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,
calming
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."

Kalashnikov,

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?

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