wait

outside, it is magic hour,

inside, as i sit cross-legged,

amongst others, is pure magic.

i try to quell the questions

racing through my veins,

will you be here, will you?

will you recognize me?

will you raise that eyebrow

and gracefully acknowledge

the momentary loss of speech

and the skipping of a heartbeat,

should we come face to face?

you'd be older now, but

your perfect round bald head

would be illuminated as always

by some inner tubelight.

your eyelashes lowered to ignore

my need to see you in person.

they said you were here now.

would you be here now?

would you be sitting up there

in the front, next to the blue one,

just as i remember, just as before,

hunched over a butter lamp

coaxing the flame to burn brighter.

i should not be thus distracted

i know you would not want

me to be thus distracted

yet how easy it is to be distracted

i gather my wits, force my eyes shut

maybe then the blue one

will remind me why i am sitting here.

that's when your laughter rings

in my head. is this a new game

my blue one has created?

i allow the sweet suffocation

of incense to lure me back to prayer.

three hundred voices

begin to chant, "aummm…!"

i give in. to longing,

to desires, to yearning,

and exhale, "hmmm!"

stone

when cast with intent,
it draws blood, pain, leaves scars -
otherwise harmless.

untitled

an afternoon of laughter
with you and the swing.
i squint my eyes to see yours,
and let go.
the sunlight dappled our faces,
and the wind played with our hair.
you held me then,
and the earth and sky became one.
the season has changed,
and so have your games,
my wild and wilful Blue one.
and i should've known better.
i've chased you through shadows
and through light,
longing for the same explicit afternoon experience.
and heard your laughter
rumble through the clouds.
exhausted by all that running
and all that chasing,
i collapsed on the same summer swing.
only to discover you've been with me all along.

still Blue

my love is like camphor,
no visible flame,
but i burn,
until i am nothing.

Sweet Blue

i am not one for bhajans, but this one made everything else written about the Blue one, sort of...less. here it is, as someone wrote it. hats off!

adharam madhuram, vadanam madhuram,
nayanam madhuram, hasitam madhuram,
hridayam madhuram, gamanam madhuram,
madhuradhipate akilam madhuram.

vachanam madhuram, charitam madhuram,
vasanam madhuram, valitam madhuram,
chalitam madhuram, bhramitam madhuram,
madhuradhipate akilam madhuram.

venu madhuro, renur madhuraha,
panir madhuraha, padau madhuro,
nrityam madhuram, sakhyam madhuram,
madhuradhipate akilam madhuram.


there's more where that came from, but i'm sunk after learning just this much.

yep! there's nobody quite like you, Blue.

summer love

when i fell in love with you
i was younger, prettier and
many pounds lighter.

and you had freckles -
thousands of them, on your face
and arms and back.

i was easier to please, ready to listen,
you had dreams to dream,
and stories to share.

i had eyes only for you,
and you had beautiful green eyes
and sooty, spiky lashes.

i liked the clean woodsy smell of you,
and you liked disappearing into the woods
for many, many days.

i stayed by the sunlit stream,
skipping on the rocks, waiting for you
to emerge from the forest.

and just as easily and surely
as autumn follows summer, i fell,
out of love with you.

dialogue

"am writing a poem to love."
"is there any other kind?"
"well...i could write a piece..."
"piece? as in prose? really?"
"yeah. prose. essay. opinion."
"you joined a workshop?"
"no. do i need one?"
"that's strange. i write prose."
"for a living, yes. i know."
"presumptuous so-and-so."
"now, now. i say it as i see it."
"i've written a prose blog."
"have you written anything lately?"
"no...but i've written reviews."
"reviews? of movies? love stories?"
"no...they were not love stories."
"there you go then, love."
"hmm...a poem about love, then?"
"like i said, is there any other kind?"

night 1

dear love, how cold you are
perfect foil to my hot exhausted body,
i prefer this commune under the stars,
so sharp so blue, as if someone
had stabbed holes into the floor of heaven.

i like it because you are silent,
i like kissing your mouth
at once firm and vulnerable,
and a bit blue on the edges.

there are shadows beneath your eyes,
but i like kissing them just as i did before,
shivering with pleasure
when my lips touch your spiky lashes.

it’s good to have you all to myself.

the moon is hiding as well,
we are alone here on the thirteenth fairway,
unashamed of the unremarkable brownness
of my naked body lying next to yours,
so pale and magnificent,
so hard and unyielding,

i allow a sigh to disturb
this companionable silence,
it will be years before they call you topsoil.

love poem 2

little things about you i like to keep:

the way your hair curls upon your neck
when you throw your head back and laugh,

how my glasses slide off my nose and yours don’t,
'it’s a noble nose!' my aunt always says,

your large hands on the steering wheel,
i love the way they feel on the small of my back,

i am so glad for the pickling lessons,
grandma insisted i take as a teen.
i have made good use of the jam jars
she stocked in the garage
hoping the mango would yield some day.

your nose still looks as sharp in vinegar,
and your hands still look clean,
but your heart remains as black as ever.

but best part is that look in your eyes,
when i raised the ginsu,
on that dappled afternoon by the stream.

does not fit in any jar but is fresh even today
perfectly preserved in my head.

love poem 1

my fingers ache to soothe
the flyaway hair on your neck,
and when you reassure me
we’re not speeding,
i simply close my eyes,
and let the bike embrace the wind.

you never read a map,
and i always know the way,
but this time i let you guide me
to download love songs off the net.

smitten with him? you ask.
i want to say, yes moron, with you.
but i laugh and let it be.

not yet, not yet. my fingers are crossed
let me enjoy this for a bit longer
it’s my moment. don’t want to give happiness
some one else’s address.

i’m collecting pictures for later,
i explain on gtalk.
magic seeds i plant now for later,
when you’re mature and i've learnt to feel
instead of thinking so much.

i stab at the keyboard to reach you
hope you will walk to me
just as i picture you walking to meet me.
and then watch me exhale.

worth

one hundred and twenty four thousand prophets
until your heart became a slate for surah after holy surah
the faithful recite five times a day even today.
how young you must have been, how alone,
was there anyone who understood the pain
Gibreel’s quill inflicted upon your heart?
was there anyone who could wipe away the blood?
was there blood spilt upon the sands?
your heart must’ve been so big, to include it all,
a reflection of everything He is.

i have picked up a little book of the verses
abridged appropriately for weekend seekers
maybe one lifetime won’t be enough
to align my desires to His plans
how did you surrender when i find it tough even to bow
i begin to wonder , was i born for this?

not now, darling!

it’s not convenient that you die now,
do you understand?
you haven’t noticed but we’ve had wars.
friends divided over loyalties to henry and rose,
who fought bitterly over cds and books
and unused kishko cutlery sets,
but were happy to see sarah go in the spca van
dilip was finally incarcerated for hitting jane,
but only because we intervened,
and stayed night after sleepless night in vigil
at her side, trying to get the blood stains off the love seat,
playing U2 and Nirvana to drown dilip's rage
as he hurled the garden gnomes at the oak,
howling outside, high on jealousy.
sammy lost an eye battling brush fire
and then lost his job, and we’ve all taken turns
taking care of bobby and sonya,
while he’s stood the dole queues
hoping nobody would notice him.
my days are numb from carrying trays
of six-egg omelets and gravy,
the night shifts have left me not a single minute to think
about broken nails and straw hair and coffee gone cold.

tina told us about the rejection letter and your drunken binge
that has lasted three months and how the doctor was surprised
to see your tequila riddled pancreas still working.
so don’t tell me you are dying now,
dying, giving up the ghost, kicking the bucket
because your muse has been unkind to you.
i have exhausted empathy, have no words of comfort,
am tired to the bone and quite empty of tears.
and white my dear, has never been my color.

Slam

stand up. stand up.
face the drunken sods,
say, ‘fuck you, Krishna’
in free verse or rhyme.
it could mean inclusion tomorrow,
among page three poets,
and one free whiskey now.

my throat is parched,
my fingers aching
to clutch that cold glass
of iced amber fire.

the girl in the silver lace dress
has been looking at me
as if she would be warmth.
if only i could move my cold feet
and break a principle or two.

Good Intentions 2.

you again?
haven’t i told you
i don’t want to be
your good deed for the day?

of course i’ve been weeping.
the irrawady dolphins
have depleted, sad, no?
see, it says so on the newspaper
i’ve stuck on the windows.
oh that’s for the sun.
he insists on intruding.
see that beam there? laserlike.
searching for proof
just like you.
so you can send me away.
i won’t let you, you know.

sure, my friends are here
they’ve retreated in the shadows.
they know you won’t try too hard.
you have to pick up Tina
from her dance lesson in twenty minutes.

don’t look at me like that!
i haven’t lost my mind you know
i’ve just let some friends in there.
i was so lonely after he left me.
yes, i did run after him
from the kitchen to the front door,
in my news stilletoes,
i was chopping cabbage for coleslaw;
“don’t leave me!” i cried,
but he was in a hurry, i suppose,
why wait when love has gone?
i think i must’ve tripped,
when i lunged for the door,
"don’t leave me!" i said, he left
three and a half fingers
of his right hand,
i’ve kept them safe
right there, in the butter dish.

Good Intentions

Oh it’s you again?
Come in if you must.
But don’t look at me this way!
There’s no need to let so much sunlight in!
What did you say?
Oh that! Yes, yes,
The pain is filling up the cracks quite well, thank you.
I would get out of these ex-pink pajamas,
And walk down with you towards a macchiato,
But the elevator has turned hostile.
It says: ‘five persons at a time only’.
You know I have been playing host,
You know I cannot abandon them here,
Just because you show up, with an hour to kill
Hoping I will gladly be your Thursday afternoon good deed.
No, no! Don’t throw the cups into the garbage.
How can you throw them simply because an ear is missing?
Because the rim is chipped?
I shall clean up later.
I don’t mind that pizza slice sitting on the table.
If I don’t understand its loneliness, who will?
But I haven’t been lonely, no!
The voices have been company, of sorts,
And I assure you there’s room for more.
I don’t want to go out for a fresh dose of traffic fumes.
You see, they don’t want me out there.
The stop lights hurry me away by freezing on ‘go’,
Even the usually bothersome eunuchs ignore me.
No soot-colored hand will sell me cheap Chinese toys.
If I should idly dial 2-6-4-0-7-3-8-3,
The girl would say, “Yes. We make bean bags
But they are meant for people full of ‘em,
Not for some woman who wonders why
There’s a gap between the letters ‘wel’ and ‘come’
On the rear windshields of taxi cabs.
"My head is occupied, trust me,
I am doing just fine.
So do me a favor dear, please draw the blinds
And shut the door quietly behind you.

jacuzzi

once upon a time,
this would have been,
a david lynch scene:
pale white on white
and blue roses mourning.
should i add calming salts
i wonder, as i slide in.
thirteen months of being alone
has made me somewhat pale,
the knife offers a flash of reflection
but no second thoughts,
this must be the way
to quiet sighless waters.

request

please blink.
you look too directly
into my head.
there are thoughts there,
that must remain thoughts,
they cannot become words
between us.

please blink.
you look too directly
at my heart.
it changes the familiar tattoo
and i stumble, dancing.
across the room you smile
those eyes fixed
in their intent.

please blink.
you look too directly
at me.
it sears my skin
dry, traps the words
inside my throat
i stand inarticulate
to your suggestion.
you raise a silent toast
you know how i feel.

please blink.
you look too directly
at me.

night

the tambourine sings
a tune unfamiliar.
everything has stilled,
including my breath.
the blue sheet over me
is getting cooler, i sink
deeper into the pillows,
deeper into the coils,
of this moonless night.
strangely comforting
are her dark tendrils.
i am lulled by the tune.
the deafening rush
of blood through the veins
has quietened, they say,
it will be hours before
that too will pause.
the yearning to be one
with the black moss,
growing on the path
you might take someday
has been granted.
the tambourine sings on.
will i ever want to wake?

JC (i)

the meeting

wind was in my hair,
and a pebble in my birkenstock
so i stopped to tie the unruly locks,
and shake the pebble out.
that’s when i saw him
resting against a rock.

exchanged notes about the climb,
he was on his way to the village,
i was running away from people.
watch out for the burning bush
he joked, and i told him to stay
clear of the dancing girls.

my Blue one had danced with many,
i was the eternally jealous one,
but JC had had a tough life
i could see, he was still young.
when realization dawned,
i asked him, “what are you doing here
a few centuries late?”
he gave a lopsided smile,
“duh!” he said, “you don’t know the tale?
no one believes me,
but i’ll be back i had said!”


JC (ii)

the miracle
i am on the rock,
by the banks of the river
that you will not find on any map.
the rope of my sandals,
has cut deep into my ankles,
proof that it takes many a mile
to gather but twelve believers.
others have come too,
some to fulfil a curiosity,
some to justify doubts,
some because there’s no cable.
the expectant murmur
has settled down to a simmer.

my words have been too simple --
an ocean in their feeble hands,
hence i must prove by act
what words have failed to convey.

i wish i could wiggle my toes
in the cold waters, happy,
in the manner of children,
but this is not the time
for frolick. it’s time to fulfil
a larger design, a purpose.

your Blue one got away by
opening his mouth wide,
to show he was it all, that
the universe was a part of him,
but the folk here are too rough hewn
i need to start small,
so i stand tall, yet humble
and step on to the waters
for their first glimpse --
of eternity.

drenched!

water drips from your hair,
my eyes measure
six, maybe seven inches,
to your pink tee shirt.

the kohl underneath
your brown eyes
is smudging your cheeks,
i stop myself from saying,
"no, don't dab it away..."

you run a quick hand
through your hair,
what would you say
if you would find me
entangled there?

fascinated by an errant drop
sliding down your throat
into the vee of the tee,
i've missed the reasons
why you like malabar monsoon.

"drink your coffee, baba!"
you say, laughter gurgling
out of your lips and on
to the table between us.
i am persuaded.

but i see you shiver
ever so slightly as the coffee
spreads its warmth.
i pretend the sugar sachet is
more than mildly interesting.

i sigh inside,
might as well drink
the damned coffee,
than let my imagination
be drenched with you.

besides, the cafe is crowded,
my throat is dry,
my feet are cold,
and although you're so close,
you only wish to talk.


inspired wholly by jugal mody and his tale (again!) of an uncaring lass!