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


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