Friday, January 29, 2010

Autopsy: See for your self

Sometimes
postmortems are done
even before burying
ourselves, laying bare
a memory or a strand
of our past, wash it
clean, dissect to thin
strips to see failures,
re-read disappointments,
past is a cadaver
pickled in its
most deformed form
in formaldehyde and
rectified spirits
to read our future

Postmortems of our loves,
failed and successful ones
show why
a sniffle sounded remote or
a smile did not touch the
arterial routes to the soul.
We realise that before death
love was beautiful
had we only let it grow
in its natural course,
before we leashed it with
sentiments, possessions,
lust and hurts, in the
prison-house of love
we suffered to reap
its ephemeral joys.

Then we postmortem
our days, nights, lives,
ambitions. We even rake
open our neighbour's
head with a Stryker saw
for the mysteries of his life.

The worst we do again is
we cut open our sores,
to see unhealed wounds
and the fresh feel of blood.
When we postmortem our souls,
there's rigor-mortis of
a soul stiffened beyond our
scissors' sharpness.

And by the time we finish
dissection and stitching up
stuff back again, we find
our paltry, ordinary lives
not worth for an autopsy per se !

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

Its only words?

If there's a gap between
the word and the deed...
I can show you words
can be deeds as well
when you spell them out
hollering out your heart.

Its time to forget those
adages that you have grown
with up, for example the
biological making of a woman
and man, that pooh poohs
conditioning, can be proved
wrong from your own life,
for example, how rituals are
actions acted out that do
not necessarily cleanse is
also known to you, one can
stay hungry for you and eat
you from within, dont you know
the dynamics of old sayings have
been studied and toppled by us
effectively? We need effective
Machiavellis and Chanakyas
to map our brains , understand
its contours and folds.

For example, my words may just
remain words for you, but they
have their resonances beyond the
clanging of a bell or a bucket
plummeting deep down one's well.
But you know better that in the
beginning there was the Word
which transformed to life
of all forms and matter.

My love, my words are my actions
I know only my heart speaking
through my tongue and through my
pen, may be a fantasy or truth
as you may choose to call them,
but remember
words while spoken, though they
disappear hold the key those actions
which I may survive to do or fail....

Friday, January 22, 2010

Just for while...

It is not just the chord that
ties us intricately down,
but instances right from
our birth,born with teeth,
cradled in darkness, or souls
sought each other since our
births, generations ago,

Some times,simple instances
as water drops tapping on an
empty bucket, or the gentle
ruffle of a bed sheet on
skin, or the gentle
brush of a comb on
my hair, the truth dawns
as rhythmically as these
that you and I are tied
inextricably as leaves to a wind,
or as clouds to the sky.

In the mornings too as we
wake up missing the heat
of each other sheathing our
skin, like husk to a kernel, or
sword to its leather pouch,
we know that we dont need
castles to shelter our
bodies, but each other;
as you are my body's soul

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, when
distances distanced
like wanton boys.

Today, I may travel far,
my body may never be back
but my soul in you will remain
the light that our lamps
shall set alite, the flame
that dances, flickers, but
never dies, remains
for ages, till we
shed our bodies, egos and
merge with that Oneness,
brightness akin to Divine
where we shine bright
exuding only warmth and joy
in spreading the final
truth that you and I
are one.

Only we know that
we have transformed
beyond ourselves
to be the sun
that can only be kind
to the spheres it warms
and sets to alight
whole day till night sets
in , to continue
the cycle again

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

Show me how to love

Show me how to love.
I cannot excuse myself,
mumble I do not know,
and forget pollen dust
lingering on a petal
like your touch

I cannot mutter in
the darkness and ignore
moon's love-merger
with a distant sun,
blinding him with a
silent kiss

I cannot pretend I do
not see the wind's caress
on the ribbed sand
spine, to arouse her from
her stupor

I cannot be as naive
as a child to cry when
hungry, smile when happy,
then frown disappointed
at life's surprises

I cannot sulk like a cloud
I see even the tress
swish and twirl in the
storm only to be erect
with its new found strength

I need not seek a shoulder to
cry as the rain just
rains over the land,
trees and brims over the
rivers, never to be dammed
by a comforting arm



Every night I go home crying because I'll have to wait until tomorrow to see you again.

Thursday, January 14, 2010

Train Dreams

The train rocked
its way into night's
sleepy tunnels;
we couldn't shutter
the eyes reflecting
our corona of longing...

Thursday, January 07, 2010

Twinkle of the Unknown

Lunacy is nothing new
but a familiar mould
of fungus basking in
the sun to destroy
itself

Normalcy is the easy
parade of days and
nights through mind's
kaleidoscopic
eyes

Death awaits all, we flit
from sanity to insanity
from life to lifelessness;
we glide like ghosts
from material to immaterial
Then we become clouds
leaving this blue earth
to merge with stardust
smudged all over the
milky way
or to be a drop of rain
cupped on a leaf's palm
reflecting the twinkle
of the Unknown

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