Singer

In your voice you hide
a thousand moments of ecstasy
another thousand tears,
I sail, as on the ocean, on its crests and troughs.
Sweet poison, my wine, I’m drunk on it.
Your voice is what I want to clothe my soul with.

Partaking of Flesh and Blood

"Open your mouth just right
Not so much, boy (to my right)
that mouth of yours is a gaping cavern
you are not to swallow an ostrich egg whole
smaller, daintier, softer,
with respect and faith and worship and praise
tongue flat and touching the rim of your lips
open your mouth
for you are to receive His flesh. "

Oh Boy! Is that it really?
“I don’t like the taste of blood”
a small, teary voice pipes up
and is shut up pronto by a stern glare
"Stop talking nonsense, boy", she says
"It is not really flesh
Have you forgotten all that I taught you
Now pray for forgiveness and say your prayers. "

I volunteer to lead the stupid boy
Through the path of light I walk every day
I, the smart one, with rock-like faith
on which I built my very small shrine.
Boy seems to get it, at last
I sigh and smile
My patient, little, grown up smile
And she smiles back at me
Approval jumps at me from her round face.

Then she picks up from where she left off
"Now do be careful, do not chew
For if you do, it shall spring blood
from your small white teeth, no less
your mouth shall be bloody
and sinner you shall be".

And for all my faith I was born this skeptic
I had to see, I had to know
On the big day I took a very small bite
And caught myself just in time
Froze on the spot, expecting a river of blood
To come gushing out from my mouth.

Then I took a harder bite
And harder still, till I chewed it right
It tasted of lie and treachery
All that I built, all that I saw
I swallowed, my pride and faith and belief.

The Big Tree

Po eh tree
Come come now
Thump thump along
Secret corridors
Like a small small ball
Bouncing along
Bounce bounce
And print print
A memory, a voice, colour, love, smell
Po eh tree, come come now
Come, don’t tease.

Rain

I hear the rain, falling gently on the roof
I can picture the droplets gathering and flowing
Through the grooves of the corrugated sheet.
My house (home house home house yes)
With its tiled, tapered roof, had a metal sluice
Of sorts, to collect rain water.
When it rained, we stood beneath it
And caught the first faint trickle of water
On our heads, each shoving and pushing the other.
And when it turned a gushing torrent, I’d stand there still
Even as others left. Seems as if I grew up in the rain.
Rain that fell on my head
Rain that left leaves and debris from the roof, on my head
Rain that turned pure later, distilled and clear
And yet failed to wash me of my sins.

Time

Time will endlessly churn and create newer
images that my eyes shall capture.
Mostly to relegate to archives, a mouldy volume
on which sickly flowers of ruin bloom.
Yet, some memories shall carry your smell, each frame
coated with the savage note of your perfume.

Time pauses briefly – tantalizing - and then moves
tick tock tick tock to the inevitable, it disapproves
of my coward’s tears and feigns heartless indifference
to this terror that clasps my soul. An immense
wheel of cold fear rolls over me, its scorching tracks
leave white flames to dance on my skin. It melts like wax.

Time has cheated us: the inert, ponderous time
soon shall send a black tinkle to our ears, sweet chime
that will lead us to our graves. Would it allow us
then, the simple right to mourn each other’s loss?
Or would I, would we be cursed with a sudden erasure
of all memories: your smell, your eyes, your touch, your love, your …..

Time. The very same Time that guided my feet
to where you were, that let us meet
a hundred thousand minutes too late.
Now, I sit here cursing a black fate
that spills shadows onto all paths between us.
In Time’s endless mirth, we are desecrated thus.

SMS

There are times when my eyes pick out your name
from everywhere I look. And it’s the same
letters I find in magazines and my email,
newspapers and paperbacks. You are in every detail.
Words on paper become mere anagrams of your name
and all day long, all I do is unscramble them.

Then movies and soaps and even the soccer game
seem to be full of lucky sods who share your name.
Eighty five channels the blessed cable has;
but from all of them - news, song videos, lifestyle shows,
heck, even from the scrolling credits that I see
your name manages to leap at me.

And then it burns blinding white behind my closed eyelids
And blooms around me like a thousand sweet orchids
It runs through my veins ice cold, yet warms my skin
In an insane longing for you, the world tumbles into a spin
And when my soul reverberates with the chanting of the selfsame
reason of my madness, that is when I SMS your name.

Greed

I want you to think I have the sweetest voice, so you can hear soulful melodies in the crappy tunes I hum.

I want you to think I am the most amazing dancer, so you can watch me with starlit eyes, as I tread on your toes with my two left feet.

I want you to think I am your angel in disguise, so you can think my goof ups are just Testing Tasks that I set for you.

I want you to think I am the most beautiful woman, so when we watch the making of Pirelli calendar on FTV, your eyes still scan my face obsessively as we comment and talk.

I want you to think I am most independent, courageous and the bravest, so you wouldn’t run away scared, when I cry tears of obsessive jealousy and possessiveness.

I want you to love me, love me truly and completely, so when I fearfully give you wings to fly, when I let you go, you should still want to come back to me.

I want you to feel for me all that I feel for you.

Payback Reruns

Today was the day to spring-clean and sweep.
While clearing out all the clutter and trash,
I found a few treasures too costly to keep.

Found a rime in which I sound very brash;
I’d dismissed your charm as having no clout;
your secret smile and dark curls - all hogwash.

You were a treat that I could do without .
A luxury, not a necessity --
I had it all under control, no doubt.

Now that it’s payback time you punish me.
The sound of your laughter and smell of your hair
do reruns in my head like a stuck CD.

Your secret smile, dark curls, eyes that watch me…
Your secret smile, dark curls, eyes that watch me…
Your secret smile, dark curls, eyes that watch me…

(5)

Your hands that touch music, they touch me too
Your love is like a soothing symphony -
with unreserved abundance, a gift so true.
Just a touch on the hem of your robe heals me.

Christmas Wish

I feel compelled now to write of Christmas
Most folks I know are composing verses.
Some rhymes are about the birth of the child,
Others but mere wishes for kin compiled.
Most are tagged with a greeting for New Year
Time saving and smart, this hand me down Yule cheer.

Ownership

A pearl lay glittering on the beach
Its smooth white bulging body
Held a pale milky smile
The pearl beckoned and I
Never one to resist wild calls
Knelt by its polished all-over belly.
Fancy got the better of me
I reached out and held it in my palm
When out from the sea a hundred mermaids
Leapt, fish-tails flailing, siren wails filling
the evening.
Their caterwauls trailed brightly
from my bleeding eardrums.
The pearl belongs to them apparently.
‘tis their plaything, ‘tis their own
I being no mermaid, I walked off.

Make Haste, O Heart

Make haste, O Heart, O Mind, now bid good bye,
to all that we foolishly thought our own.
My life, in a flash, is passing me by

Foolish Heart, you were reckless, you were sly,
you sneaked him in. Don’t cry now, turn to stone.
Make haste, O Heart, O Mind, now bid goodbye

Free me from clammy shadows, I must fly
higher than an eagle has ever flown.
My life, in a flash, is passing me by

Empty vaults, with treasures never piled high --
Hollowed out heart, alone, always alone.
Make haste, O Heart, O Mind, now bid goodbye

How long must I hear you wistfully sigh
greedy heart, for things you never could own
My life, in a flash, is passing me by

Try and find some meaning - the end draws nigh
Knowing it’s futile, yet, for sins atone.
Make haste, O Heart, O Mind, now bid good bye
My life, in a flash, is passing me by.

Denied

I lapse into morose lamentations
again, unable as I am to sense
either the frail touch of novel raptures
or the teasing lure of greener pastures.

Much pleasures await me: cheer, love, safety
and all else – what more can I ask for. See
the precious crowns and sceptres laid at my feet,
kingdoms are mine to rule, ‘tis no conceit.

Yet, what I long for is not mine to own
I can only watch from afar; alone
in this unyielding fortress, that shuts me off
from beautiful you - you that I ache to have.

No Worries

Sir, if you are reading this: rest assured,
I am not the least bit interested
in your pain or the lack of it, even
causing you more or less of it, even
crossing your path. And I have no vested
interests in being here. I am lured

just as you are, by the seductive call
of these dastardly words. I have nothing
against you – you were right, I was right, it
doesn’t matter now. It doesn’t seem fit
that I cling onto past grudges, they bring
no good. And the last thing I want is a brawl.

(4)

Gentle eyes you have, love; look at me kindly.
Press your palm ‘gainst my heart, how tumultuous
its beats are. With your sweet angel song, free
my anguished soul; bless with one gentle kiss.

Ageless

Ageless is your face unlined with wrinkles.
But my eyes have sunken, cheeks colourless.
Then, you’d rescued me from a mob with stones;
now, you seem tired. Do I cause much distress
to you, must you move on now? For, my bones
are now brittle with age, you’re still ageless.

(3)

My King, do you see how the night is stained
by the black blood mist of my tragic love?
The rim of the pallid moon is darkened
with sadness; wine dark clouds weep from above.

(2)

All wakeful hours I spend thinking of you,
and I send my vehement thoughts your way.
You blush at my bold words that are taboo,
on an otherwise drab, lethargic day.

(1)

Silver syllables of your noble name,

fall around me, a shower of snowflakes.
Crystals of honey - your divine name;

how strange a texture, on my tongue it makes.

Writing

Does it seem like I do not know
that writing is just discipline?
But I do, I very well know
- writing is mostly discipline.

The deal is - if I am to be
as disciplined as it demands,
canonized alive I should be
and that's just one of my demands.

You're Angry

Your anger stokes a brown fire
that warms my lovelorn soul.
I am smitten by your anger,
the jealousy and the temper
that spikes around your body
in jagged shreds of lightning.

I Miss You Tonight

Walk with me. In the night -
with the blue mist around us, your hand in mine.
Speak to me tonight
of the light thrills that made your day bright.

Sit with me tonight
for a lazy dinner, with music and wine
Hold my hand tonight
kiss and love my fingers, only for you they write.

Cradle me in your arms tonight
for I feel lonely, my poise takes flight
in the spinning spiral of your absence.
I walk the streets searching for you, stripped of all pretence;

I smell your hair and your breath in the wind
that sighs in trees entwined.
Fear taps hollow drumbeats in my heart
I miss you tonight; I can’t bear to be apart.

Two Blogs, Two Files, Two Separate Lives

This I have decided
Poetry shall be poetry
And prose, prose shall be
Siblings, to each other, shan’t be wedded.

Reign

Neruda, once, had gotten into my veins,
he floated as a platelet, clotted on the wall.
Like the puma in Quitratue barrens
he’d hunted for my hot heart, and that squall
raged for long, he reigned - my heart’s black prince.

Smart

Nowadays I spend my time on pursuits eminently worthwhile
like research on business intelligence, Risk, Fraud… then compile
all into one tidy (imposing) hard-bound volume that I call
‘Knowledge Bank’. That, I think is quite smart, for the name enthrals all.

Prank

This verse file I try to hide.
You know, no easy task, that,
considering I just bide
my time here, hoping for fat
paycheques to dance to the bank.
That I’m here now is just a prank.

On Writing Poetry

I get it now. The secret of writing,
and writing poetry. I have long wondered
how all those madmen compose verses
so pretty, so tight and heck even rhyming
Now I think I know, for long I’ve pondered -
madmen just write when not in their senses.

That’s that then, but then there is this ‘technique’
For, read poems and you will find, not just rhymes
But also syllables, eight each or ten
a line, that make sense and of passion bespeak.
How, by God, how? I’ve cried out many times
in despair, for answers I sought wise men

Men who could create, men who did create
and strutted their wares like whores do their breasts.
Come look, look, they cried, mine is better than his:
bigger, better, best! But then, that’s the bait
I think, cater to the masses’ requests;
show off, admire back those who admire yours

But then we digress, what we look for now
is not what’s done after or even before
but during… the act of picking some words
and then setting them together like how
pearls are set on a necklace. This I assure
is tough, I’ve even asked a few crazy bards.

Somehow I manage with my nonsense verse
That makes sense to just a few, not many.
I count my syllables, I sing them out
loud, I fit my lines in a small li’l space
sometimes I write the entire verse, plenty
revisions spruce them up, that’s all that’s about.

Leggo (1)

Look at my hands. My upturned palms. Your presence
is just a mild ice-nip on my life line. Though I wish to fence
you in my boundaries I have done no such thing.
You stay just because I recklessly fling
my heart at your feet. When you leave, the emptiness
on my palms will burn right through my flesh like acid, no less.

One day at work, I walk under the cloud of your absence
And I hear someone calling your name out loud. My heads turns.
It’s just a new colleague, I give him a once over
And think, “You don’t deserve this name, fella”
I am biased. I am.

Conform

Close your eyes and listen to the hum of the world
All those people, all those thoughts, their constant
ceaseless inner conversations, the roar of tyrants
And the shrill whistles of Rules, those that run the civilized world.
Do not think, do not speak, do not express
Most importantly, do not do.
For that’s the only way, the right way,
Considerate, civilized and the path to amenable co-existence.
Man is a social animal.
Conform.

I shall give birth to you, and the pain of labour
Shall be my trump card, a sword that I dangle over your head.
Never shall I mention that I conceived you in a moment of lust
You don’t need to know that, and it is just a minor detail that can be ignored.
I shall raise you, provide you with food, shelter, clothes
All better than your peers
And to give you all that I shall work hard, serve corporates
Or governments, I will moan and groan about how hard I work
And look at you meaningfully, “I do this for you”
And that shall be another sword that I dangle over your head.
When I do all these for you, why can’t you give me the one thing that I ask for?
Why cant you just
Conform?

Did you know that God created the world?
Shush. Don’t ask, just listen.
Just as He created, He can destroy
There’s a place called Hell for the disobedient like you
Trust me, you do not want to go there
There’s Lucifer and his lobster-coloured cronies
They’d deep fry you and poke you with pitchforks
You will be in agony, no one will help you.
And then there’s Heaven
Where angels sing and play their harps
You can sit on cloud chairs and sup on honey
Join the angel choir and worship God.
Only the pure in heart can enter the gates of Heaven.
And the pure in heart obey rules, they believe, they have child-like faith, they don’t question
They
Conform.

Now, you must be under this foolish notion that you must not kill
Well, you must not, but sometimes you must
And guess what, I will even pay you, glorify you, if you can do that.
Shush, don’t ask anything. Just listen.
There are people called enemies, they live across wire fences
Those who stand that side are enemies and this side are friends.
Simple.
you shoot the enemies, burn them
ravage them, rape them, loot them, torture them. It’s not wrong. It’s the highest right.
Do that and I shall call you brave.
You shall be glorified, posthumous if you get blown off in the shoot outs.
Now this is not for the chicken hearted. You ought to be the bravest and noblest.
That’s the way of the world. Do you have it in you to
Conform?

I hate I hate I hate all what I have written so far. All these years. Absolute tripe. Absolutely worthless. Aargh.

Selfish

Tonight, my heart is troubled, it roils
like the turbulent waves of the ocean.
My Lord, the peace of your unbounded love
fails to reach me, I’m inconsolable
Pain crackles around me like fire. Listen.
It rumbles. It shudders ominously.

Lord, let your gaze fall only on me
Turn your face away from the rest of them.
I am the one who needs you. It is I,
I who long for the comfort of your robes
I’m your servant; your selfish, abject slave.
Yet I’m not kind, I will not share your love.

Love me. Me. Love only me, love only me.
My Lord, touch me. Touch only me. Heal me.

Sunday

So, I rose every Sunday
Drowsy, wobbly, angry
Was never an early riser
And Sundays were the worst,
I was up with the Sun.
It was seen to it that I was.

Dreadful Sundays, dreadful days
A little rebellious mind
pummelled to submission
on every dreadful Sunday
Polka dots and pigtails, big brown eyes,
a dreadfully angry spirit.

They told me he lived there
I believed, for a while
Then their cleverly crafted lies
(absolutely unnecessary)
gnawed through my faith
gnawed through it with termite teeth.

Scuttled their own ship
they killed their own
with the toxin of their lies.
And then A Big Fat Atrocious Lie unbound me
and shoved me roughly
into a world of strangers.

Which faces are familiar?
I see a million of them
And for a while I searched
for eyes that would hold mine
a smile of recognition, kinship.
Now my eyes are closed, I search no more.

Those Sundays were dreadful
I rose too early to go where he lived (or so they said)
And stayed back too late
so they could speak their narcotic words
that would deaden my tongue,
so I may only listen and never speak.

And so I left.
He came with me.

Disgust

Oh, come now!
You don’t mean to say
that you are, er
in love with me or something, do you?

I guess not, I hope not
Oh Heavens, No!
Spare me the tripe
of your co-dependent longing
and that priapic rapture
as you see my face hear my voice touch my skin
or fantasise about
seeing my face hearing my voice touching my skin

I’m done with you
and a long time ago.
Then why do I write this?
Because this masochistic high of being disgusted at self
for allowing even one moment of intense emotion for you…
this haematic high, is quite addictive.

I once knew this bastard
(How easily I judge)
who proclaimed Love
(How I hate the word the sentiment the feeling the confession)
to someone whose creativity complemented his
(She inspired him too, another muse, silly goose)
but guess what, despite all his oh-so-true feelings
(yeah, it got him a hard-on, that much was true)
his destination lay elsewhere, of that he was sure
(with hair grey, skin wrinkled - his old age home)
wedded to this faithful slave he was
(you know how it is, pati parameshwar, conceited bastard or not)
he’ll return to her, he said, his eyes brimming, love shining
(spineless parasite)
but for now, he told her, you’re my everything and my love is true.
(Rot in Hell)

Noli Me Tangere.