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.