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.