Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Angelus






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?
Then
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

Doldrums

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

Communication

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

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