Monday, November 28, 2011

The Toughest Part of Life

The toughest part of life
is to wade the gravity
of your silence and row
ahead to a dark unknown,

Then to read your lips with
my blind hands just to know
that you are silent ,
the toughest part is to know
that love is just the fear of loss
a crack of hope in despair's horizon

My longing and loneliness
which would fall apart
if I don't preserve
its last broken shard

Monday, November 21, 2011

Historical women

I have nothing against
historical women
They have fought a cause
-honoured their fathers, husbands, lovers
-immolated in Jouhar or Sati
-transvestites who have
killed and died for a man or nation
-whose honour stood before their lives
their names are writ in golden letters
to be recanted with patriotic gravity

Impaled in immortality
they never age
nor do their stories go stale


I have nothing against
women with histories too
-their histories follow them,
-nameless, faceless, recycled bodies
-their tainted honour feeds their flesh
-they are burned at stake
tortured, raped, thumbscrewed,
-their bodies bear the brunt of
his-stories writ on them,

when they die they die
nameless, maimed , wrinkled
and ugly, impaled by mortality,
across time, space and histories...

Life@36

36th year of escape from death
I drew my curtains together
watched the pencil scribble
the shadowed white sheets of life.


Shutting out the bird song
hidden in mango trees, squirrels
were to sharp and relentless to
be barred by the tinted glass.

At 36, one neither feels too young
or too old, only your achievements
publications , or promotions
calligraphed in growth graphs matter.

With an impressive resume
I qualify the milestones of
middleclass success; married@26,
two kids@30, a plush home-town
job@32, love redefined@33.

Couched in the euphoria
the bubble of gossip bursts, 
A woman who dreamt big
was content by filling the
missing blanks of life@36!

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

The Land of Poets


I can only view
the land of poets
from a distance,
I see them partake
in a union of words,
some piping them out
or swallowing them
cautiously, like the way
one separates flesh
in your mouth, then
spit out the pip, delicately
rolling your tongue,
I see them as angelic
representations
of a demonized world,
I can only look
at them from a lay
distance, when I 
swoop down to earth
and open out to-words,
my sky, I still stand on
the outskirts of reason,
masoning out a horizon
out of my own hands;
I can stand at a
distance and shout to them
my misgivings, tell them
I juggle with words like
them, conjure a world
of words which is far
from the real world,
while I look at their
communion, in which
all halos clash, collide,
fusillade and proclaim
“Let there be light”
there’s no room for darkness
uncertainties and ironies,
You belong to the land of light
I raise my arm to plead to the skies.

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