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

Silence

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

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