedom
composed by her.

According to us, Anna shouldn't have
forgotten her homeland, the land of oil
and sun glistening like desire on womens
hair and men's eyes that haunt desire down,
she was made just a lump of flesh without
control, Anna understood these strange
connections of dance, alcohol and lust later,
she realised that with a shock that
her dance made her a public woman
If you ask Anna, if the dance was worth it all
you would expect her to hide her face in a veil
imprinted with her bloody face to breakdown
to a whimper, wondering where exactly
she has gone wrong, but she would just smile
The beatific smile of St. Veronica.

Saturday, October 03, 2009

Slaughterhouse Blues :)

Its the land of fake Messaihs
who Baptise with love and Jihad
(almost synonymous now)
you lose your name, friends,
self, everything to realise
that love is not the final
word to 'nirvana'
but leads to those charnel houses
where you die a million deaths
before you really die.
You are no lady Lazarus
nor Mary Magdelene
daubing your beloved
with your perfumed oil
You feel the spurt of fire
on your skin as you
immerse yourself in the
fire and brimstone of
vengeance and bitterness

-youre too male
to love a woman, messiah!
is my scream
"tut tut jug jug' he says
in the same Eliotean fashion
he interprets
- youre no Christ to revive
my body, I cry
I hear his rile
and he names it pain
-I will die needing you, but
this wafer-bread chokes my soul, I confess
" woman you have sinned," he tells himself
"Just cast the first stone"
-You tell him, you have
searched for a Christ
who could love and teach you love
His chuckles sound like any another man's
you can even see his split hooves
horns and the impish smile,
you know better, that reminds you
you have seen a million false messiahs
in the slaughterhouse of love

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Deserted Mind

Desert papers
like Kalahari,
where sterile
minds collect
the blessings
of the morning
dew cupped
in verse leaves.

of the mind
spin thoughts
into helicons
over vast expanses.
The imprints of
the storm are
tatoos scored
with pain,
permanent patterns
on the desert skin

Friday, September 11, 2009

Bed Biography

Empty beds inspire
of our selves.
Strands of hair,
both black and
white, are tell-
tales of transition,
when you dust
the sheets, dead
cells form a cloud,
to catacomb you
in your grave
as another form.

Your blankets in
the tropics tell you
how cold you feel,
you pile up your
bed with cushions
and pillows smudged
with drool and kohl.
Your companion is
an open-book always
marked for slow
reading; a loyal
friend, for months.

കിടക്ക എഴുതുന്ന ജീവചരിത്രങ്ങള്

ശൂന്യമായ കിടക്ക
നിന്റെ ജീവചരിത്രം
വിളിച്ചോതുന്നു .

മുടിയിഴകള്... കറുപ്പ് ,
പിന്നെ വെളുപ്പ്... കറുപ്പും
വെളുപ്പും കലര്നവ
നിന്റെ പരിണാമത്തിന്റെ
കഥകള് നിന്നെ
ഒരു കല്ലറയില്
നിന്നും മറ്റൊന്നിലേക്കുള്ള

മീന മാസത്തിലെ കമ്പിളി
പുതപ്പു ഈ ഊഷര
ഭൂമിയിലുo നിനക്കുള്ള
കുളിരിനേ സൂചിപ്പിക്കുന്നു.
കുന്നു കൂട്ടിയ പഞ്ഞി
കണ്മഷിയുടെയും ചിത്രങ്ങള് ..

നിര്ജീവമായ കിടക്കയില്...
നിന്പ്രിയ തോഴി
പാതി മിഴികൂമ്പിയ പുസ്തക

Wednesday, September 09, 2009

Sermon from the Gorges

Seeing no one, she went to the Vale of Tears and proclaimed
in the wilderness, only the Desert Storm listened without a ruffle.

Blessed are those who accumulate
wealth, avarice and sins
They know not that they own not even six feet
on earth to rest their heads on, finally!
Simon, ignorance is bliss!

Blessed are those who steal, fornicate and hack
they know not personal spaces
Earth is theirs and let them thrive
on other's homes, Christ is a distant dream.

Blessed are those women who eat men with their eyes,
starved for ages, they fear not their desire
or their gaze. Their eyes have the silent
power of the hungry. Jezebel,
there may be a revolution tomorrow.

Blessed are those abused angels
ever living with the beatific halo of
pain and memory, their abusers have
have suffered an empty soul too.
Like Christ to Herod,let the abused
forgive their abusers,time will vindicate them all.

Blessed are those women who cry
watching their monitors whole night
their lovers have ransacked their pasts
Made them virtual whores.
Babylon's women,
There's no way out of the cyber rigmarole

Blessed are those trees who droop down their
leaves and pretend blindness, leaves dont move,
Loths, their conscience blowing in the wind,
rule the concrete, deaf, blind and dumb
to be raped by the scuffle and chop.

Blessed are those puffed eyes lids sore wounds
and amputated wills
Saints will spit on you, heaven is theirs,
you belong to earth, her pain, blood,
Sweat and delusions belong to you.

Sunday, August 30, 2009

The Monologue of Bureaucratic Bouquet

I am a bouquet
not just an assortment
handpicked by an
assiduous horti
or a florist to
be exhibited at her
flowery glass palace,
fingers caressed,
sprayed, stems
pruned to perfection.

Gladiolas stand tall,
like men filed behind
a family photograph.
Then asters, chrysanthemums,
lillies, roses and sprigs.
Men amble in, confused,
turn to flirt.
Ah! The pretext of buying
me for his lover or wife.
Women step in and out to own a
bunch for her home or a wedding.

Weirdest is a
bureaucratic road show,
shifted from one hall
to another from morn to night
the same old men in the clap trap,
beer bellies, puffed lids, belching
news googled from their monitors
about moon missions,
Govt's hits and misses,
news of Galileo's telescope
invented 400 years ago.
the audience nod off,
Later wake up to
applaud, sprayed with spittle,
nods, pap, sycophancy
the bouquet never blinks
caked in others' thoughts,
the maze, an unending
train that chugs to nowhere till
life stops, the petals wilt
in the dustbin,a dark reminder
of beauty in the bins.
Natakantyam kavitvam!
Poetry flowers at the end of this drama!

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Teardrops fall like pearls

A pearl with a glass palace inside,
it hoards the spectrum of rainbow.

Translucent, odorless and salty,
its doors are conduits to wisdom
if you gain admittance to its kingdom.
Its a spider's Web. Mazes trap you,
memories tie you with down.

Its beauty is the fusion of nothingness
with feelings and light. Sun shines on it,
wipes it off a face with nature's napkins.
It can also yell or smile;
your face stares back at you, magnified.

A morning leaf has a tear
dew that reflects it's eyes.

A tear has the cosmos in its pearl.

Monday, August 17, 2009

Past Forward

Your past can be a punch bag.
you can unearth it from the dusty
cwms of oblivion, or hold it like a
goblet to see faults, its shattered
shrapnel will never let you escape

You can even hold it like a mirror
hold it close to your face to see
Narcissus staring back at you
avenged at your bitterness.

You may think you know your past
they tell you have this strange dementia
where you have forgotten the details
or they may look at you quizzically,
ask if you are feeling alright.

You must remember the tedium
better than those lines you have
slogged for in your doctoral thesis,
you remember recipes to your happiness
well, though you will ignore all
the commandments to make one
for yourself. You know you will rewrite those
sermons on the vales of your tears and desire.
You may forget your past, when they
ask to repent you are no Mary Magdalene ,
you are lost in an amnesia that even
your psychoanalyst cannot help you overcome.

In your lonely bed, you know that you have
only your past to hold close to, like a soft pillow
warming your heart, you breathe its nostalgic dankness,
even smell your dried up snot and drool on it
and the maroon smear of a mosquito crushed by your
cheek long ago, you remember that your nights
immuned you from your memory, shielded
you in your cocoon, in your oblivion you were
still holding your past like a precious
saw-dust-rag near your heart, never letting it
go, holding it tight even while asleep.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009


There's a power failure,
life becomes audible
the whirring fan stops
shaking your roof, its
morning, a bike scuttles
off in the by lanes
a door shuts its fury
on a traveller
a crow caws, birds sing,
even a leaf pirouettes to
our listening eyes;
the paper muffles the
scratch of words
as shadows speak out when
the sun beam falls on my pen.

Sunday, August 02, 2009

The Art of Grieving

Grief is not a feeling, but a disease
spreading on you like gangrene
first it paralyses your heart
then moves on to arteries, to
your veins and you know you have
died a thousand deaths before
grief has finally invaded you.

Grief can be worn as a pendulum
round your neck, or as a black veil
or you can smear it around your eyes.
Grief can hit you like love, you will
feel alone with it, like a lone mustard
seed sailing in the vast desert seas.

Grief can be the mortar and pestle in every
household, that grinds grains into granules
and then fine flour, it churns your heart
and powders it fine, in the end you
are either edible or a powdered waste.

Grief comes stinging your eyes, wringing
your heart, casting an eclipse in your
mind, even your shadow deserts you.
your world disappears like a whirlwind
driven into the black holes of despair.

Your grief can be ended in a smile
or in the fan blades, as the girls
did in the village once, you can even
tie it like a girdle on your waist
and trigger it with a beatific ecstasy
dancing on your lips, it can also turn
you to a lyric, a frail petal before
it wilts, the beauty in grief can only
be sensed in a calm after your war is lost.

Grief is the burning of all the libraries
of your knowledge, shelling down your senses
hook-winking your horses of desperation
to a single minded misery,
Grief comes to all, unless you pack them up
in your tiny hand bag and move on
without a chink in the armour,
you will hear your heart crumble, but
you can brush them together, then score
them on a piece of paper, flout them
to all as the rhyme of your life

Thursday, July 30, 2009

Listening to an old King of an old Princely State

Ours was a kingdom that denied crown
To a painter*, fearing his dark tone would
Repulse a crowd who adored light brown
And sepia, lighter shades of the dark could
Disguise the brown man as White they thought

When eyes became such beautiful doves
That could see and perceive, little did we
Know the way vision coloured our selves
From pink to brown to black and the palette sieve
Distilled many-coloured shades, pixellated those hues.

I listened to the old King, devoid of his sceptre
And staff, his voice quivered over the microphone
His King’s English waxed eloquent on his life after
The Raj and the glories of the Princely state waned
Into the distant horizon, memory couldn’t remember.

The King retained that his dynasty as the one
That defeated the Dutch*, the onerous victory
Survived in books yet faded in popular reason
The wind that carried the clarion call of history
Diffused its words where people felt only for their selves.

He spoke of the Dalawa*who had his eyes gouged
Before exposing his pride on a gibbet, routing all
His roots, who were banished, killed or wiped out
Like sweat and tear drops from a nation’s face withal.
People who remembered knew the kings of yore
Were hands in glove with ruling White men galore.

We sat listening to the dimensions that history took
Its fox trots and dodges that lure, deceive and kill
We were also caught in the dance of creating mock
Meanings out of different strands of documented wills
Teasing out tales of valor and nerves, we sat still
Transfixed when history twirled himself to a trance
Almost like a sleepwalker denying his own sleep dance.

1. According to history, the crown of Travancore was denied to Raja Ravi Varma because of his dark complexion

2. The Battle of Colachel (or Battle of Kulachal) was a battle that took place on 10 August 1741 during the Travancore-Dutch War, when forces of Marthanda Varma, the king or Raja of the Indian state of Travancore (also known as Tiruvitamkur) defeated forces of the Dutch East India Company (also known as the VOC), and the allied Rani of Eleyadathu Swarupam at Kulachal (anglicised to Colachel or Kolachel) in India (Wikipaedia)

3. Veluthampi Dalawa, who was killed by the British in close connivance with the King of Travancore

Monday, July 27, 2009

Many Stages of Love

When you are a teenager
love mushrooms in abandon,
blooms and stays for a couple
of days, wilts away under the
venom of our own unfulfilled
sexualities, gets crushed with
the onslaught of time,
but the delicacy stays.
Showers and dark ravines
are places where we enact
guilt and desires never-ending.

Growing up, you need the woman
who will rescue you from the muck
you are in, you even compromise
on your ideals as you pine for your
parent in your spouse, the first-two
years you are content with the
warmth she gives, your search
becomes insubstantial you may
even reject beautiful women
who come seeking love, then wax
eloquent, only to regret later

When your Children grow up,
you search once again, you find
your better half if you are lucky,
or you keep on the look out.
You may even find her amidst
a bunch of thorns, you want to save
her how much ever they hurt. In the cacti,
you find her fellow flowers
lovelier, your desire wells and you
tell her

You also tell her the virtues of your wife,
who loves you like an ocean (despite the fact
you detested it once), sure, she understands,
then demands her share readily in pubs,
closed doors and parked cars. Your memory
of mushrooms, the smell and touch of it,
haunts you once again. In your memory
those mushrooms never wilt.

You find the need to revive your youth through
love, you also find the need to make love as
many as possible, you must have dabbed your serum
into your lover while looking forward to a night
to love your wife better; expiate your sins,
you have two birds in your hand, moral
compunctions aside

Slightly older, you have one feet in the grave,
then failing organs, you try to perform against time,
your will and desire, you keep telling yourself
that love is still alive like in good old days,
fatigue overtakes, you think of death
to keep alive your love chronicles,
your lovers are old, you need younger ones
but sheer wanting does not fulfill
and your wife becomes the axle on which you
grind your daily chores, grouses and rot.

There you would even write a poem sitting in
the loo, tell your young doting admirer that 'age
cannot wither nor customs stale my variety', and
grin sheepish seeing revulsion on her face,
you either hit a bull's eye or you miss, and you
pray fervent that you miss, scared of your body
failing, wasted and limp

In an advanced stage, you want a biographer
who would talk about your love in volumes
realities spruced with spicy bites, there
you want to be the best selling mushroom
of all ages. 'As men want to be Casanovas,
women Virgin Mary's!" you chuckle at
your own jokes and innuendos. You know you
can be gross, but you cant help it due to
the thrill of sheer vulgarities, you
realise their kinkiness, feel angry
and quote "An angry man is a guilty man"

By that time if your are (un)lucky to
live, you can garnish your life with ditties,
stories and warnings for a younger generation,
you can even write them down, though you
know that you have lost your brilliance along
with your youth. Hansel's breadcrumbs eaten by
the night birds, left in the dark, you know not
where to go

Again your transit through deep tunnels
of desolation will only take you to your
true love waiting for you with a lantern
in the end of darkness, she would help you
unburden your life and dab you with a sleep
that soothes and ends your nightmarish quest for love!

Friday, July 24, 2009

What happened to the little mermaid?

The tongueless mermaid
could not speak out her
thought helixes that
whirled into her trenches,
regurgiating rot, pain and
stench, her senses hurt due
to their sheer existance.

Only the prince could soothe
with a touch and transform her
wasted weedy self to a singing
reed, she waited for the groom
with bated breath, coral lamps
lit up the night sea, flames
wavered the foam, caught unawares.

She anchored herself with a human
skin, her silence towed down by her
desire and inability to change, she
was a mermaid not known to her seas,
in her watery depths she could
not breathe, the sea was her mother
now she snuffed the mermaid's will.

The land was her dream, not her domain,
there was a rock not too distinct from her,
she crawled, perched and became a stone.
Lapped by the unforgiving seas, she gazed
too far; the normal, human world was
the kingdom her prince reigned not
aware of the mermaid who craved for
him and carved herself into a rock.

Discordia Concors

This dawn, your morning bereaves
my death, you are silent yet again.

My sun is a teardrop blurring
the clouds, red tributaries in
the coronal sky flaked up with
salt and guilt, I will not shine
again, only clouds remain.

Monday, July 13, 2009

Weaving Time into my Eyebrows...

Probably you will not return
the sun that smiled in my eyes,
probably, you are caught up in
the hanks of my past, lints in
our sky and the sea, probably
my twilight yarns will bring the
gleam that will knit your face
with the thread hues of a rainbow;
the rattle of an old shuttle caught
in the weft and warp of time,
is all that I hear.

Tuesday, July 07, 2009

We are Like That

We are like that, we chase chickens all day
Kiss behind the trees, foolish and sure that
no one will see. We make the same mistakes
at night fighting over pleonasms like “Will you
‘never ever’ love me like yesterday?” or “Will
You ‘return back’ the love I gave you out of
My heart as big as the witch’s cauldron?”

When we repeat the same lines everyday
Sometimes our brilliance astonishes us,
We spend ourselves on our verbatim,
Sharpening them like a lance, that can
Pierce our loved ones with a single swirl.
We still call those wounds, love. And
We even say that without them, a painless
Life can never be relished. We feel that love
Needs hurts and cuts to reinforce its joy.

We also feel that hurts should be worn as
Diapers that will hold love’s excesses
Without spilling them over on the floor.
We also wear our concern on our sleeves
Starched and stiff, like our thick upper lip,
We like its snob value in a male male world.
Yet we anchor ourselves in a silent love
That doesn’t help, but kills with a deluge
Of words, hurts, cuts, slashes and pain.
In Memory of P V Narayanan

Though I owe my writings to you, I never offered a prayer after your demise, didn't come to you with incense stick and roses in my typical Christian way, yet I was this girl who loved your pats on her back, never knowing who you are.

I was honeymooning in the hills, when you died seven years back, in a way your death didn't affect me. Now, in my marriage mirage, I am shaken by it. Guilt tells me I could have resurrected you from death and showered you the love that you gave the undeserved.

I was happy with your presence when alive, never saw the troubles and pains you inflicted on your self. Anecdotes play in my memory, of a car running havoc, your house full of people, where I also belonged, quarrels and laughter, your contradictions amazed me beyond belief.

Till yesterday, unaffected, you were mortal to me. You were my past that I didn’t look back with gratitude. Today, in your immortality, I feel your pats on my back yet again. With this requiem, I mingle with you in that bond that effaces mortal pains from my skin yet again; I was with strangers till now. These unedited words bind the skein of your deathlessness in my absurd living.

Monday, June 29, 2009

An Obituary for Myself

This obituary was long due, maybe I was waiting for tonite
it's haunting shadows that stretch towards me, tonite I need
only this from you, tell the world she loved the sea,
walked into the sea, like a mermaid, wedded the waves,
her prince was all but a dream

This obituary was long due, for tonite the waves called,
There was a moment, I was selfless in love to embrace the
sea, waves lapped my scales, I was yet again one with them,
away from the human world where I never felt free

This obituary was long due for my madness could only
be cupped by the sea and cured by her, as I walk to
her like an infant to her mother or a lover to her loved.
The embroynic union of fins, weeds, the coldest depths
of the trench, fish nuzzling my face, coral reefs,
my eyes staring from the glassy depths, watery womb
filming my foetal self

This obituary was long due for I feel beautiful tonite
I am the bride who waited for the bridegroom who never
came, tonite in my love, there is forgivance for the hurts,
my sore mind soothed by my lover's cold arms as I wait
for his waves to take me to his depths where I will never
return to wind, fire and sand
All that were never ever mine.

Love's Seasons

(As always for SK)

Love's icicles
thawed, melted
froze with time
with temperature.
you were winter
when you brooded
and froze my sea
you could feel
only the tip of
my tremulous
icebergs with your
frozen fingers

you were spring
the thaw set in
I was slush and
mulch, waiting
for a seed sown
on me, a bubble
that burst
my muck cut furrows
on your winter forehead
I saw love thaw
Then summer set in

Summer melted your
brows, water teared
down your face like
rivers, streaming down
mountain mouths
tears, sweat and
blood, blinded
love's mein

Thursday, June 25, 2009

A Vain History of Historical Vanities

As Christians, there was this need to
Insist we were Brahmins once upon a time...

My mother tells me the story of my
Forefathers who fought for a king
And built an altar for the Three Wise Kings
That survives even now mummified in a swamp
Land, the only remnants of religion
Fossilized as fetish in my heart.
She complains that I read poems to rewrite
Them as my life, revere My poetic gods who
Play with words and Muse all the time,
They fail to deliver when Ilook at them
For all the answers that I never question

Mother is spread-eagled on my bed, as she
Warbles partial truths of a history
Never witnessed, she remembers our
Lineage with those ancestral tales
Of exodus and martyrdom, that have
Gained colours of valor from time to time,
I never interrupt her as I too feel the need
For roots from deep within. Tales of
Ever generous kings who waited on the sandy
Shores to welcome the outcasts from another
Land and caste, Its unusual of me,
I don’t roll my eyes or ball my fists

I listen so that I could also parrot tales
With more conviction to my children, who
Never ask their father who was born with a
Sacred thread across his shoulder only
To discard later. I listen like a silent sponge
To modify, to be a better story teller, leaving
No room for doubts, there I missed the slave-song
I learned in fleeting history books,
Faster escapes to greener pastures,
The ancient smell of sweat and oblivion.

I wish it had rained. Here I was sandwiched in
Improbabilities, digging for Mandrake’s roots
that would help me climb the bean’s stalk of
Self-esteem.Only if I could slice the sun to half
Swallow my past and bury my roots that I pulled out
So hard from the mulch of history's vanities.

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

Mirror Fortress of my Soul

Sometimes our lives revolve around arguments
we rake up from mind’s slush like the Sita of our dreams

When you asked us how many litres of blood we had
I imagined eight, while she argued for six and you
stuck on five and smiled with the wisdom of
a philosopher, i just wanted to attribute my
excess body weight to a healthy flow of blood,
while both of you insisted on facts, with a smirk,
each challenging other’s knowledge depths, which
well was deeper, yours or mine, lets try a pebble
and wait for its clink and thud on clear water...

For me, I said, subjectivity is a
poem for my soul, when you ask me
to look beyond , I see me even in
you, I am trapped in a world of mirrors
when a thousand facets of realities
gape nude at my faltering self.

In the seesh mahal, I look at those
thousand reflections, each filigreed in
it's safe frames, one step out unhinges
the smooth passage of life, Pardon moi,
this fortress has no windows, and air
flows up and down the dome, with the heat
trapped between a glass and another.

Curious about the world, I look at each frame
that looks back with my hostile eyes, the response
to curiousity I always find is hostility
Over there, when I look at my dark face becoming
darker with the sun, i found myself touching
in all those ugly reposes that only I
comprehend in my subjectivity,
I am full of myself, as well as you
and this mirror fortress protects us well within

Born Again

When I sucked my mother dry after
a Caesarian, they laid me, draped
me, fed food out of tins when I
wailed, months later, hookworms
noodled out of my nose, choking me.

I was born with two teeth each on either
row, mom was half-consoled when milkless,
I could have nibbled her nipples black
and blue, thus she was spared.

I began life with tinned food
doled out for my artificial soul
white lies innocently milked
out of tins of self deception.
Later, I sucked hard at nicotine stubs
like my mother's milkless nipples.

Today, in your arms, I parrot
those sub-conscious lies I always
told myself, my false convictions
shattering the hour glass of esteem
I vainly built,loneliness treatening
to kill. Enacting Pieta, in your arms
that forgave and cleansed, I sucked your
nipples, you were my mother, whom,
thirty years back, I sucked high and dry

When I tasted cholestrum from your male
breasts, I was a new born, your fondles
cleansed my built-up sins, you shattered
my lies that fogged my eyes, the hum of bees
birdsonged my birth,I was born again in love

Tuesday, June 09, 2009

Perfume: My Story

Do you know, you
have gifted a world
Of scents to me?
Taught me how to
Harness a smell like
Grenouille, capture its
Essences, evanescence
That touch the soul,
From beewax, fat,cat-poop,
Pollen, wind and rain?

You were the base
On which I build
The tenor of my
Beating heart
You trigger my
Olfactory pods,
Your pheromones
Incite my animal
And anoint the saint

I wash your feet dab them
With my scented hair, my sins
scald your skin, burned smell
Intoxicates, Once again I raise
My eyes to see the scent spread
Like a smile on your lips

I found my perfection
Prostrate at your feet
My lord and my lover
Your smile cleanses me

Monday, June 01, 2009

Of Fireflies, Guns and the Hills

The mountains echoed our misgivings ,
hemmed in by seven hills and the morning sun,
my neighbours cooked and scrubbed whole day.
Fireflies crept up the dark, I thought they were
comets invading, but no one braved the hills
but men with a will to wipe sleep off our lids,
to show the healing tradition
bargaining  peace with  barrel of a gun.
It was there I dreamt of the sea
fondled by palm fronds and
the ease that came with money,
as easy as horns to a cuckold.

My son was saddled on my back when met them first,
who frisked us to a hillock, chilled my
kinaesthetic memory with the poke of a muzzle loaded
with fear.For a week I shut all the windows that
faced hillwards, they looked  sinister,
I shut my eyes to the beauty of many-shaded blues.

It was there love gave way to fear as I glued
My eyes waiting for love that could destroy me
In our mutual search. You came to me like a dream,
like death, life passed from one to another;
my karmic cycle played its part in meeting
you, loving you and finally destroying you.

I compared you to summer, to spring and winter
Your seasoned with abandon, I wallowed as you
searched for guilt and sin in my eyes, you thought
I wore a mask before laying me off from my rightful
space; I returned to the hills, they did not console,
they did not heal, they were stations where birds
migrated to kill the heat, to suffer the snow,
I climbed slopes with sons saddled
fearing the loaded gun yet again.

That was yesterday, when I found these cyclic
transits as purlicues of destiny, from narrowness to the
arms of fire you stretched to embrace me ;
in your grip, I walked into your ember arms,
drawn by your fire that waited
to kill, I walked beside you at first then slowly
into you, dreaming of the hills and the flames
of green, speckled with glowworms; to a listening
ear, their spurt and crackle were fireworks
that burst and shone in your abundant fire

Sunday, May 31, 2009



-- What comes as tears and tributes
are the words that you have left behind.
On my part, I have always looked at
obituaries with an unease and sneer
and today, I pen the rain of the dark
clouds of sorrow your death has
left behind,
we have written volumes about you
your daring and candor and the way
you fetished your body and talked
with pride, at times contradicting
your true lies, we wondered
about the free soul that hid behind
the veil and talked endlessly about
the rights and wrongs of the
'woman' in you

When I met you as a young girl
you were all smiles and bangles, wrapped
in a kanjeevaram, the coquetry did not end
with the shy smile with which you evaded
a bunch of curious girls who wanted to know
if the story was indeed your own. We too,
infatuated with Carlos, tried to dig deep,
while you steered your body towards
the spirit, Carlos was your Krishna,
there we stood enamoured with
our poetess whom we read
for ages for our alphabets and metaphors
just to miss out the vital, the spine
in her letters which spoke out volumes
of courage and strength behind
those bangled giggles....

sadly you didnt matter as long as you were alive
now in your absence, this vacuum you left
behind transubstantiated by a treasure cove
of words and the knowledge of our bodies,
not the shame, unanchored by your presence,
we lost our prophet whom we didnt care much
in our homeland as long as you were alive
Now the media blare out your greatness, playing
up with a sad sitar in the background
and critics who called you either a slut
or a deranged soul spread jasmines
of praise over your shroud. You had discarded
these flowers and nourished your
verse with their flotsam decay ages ago.
you loved and laughed at your fame
wallowed and shrank in its glare,
a schizophrenic as you call yourself,
In your honest daring you challenged
all you ought to have challenged
deceiving the world with your bangles
and anklets,
Kamala, you left behind
a pride of words and a sea of thoughts
and this void where your voice reaches
us from nowhere to touch and soothe ourselves.

Wednesday, May 13, 2009

I listen to complains in the
background, just to close my eyes
and dream of the perfect posture
of our bodies fitted in like a
self-aligning ball bearing, the
husk and the kernel, my excesses
carved into your hollows, your
muscles melting into my skin,
your skin sheathing my nakedness.
Probably I was sleeping all along
till you broke it with a hug under
the covers that stayed with me
all night, probably I sweated
in my sleep and disturbed your
snores greased with passion,
even shook you up in your apnea
unconsciously, but in your arms
that wound me, and the shoulder
blade where I cushioned my head
there was an assurance that I
begged, which I failed to feel
in moments of conscious living

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

Yes, We Write and Love

Icons have survived fatwas erased by time’s waves
And died eventful deaths with epitaphs engraved
On their tombstones, they have fought not being
Wieldy, they have often missed your body’s warmth

When you were in love, wanting to be loved
She dared the world with a whiplash on her
Tongue, sandpaper printed with words that hurt ,
Cleaned; abrasive they mumbled frowning

and she was ready to be writ on water

Women have committed suicide, they have also written
waging war against their lovers and husbands, haven’t
they also printed after not having slept with a drooling
publisher, they have washed out their blunders in
a mugful of water, while searching for the ocean’s

deep found only in your eyes, the bottomless chill
had scared them as well as stirred their loins.

In the end did they die convinced that love was all
and fame nothing at all? Or did they sense love was
an illusion they pursued like words and verses?

Or was that sheer joy in living that defined love which
surpassed all compunctions stringed in moral hanks.
Or was it like the sorrowful river that flowed on with
Inexplicable pleasure twirls that told us the tale of
a union of opposites, raked up adages that we grew up with.

When the blossoms of childhood died with a stench
When they bloomed again in late summer, didn’t we
Wait for a winter that killed flowers with a chill?

In the pleasure of wading sinful love
Didn’t we contemplate again and again on
Death etched on our beloved’s faces?
Eventually when the eventide turned over
Didn’t we turn back instead of rolling on?
And when we turned back there was a river
frozen to its core, that stood white and still
waiting for a thaw and the season’s roll.

Monday, April 27, 2009

Journey In and Journey Out

There was this journey in
and journey out

You were focused on the
the steering you revved,
tuning to the rhythm of
the streets, I listened
to its music that varied
from harmony to cacophony,
Streets were lonely or crammed
you played the flute well,
Haunted by that trance;
I followed your finger tips
A refugee, caught in a war zone
lured from nothingness to light
that shone unusually bright
inside long, oblong tunnels.

Teeming crowds, filled in
and out, lovers lost in love,
losers in their losses brushed
against another just to feel
life and flesh; their eyes
caressed each other,
streets smelt of flowers,
candy and dust, sticky-
sweet smell wafted away
you drove the sinews well

you lost love in burrows
of shame and hatred, as a child.
you lost love in the puzzle of
crooked alphabets, though neatly
arranged, when your lover
left for a distant home,
you didn’t wait for a good bye.
you missed love in your quest,
the eloquence of a leader,
young, angry and lost,
fear cruising through blood.
That love
you missed as a child,
when you searched for a mother
in every woman you met
(You retained your father till you
killed him in your worst nightmares)
Or love
that coursed your veins when your
lover, tightened her kegel muscles
for you, may be just for you.

My journey into you was
complete, dream-like.
Your tongue was honey
Your tongue was fire
You could even whip me well

When you drove in
gulmohars set aflame my
forests, the brown hills
burned in the summer heat.
Jacarandas and laburnum
lined crowdless streets,
petals squashed on tar
as the cars swept past.

Often gazing out of the windows
Rolled up with tinted glass
Love was a secret only lovers knew
clammed like shells, closed out
from the world when they met
clandestine under the jacaranda
shade, petals showered only
To be crushed by their feet,
Time’s tooth ache, spread
a slow decay that smells and
pains, and he rolled out
his victims once again.

My drive back was lonely
your magic still steered the car.
Night blotched out blossoms,
rolls of jasmine strings on the
vendor’s make shift shop.
I smelt only faint
memories of a dreamless
life, where I lived my
Dreams and slept my nights.

I had shed my husks
in my Journey out

Thursday, April 23, 2009

lost in silence

I got lost in silence
while responding to an
anger that didnt survive
the Jurrassic age;

meteors had the power to
decimate my anger
one by one

My volcano cooled
and hardened like
a snot that blocked
my nostrils,the closed
river mouths dont open
with 'mumbo jumbos' or
'open sesames'

Surviving was to feel numb,
then mumble and stare with
big black eyes that often
offended with docility.

my eyes looked at a still
suicidal view from the steeple
and spire said that religion
killed, I didnt want to die.
A view from a prow and mast,
the ship-hull-view where the
waters moved with air and
traipsied towards heaven with
open arms, gravity pulled back
the love-dance and cried restraint!

A view from the deepest gorge
did not incite fear though
the black face of death stared
back from the depths
with a lover's intensity!

Thursday, April 02, 2009

Hair Do Lessons

Her hair style parted her face
into two apple halves, pulled
back her hair behind ears, and
tucked it into a pony tail,
face changed its shape from
an apple to a heart, something
edible to desirable,
her teenage style

She liked this gradual
Progress with no cynicism
and bitter memories

Or well that was what
She thought in love till
she missed adventures
behind tinted cars and
dim lit pubs, where a
rose was no longer a
rose, you either sat
on it or crushed them
in those
moments of lust

Like a sheet of paper
changed its shape to another
she found joy and pain
love and escape from
present to her past

Wednesday, April 01, 2009

Train Dreams and Metaphors

red sand, green
leaves drooping with
mire mixed with dew-
wind-whipped dust
whooshed earth like
an ice-cream cone,
you look outside the train
window and hum a tune
windmills swirl their
blades like the dancers
billowed skirts. twilight
sets in, deepening the red,
my forehead smeared with
a vermillion of desire
Your fingers tap
a tune on my skin
I see only you as the sun
exits to the dark room to
mate insidiously with the
clouds to beget a new day

Pia's answer to her lover's 'complaynt'

For Pia and Fritz: For Allowing a Voyueristic Peek

Don’t think that you love
Me more that I love you
Let’s not fight over that now
For example, my eyes roving
Away haven’t had enough of you
Just that even my body likes
To lie to itself about that
Churning passion, somewhere it
Bleeds, mind rebels at the
excess of pleasure and pain
when it is chugged on to
the tracks of reality.
Dual emotions, when it pours
In plenty is no fun either,
Wont you pardon me if in my
Clumsiness I stare away from you?
Or move away from your
Chiseled mould, somewhere there
My excesses cannot fit into to your
Well toned hollows, let me
Love silently, inhaling pain as
I inhale your aroma in the most
Pleasing moments of togetherness
Let me love with a sagacity that doesnt
Tear our loved one’s apart
Let me love with a foolish wisdom
Of an overgrown midget who
always lost worthy battles in life.
Battles with the self began with
you as well, and let me exhume
myself in my love for you, for
my end shall be in my
consummation with you.

Monday, March 16, 2009

Do I believe you?

If you tell me a hundred times
with an ellipsis following
your convictions that you are
a maveric of words, do I believe you?

If you tell you love me with
a fear lurking behind your racing
heart and that you are high on
adrenalin, do I trust you?

If you tell me with hesitant arms
that you want the flowers to bloom
while your fingers wither my petals,
farmer, do I believe you?

If I gaze at the stars,
disentagling my hair
can I paint the night sky
on my desire's canvas?

You tell me that you want
your patchless skies, and
pastures ungrazed by time;
you tell me you want a peace that
is more precious than your blood
that you want to shed on this land
like a revolutionary sans a cause.

Romance may rise above my
doubts, soar over the clouds,
humanity may cease to be,
time may beat a retreat with
you and me in Eden once again,

My love,in the depth of your eyes
burns betrayal, do I still believe you?

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

I had never written him off,
thought the lover when she
saw him after twenty years
there was this sea, froth,
schools of fish lapping
under the sun burnt waves,
water simmered while
depths harbored life,
she looked at his skin,
burnt sienna melting down
to a prominent chin-cleft
that retreated
inwards a hairy chest,
she too dissolved
with his earthy hues
his lava-laden gaze
bore into her, told her that
he has aged more than her
memories could ever remember
Crow-feet neatly etched
beneath his lids, years
she never had access to
nor ever will, the here and
now brandished on hollow
unretrievable desire.
Sky disappeared in a wink,
drowning the twilight,
white billowed sails and the blue

the last rays were also
his bristles on her skin
its chafe, the pleasure
of longing and the urge
to possess what is not hers
In the lagoon, a stream
twisted her legs on the
waiting waves, sand slid back
baring her nakedness.
she could only remember
the feel of a kiss or
his hands that wound her
to his ribs, the crunch
of her bones that melted
with his skin, there she
lost her face in his chest.

Sunday, March 01, 2009

Dear Sofiul

Yesterday I remembered yet again
there was a sea and then acres of land
that divide our land, and of course
barbed wires, kalashnikovs and men
in uniform. I looked longingly over
the check posts to see patriarchs
with their wives, daughters and boxes
waiting to get past solidiers vigilante
over the frontiers; the dogs of our nations
barked at each other's tresspassers.
I longed to cross your country and blend
in you as well, into the vast menagerie
of our living. This Noah's Ark
where only pairs are perfect.

Today, when I write,
I wistfully remember your poem for me
and the way we were there for each other
when this loveless world haunted us
with loneliness and our discreet love
flourished on those mossy paths. Dark, cool,
slippery and enervating our poetic minds.
My night smelt of your skin, smeared
the colour of my lover on me.
those mystic meetings, my beloved and I,
we lived through a love loved across
histories and cultures. Our countries,
skin hues and our language were all one.
though I could talk to you only in patches
we knew that a sea of words was already
thought and spoken, at times spoken so well.
So there was love and words between us
not the seas and barbed wires and
the violence of religions and cultures.
In our love continent, there were rains
and perpetual droughts and our bold brown
skin took the beating of the ever-harsh sun.
Against these elements didnt
we cruise exuding animal joy?
That which could not be expressed
or articulated, and in our sojourn
we indeed floated apart, buoyant,
discovering our loves and our lovers...

Tomorrow when my thoughts
stray into the self-made mazes of
senility and when words divorce my
thoughts with an impudence, only the
lesson of love we salvaged over
centures of life will remain...
This is no co-incidence, my poet,
nor a conard I have spun out of my
inanities, but travelling with your
wise masts, I rediscovered love
through my love for you so that
the tale of longing and bitterness
lives and relives in my
passions and betrayals...

Saturday, February 28, 2009

Airport terminals
where you sit
waiting for your
turn to board
your destiny

lounges, where
you stir coffee
gazing the froth
cross-legged with
a camera and
a hand baggage

where you sit
reading a book
brought from
the expensive
duty shop
that gave
a book mark
instead of a

Lounges, where
you ignored
noisy families
as upstarts

lounges where
you peek at
the petite
calves girdled
in black stockings

lounges , where you
look at the teens
travelling as groovy
couples from New York
and think about
the fun you have
missed born in the
wrong place
wrong time

lounges, where you see
a sage draped in white
who pushes through
Z+ security with
an ease towards
the business class
to close his lotus
eyes in meditation

lounges, where
you sit looking
at the gate
waiting for your
delayed flight
which promises
one destiny
to another!


Today, the urge to save
your snores in a bottle
and send it as a missive
against the lees of sun
in my desire's chalice
was strong that I did not
for once miss my ring
that habitually tapped
glasses, in eat-outs, metal
rails, train bodies
tapping to the rhythm
of my empty heart.
I knew I could sit ruing
over the dying sun over ages
which drowned with my dreams
and woke up from night's
ashes, with the rising
flames of my dappled day.

Let me also tell you a thousand
tales of my misplaced life,
Scheharazade's quest
under the threat of death
I realised love and death as twins
born of a split womb; in between
these white sheets as I hold you
close, I hear the waves lapping
across the unsatiable shore
which may last for an eternity.

Here, I also hold you close to
my shores for life, your retreat
should only be a come back to me,
those waves lapping the sands with
the an intensity salvaged from death...

Sunday, February 22, 2009

A Manuscript of Rootedness

My grandmothers
vied with each other
telling me the tales
of Krishna & Christ

One feigned oblivion
of her ancestors
whom she could not
trace beyond a grandad
(she could also
remember a wandering
saint, salvaged &
canonised by the
Catholic Church)
& the vaguest anecdote
of a nameless grandaunt
who died bleeding
on a deserted path
& the birth of a bastard.
That was not far away
from her ancestor's home.
Her mad brother, in chains
after a killer pox,
spoke tongues like
prophets, eighteen languages
without a degree, led
the choir without a mike,
he tamed the Church cuppolas
with his devotion.

she also told me
'You are not rooted
in pedigreed breed
but in illegitimacy
& insanity'

Another harped
on the frayed strings
of her hazy origins
conversion, castigation,
the flight & soaring over
the wrecks of a Goan Ark,
vassaldom of a generous King
selling fuel in barrels
to wealth and viciousness.
Her silence spoke of
her brother the paedophile,
incestuous cousins
whose hired conmen
drew blood like vampires
for silver coins & a piece
of land, she gloated
in the Akeldama of
the avarice of blood

yet, she did not fail to say
'your roots are stigmatised
in split origins
in the vindictive games
of men, money and sex'

I listened
and let my
do the talking

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

I can't, can I?

I can’t leave Foucault for Savarkar though love has
Made me a pseudo-nationalist, let me celebrate
These heresies of my mind, let me listen to the
song of the nation and not feel as outrageous
As I did in the hills when I heard patriotism
Forced into young tongues who could never
Relate their land to the surrogate Motherland
That wielded guns , cocks, male-everything,
hung on their shoulders and waists.
Singers were orphans, whose snag and
drawl song edged the neatly broomed pine
needle heaps, in the background
Buddhist chants reverberated Kanjanjunga laced with
The shimmer of the yellow-cream sun, semen on
mounts, unveiled by mists-retreating
iced vanilla memoirs of the mind
daunting nostalgia, where do I nestle in the
end, will I snuggle and curl down as the hair on your
chest or see myself pass through your doors, wanting to
be desirous with a smile on my lips,
and butterfly’s weight to the core
do you want me to be a basil leaf of chastity
hiding in my hair, all modest, shy and
protected from the curse of infidelity
and will you be near me as the salagrama stone
keeping company in my curse?

He said that the nation will not
climb the hills or wade the seas,
with my pied ligaments can I
course through your body and mind??

Saturday, January 31, 2009

A Quiet Afternoon

A quiet afternoon
with many noises
in the background
a crow's caw
(can never
be a bird's song
he is black
on our mess,
the MP3 player
blares Coldplay
then the heartbeats
(a jumble can turn
beats to beast).
I felt yours
Its long since our
fates like planets
were pushed to our orbits
you were sleeping under
the blanket of all
the constellations
and meteors you made,
it was cozy yet
My world, far away
crossed yours only
when we spun verses out
of our heart, ladled
with spicy tears
and tempests.
Now we write with
our blood fearing
collision, we have
travelled too far, love!

Tuesday, January 27, 2009

Petrichor: The Stone where the Lil Mermaid, Philomela and Ahalya Meets

That was a tale
spun out of
butterfly wings.
That was a touch,
the lightning
a new life.
Was she in waiting
the tongue-less song
of a nightingale?

Bond to the sea
the Mermaid
sat hapless:
a stone on the rock
a pounding heart
tied to the waves
that stretched
to eternity;
of rescue and love;
sea everywhere.

There her tears
melted the stone
Sunken cheeks,
carved of stone
the petrichor
smell of Oestrus,
culled out of the
of her youth
Nothing left
but desire.

He touched the stone,
tilted it
with his toe,
she turned to
flesh and blood.
The moksha
she waited long
faded out in his
departed steps

Monday, January 19, 2009

Elements and Sacrifices

What if the world collapses
And a whirlwind of fury
Destroys the roofs above
Uproots our trees
We nurtured for years
Trees fly like kites
We have seen such times too

What if a huge wave strangles our
basement, then creeps to the newels
Of the first floor, drenching our
Magic carpet that we ride at night
and all valuables?
We have only our eyes
And hunger for each other
There’s water in between
our existence
No barge to pass us over.

Our love became despair only
When my mouth tasted yours and
my flesh was in unison with your rhythm

There’s water between us
We dare not wade each other’s depths
Lest we drown in our longing.

Then there was fire in the middle.
Trapped in a closed-walled building
We could just stare at our fear of
It was then, in suspension,
We paddled space and time
Till our dreams like smoke choked
Our being, fire didn’t burn
Nor the blast we waited for, happen
But our fear snuffed our life out
We could see our eyeballs roll
In asphyxiation,
We have seen oxen before slaughter
Noose pulled, eyes rolled red with fear
The final snort as the knife came down
And split the nape with an expert slit.

Did we know that love could kill us
So grotesquely when our lips kissed
Carressed those fleshly thoughts for a while?

Thursday, January 15, 2009

Web Dreams of a Spider

Spider's web
of memories.
Mind enmeshed in
the black grey
tendons of growth
where love grew
weaving hatred
in its longing.
Yesterday when
you came back
I whittled
grey strands
of desire,
the wind rattled,
strands of pain
clung to them,
Inextricable weren’t
they in love and longing?

The spider spun
its web in the dark moss
In the dusty corners
of windowless mansions
near dried ferns
and pebbles which
dreamt of a trickle.

Monday, January 12, 2009

The woman and the poet

The woman in me lives to destroy
The poet who dreams of drowning
my fellow riders
On a boat ride, then when tsunami
hits it’s a glide for riders on the sea,
there hills unfold to hulls that stream down
the emerald mounts,
there mantras meet in Gregorian chants

If orgasms began with the Big Bang
then matrimonies end too as the great galactic
Collision when Andromeda strides into the Milky Way
With a snooty gait,
It can either explode, snuff the cosmos or end
in a whimper,
The scuttled dry thud of a dying meteorite.
One can hear beginnings and ends if you listen
hard enough.

Death was a lamppost that hurled two bikers
Off pillion and twirled them on the road
Unripe leaves in a whirlwind, red, auburn, green,
nature’s tears painted footpath’s surreal hues,
Here, burials were a waste and enamored by
The incinerator's puff, I watched the chimney
Sigh. A wisp spiraled the blues and hung till
Life became a frown in the clouds. The final fade out
Of grey in the cumulous, God’s puckered brows.

Living with their hidden dials, thought analogues driving to
"Closing Time"
Some ticked to glory, others melted time to despair with a
ghastly slowness,
like Dali’s clocks.
This unbearable slowness was as violent as the pace; either way
the dial strangled.
That was also the time when I sat in one
Corner and wrote poems that no one read
And thought that a poet could read love, disgust
and mixed feelings, sponging in any emotion that
Whizzed past,
A witch adding potions and herbs in her cauldron,
Mixing emotions, thinking why one emoted,
Why our skin could touch, feel and cry
at the same time. Meanwhile, the woman in me
Saw life chug past its rails not waiting to see if
I have boarded spaces of normalcy and approval…

Tuesday, January 06, 2009

Arms tale: Handy Histories

Two tanned hands can have more
histories than one can imagine.
of unities, fractures, urge to
Secede and be together
Amputated ones, haven’t you noticed,
live in the memory of phantom limbs,
Like widows living in the pall and
gloom of their dead husbands?
Or countries under the illusion of owning
those territories which never belonged?

A toppled seven-seater ride in an Indian city,
the story of arms mangled in the side-bars,
indeed helping hands ignored the scream
of the arm caught between the vehicle and
molten tar; from underneath they scooped
the pulp and the sodden mess of an arm,
which the doctors thought could be fixed,
That was the story of struggle and survival
which repeated through out the history of
the body, this arm always thought “Why me
of all other body parts?” and the rest of
the body sighed, “Thank god we are spared”,
hiding schadenfrauden,
quickly wiping a tear away with the free arm.

The arm knew this was just the beginning
Of pains, aches, pallaitives and pills which
Prepared it for the series of misfortunes that
Waited. Once it was an accidental tweak by
The lover boy who kissed and kissed and forgot
This arm wrapped in cast. Then it was a bump
by children or a push from here and there.
Swaddled in sedatives and steel rods
the arm retold the story of this fracture
which made it so sensational that the
well-wishers drooled for more gore.

Next it was the turn of the other arm.
While jumping off an upturned slab that
tilted under the weight of wobbly legs,
this arm supported the mighty fall and
fractured it's ulna to the stately
exasperation of its counterpart
who knew pain and aches better !
the only standing exception of Caesareans
and the possible hysterectomies of
the womb or the scars of copulations,
childbirths and cysts of groins and genitalia.

Once healed, again the body fell the third time
Like a branch axed from the heights of a tree,
this time bruising flesh and damaging wrists;
a hairline in metacarpals had its ills too as the
arms nursed it's bruises and fortified for greater falls.
For the body’s falls affected arms more than any-
where else, and the flesh’s fall spread to groins…


Blog Archive