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
discount

Lounges, where
you ignored
noisy families
as upstarts

lounges where
you peek at
the petite
hostesses
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!

Eventides

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
grandmothers
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??

Followers

Blog Archive

VerveEarth