Friday, August 31, 2012

I turned to a child one late evening

When I turned to a child
one late evening
I wished that the night would
roll black its curtain
and light the  daylight
stream into its void.

That stormy evening
I dreamed that
the wind would stop
bereaving her beloved
and let her howl
melt like incense in the air.

At night, when I looked
to ask the stars push
back their cloudy tresses
and smile from their
heaven's nebulous shore.

Will the jasmines smell
fragrant once again
and stud the skies
with their starry eyes?

Will the sea sing
in wild abandon
and fling its wet cloak
over the waiting sand?

Will the wolves remove their masks?
Will truth prevail?
Will the sunrays fill in
the spaces left by
the night's silent scream?

Monday, August 20, 2012

Tha Last Train Home

This last train home
will take us to the place
plundered , then torn
off the map by your men:
limbs severed
our home does not wait
for our miraculous visit.

Thank you for the tickets
and the free ride which
remind us of the exodus;
the Jewish plight,
It would have flashed in
your memory for a while
and wilted in the dawn.

Many histories have heard
Our fluttering heartbeats
seen our fearful tomorrows
It would take many more stories,
many rapes, murders and mutilations
before everything stops to a stasis. 

You have expelled us from your land
where we did not come to beg
we worked, sweated and  lived
in cubby holes of exclusion
you carved for us.

You called us a different race
you called us a different nation,
you did not even know our names,
nor did you care to know
you do not know where Assam or
Manipur is, not your fault
you grew up without us.

In return of your derision
we toil hard for a life
we smoothen the wrinkles off
your roads, build your dream castles
yet our worries snake into
the land laid waste by your men.

Far away, our Home
breaks under the
pressure of your rising
sky-scraper dreams
our dreams echo back
as an odd bullet fire or a blast
or our friend dies in the backyard
perhaps nameless and faceless
perhaps, soulless.

we can only return to the 
mowed down trees,
to tonsured hills,
to mutilated men,
to  ravished girls.

Here is a landslide
of men, who slip into
the silent scream of extinction,
their inner arch aches for
a foothold in shallow slime,
caught in the rockfall
of events, they slide into
the debris of  your
most forgetful memory.

Thursday, August 16, 2012

On the Seventh Day

Day One

Let me listen to you
love you with my words
steal your tongue with my silence
punctuate your life
with my sighs
rejoice in your angry staccato
wallow in your abuses
The world is new
and fresh with love

Day Two

Late into the morning
drowsing on a rainbow dream
some are your iridescent pasts
some, my Black Sabbaths;
they gore deep
like our present daggers
and at once, they soothe
as your shadows stir deep
every time I breathe

Day Three

Alive from sleep's ashes
I am awake for you,
let me fill my day's chores
with your thoughts
and cleanse my mind with
the sweet camphor of your memories.
A translucent ray of sun
impaled on the
mist blanket of my woes.

Day four

Love springs in the morning
takes on myriad shades
 of the darkness
you have left behind,
every day is fresh
cleansed from the mediocrities
of her previous mate,
Love in its various forms
I learned from you, my love .

 Day Five

When the dawn breaks
thoughts take root
the day grows like thoughts
branching out
budding leaves
pouting flowers.
darkness falls;
your thoughts are my refuge
I thresh my dreams
and garner the last grains
of your love for me
I wake up the
next optimistic day
to live a dream again.

Day Six

Your silence breaks not my heart
in the much-hackneyed way
but it trickles down my veins
choking my arteries
snuffing the violent
beats your presence gifted me.
My heart beats slowly now
your silence silences me.

Day Seven

As a person drunk
with life
I have courted death-
dreams in many ways:
violent crashes,
a pat of flesh on tarmac
spread by dexterous
death's butter knife;
taboos choke me
gently teasing my words
that strangle me to silence;
throttled awake by my own nightmares
my hurricane memories
twist and twirl
while you sleep
secured by the
latch and  bolt of

Every night, I break my head
on your well-walled life
and rain endless tears on you,
I love you with my letters,
mad ravings and verses;
 morning leaves  a fine film of salt
heals death-thoughts
with its sheer ambition to live.

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

If my heart had its music

If my heart had its music
I would have sung my thoughts
to words till the
last pulse peters out
into a whimper in the night.

Night  lives on even now
because  its shadows
etch-out the silent
Tale of the distress
Of tossing around in the wind.

Even a gentle wind
tickles the leaves
while the rain kisses
the windows that remind
That you breathe to
forget the brewing storm.

Though It is also true
my rhythm is   lost
to music, metaphors
and daily routines,
Without you
They are reek of habit.

When I pick these
threads that deter
and walk the streets,
I  halt only to look back
At the footsteps,
Memories, impacts;
and craters in my mind;
and futile
to a large extent.

If my heart had its  song
I would sing it
till the moment  before it stops
to wonder:
Why I hadn’t sung
 for so long!


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