Death

Death gives a profound context
to our meaningless babble
It is a waiting train ready
to start amidst our squabble.

It seems to have power
to pardon mediocrity
for every deadman is a hero
with his qualities extolled.

There is no low, middle
or a high class death.
It is an equalizer atlast
for the years of injustice in life.

Values that decompose at unequal speed
in life, acquire a uniformity in death
It singles us out
into a duel with the untested paths.

Life is a mist hanging above the lake
enshrouding the expanse of coldness
It has to clear up and give way
to the stillness of death.

Cut Away

Emotions have limited validity
like that of a punched ticket.
They are to be done with
at one stage or the other.

As we get into living and loving
we lose ourselves under the pillow covers
like the hidden teenage magazines
that are read in an unclear haste.

Solitude may offer a latitude of escape.
But what use is it to turn nostalgic
like a kite stuck to the string.
Cut away from the cut out roles
and await the thrill it'll bring.

Love Over Coffee

They fell in love somehow
and confused they are now
caught in the strain
between passion and restraint.

Trying to break the elusive ice
they gaze into each others eyes.
Over the time, their helplessness
cools off into an addiction for coffee.

The dregs of such a relationship
are friendship, familiarity etcetera.

2500 A.D

It is a new planet distant in time.
2500 years After Destruction (A.D).
A school assembly gathers at prime
and just like all other days
the gas around them resonates
as a squeaky tune plays.

It is a new anthem
constructed out of the broken CDs
that were hurled at them
immediately after the supernova.

There is a new anthem everyday
out of the broken disk and to hear that
the children maintain grim silence.
and they could hear each other fart.

Though, the children grew up
they attended the assembly at prime.
To listen to what it is this time.

They have differences only one day old
that too about the squeakiness of the anthem.
It is a simple existence
2500 years after destruction.

Condolences

We forget collectively
and that is the spirit for now.
A feeling of being left out
mums us to make noises
that are mistaken as approvals.

Remembering is an exercise in loneliness
where as forgetting is done in gatherings
More so in condolence meetings
where life is beautifully wreathed.

There is a question about moving on
and there is no answer. Just the silence
of velvet shoes dispersing
into the smoke of the candles put out.

Sleep Baby Sleep

Sleeping, is waking up
in a world of happy possibilities
that leave us jittery sometimes.

It is an escape
from the gunshots of reality.
In dreams, the bullet opens up the body
but the mercury closes in.

Blood has different color there
not warm and sticky, but shiny
and in surplus. There is no loss
of blood and ventilator is
just a plaything.

We wake up to judgements
"Bad, Heinous, cruel"
"Should be eliminated from the map"

A trance of disbelief still
hangs in the air and there are mikes
that lose their sleep struggling
to fill the mouths just like
the 47s a few hours ago.

Pills are out of stock
and there is panic everywhere
not like when there are only 15 killed
but 150 killed.

Butterfly

I enjoy the sight of a twittering butterfly.
I can never hold it in my hands
and have to let it go flower to flower.

The color of the wings is inviting
to lay a trap and just feel them
as the texture of a great painting.

After some time the wings turn pale
losing the color to my fingers.
It stops moving. I think it is
cozily asleep in the warmth of my hand.

I release it but there is no movement yet
So, I try to blow air
like artificial breathing
to get the wings into motion.

It refuses to wake up , like
a stubborn child on Monday morning.
I try in vain again.

Someone comes up to me and says
It could have been dead.
I reject it as a stupid idea
for creatures so beautiful to die so silently.
That too losing their beauty to the hands of ugliness.

I take it home and place it in a big book
that none would dare to open.
I think it is still there smearing
it's color to the story.

Hate You

You can dislike people
but hating them, some how binds you
and brings discomfort like the
chewed gum sticking to the shoe.

True hate is as common
as true love. Love is only
the acceptable side of the coin.

What would happen if one accepts hate?
Would people cry over the shoulders,
as they do in love?

It is a strange thing to be loved
And also to be hated.
Both are constructs for a purpose
to feed on like parasites
to live until death.

Love doesn't stop with death
It takes the form of soiled tombs.
Hate appears to have ended there
but who knows about the
underground tube in the grave yard?

Tombs from inside are stations of hate
but outside they are decorated with flowers
like the shining bill boards, advertising
radiantly in the nights.

Of course,there is nightlife in the tombs.

Dents

We are dented with memories
like the utensils in a kitchen.
Each speaks of it's own glory and depth
crying out to pick it up for rumination.

Recounted hundreds of times,
past is exhaustive.It is tiring to
add more fillers over years , as the
mind struggles to remember anything.

The essence in us is slowly
formed out of the new age things as
the green on bronze show pieces.

Our lives are filled with an urge
like that of an inflated balloon
containing lot of nothing
within a beautiful design.

Rumble

Watching the kitchen tap rumble away
the waters , sadness is recounted
and then emptied into words .

A withdrawn feeling transports the time
into the nights spent listening to a soulful song
in hope of drawing some happiness.

Sadness is condensed into the
little things that are encountered.
and there is an unusual warmth
in the most bland gestures.

A warmth of the welling up eyes.
Tears would be too dramatic here.

Love

Love is a head rush.
It takes effort to push it further
into a sustained compromise.

With age we interpret love
as different shades of feelings, till
we discover a comforting familiarity.

Crossing the Line

There is a rush of traffic
as you totter crossing the line
like a teenager on the first date.
some how you take a step further
but then everything flashes before you
in the glass of the running-over car.

You stop.
Not exactly dead.
Not yet.
Loosen your tie to take a breath that
some one of lesser intelligence
some one who could not figure out
the third dimension of things
stopped the wheel over his limbs.

There were no cries for help
I don't think you paid attention.
It was quick and then you crossed the road.
The crows didn't waste time, did they?
they perched on the top of the hoarding and
once in a while cleaned the road, haphazardly
like an early morning sweeper.

The Last Bench

Those were the days when
the chapter on reproductive system was out of syllabus.
But we read and re-read it
while the other lessons flew
over our heads like the paper planes.

Yes that's us. The last bench.
Our honesty was rudely raw
and it would take years to get polished
into various figures of speech.

We were famous as the clan without a plan.
People emulated us, but their
thick answer books in the finals
singled us out into the last bench again.

Wheel

Time is a potter's wheel
and we are molded by the hands of fate.

Patterns are hailed beautiful unlike the clay
which is amorphous like innocence

These patterns are created by threads
that remove chunks of clay
as the wheel rotates.

And the final piece, from the kiln
bears hardened scars on the skin.

Hinged

The window shutters flap
in a state of hinged freedom.
There is a scraping noise
of the calender against the wall.

A looming darkness before rain
blurs the day into night.
People rush to close the doors
but she is outside, waiting for him.

Children start scanning the road
in both directions. They pester her
about him. She orders them
to go to bed.

Later, in the calm of that starry night
there's a relieving sound of the gate.
The children sleepwalk to him
and scold him for being late
as she starts arranging for dinner
with a smile reflecting in the steel plate.

Winter

The streets were deserted in coldness
like the arms of a forlorn lover.

He looked one more time at the door
longingly, to hear any faint knocks.
But there was no one
except the seeping wintry silence.

Optimism

Optimism creates a beautiful image
by filling in the imperfections for now.

But things scale up
at the wrong time like a bad tooth.
Optimism then, would be a sedative.

A sedative that can take us higher up
in air and carpet bomb the cities
leaving a black smoke from B-52.

It should be handled well
contained, but still powerful
like our vote in the ballot.

Rights and Wrongs

Freedom is like an unused space in a room
without which one feels too cramped.
Only When we are cornered
there are thoughts sneezing out of the settled dust.

Our mute resistance against the infringement
takes the form of conversations over dinner.
They are passed on to children, through the
this-is-how-the-world-is stories.

Let's break the evasion
Let's clean up the dust before we are cornered.
There are rights to be exercised
and there are wrongs to be exorcised.

Depths

There is a refractive shallowness in depth
in the form of disconnect between us.
Things are not same for the fish in the pond
and the hand that throws crumbs of bread.

Deep waters is an experience
but still it appears conquerable like infinity
symbolized in a sleeping eight, a missing link in
our experience with the whole.

In Dry Land

the wrinkled are scattered in
parleys on the pyols, boasting
about the children in the city.

their furrowed faces are moist
with sadness of separation
and happiness of escape from the cracked soil.

they are left behind as forgotten milestones
bent and supported by sticks.


(*pyol - Raised platform in front of a house)

Blinds

With age, we accept things like the static on a radio
and the constant drone of traffic outside.

Words, actions and even thoughts
are used as blinds to keep off the outside view

A child's tenacity of bursting birthday balloons
gives way to mute resignation.

Outside the cubes of existence there are phantom powers
that can be burst easily like those balloons
and the 'tup' sounds would shatter our worlds only for a moment.

There is never a right moment for things
but there are right things for the moment
So, shoo away the blinds and look out.

Ice-cream

I knew, that after sometime
sadness doesn't make sense.
So I went my way, had an ice-cream
and melted the sadness under the sun.

But my friend who had a way with words
said he would go out and make it a point to the world
He moved lot of people to tears.

Now he is famous and all worried
as his tears vaporize
into words in the limelight.

He misses the evenings on the bench
with wetted palms.

Force

The force of longing increases
with the distance between us
and When we are at the opposite ends
the entire world is wrapped in our feelings.

we come together like the ends of an elastic band
and rediscover the texture of the relation
like the re-formed print.

Trapped for long inside love
we create music
out of anxiety between us.

Assurances

Thousand assurances are pressed
in the creased smile of grand mother
and the coconut offered to God by grandfather.

Later, in the diaries that are written
and the anecdotes shared
There are those assurances
that you are safe.

There was enough running before hugging you
with an affectionate briskness.
But during those anxious moments
everything was burning,like the blazing sun.

Pigeon Holes

An octopus with thousand eyes and wooden eyelids
The pigeon holes in the night.
There are many shades in them
green, blue, yellow and white.

Lives are contained and
locked up in them
like the meaning in some words.

Every morning there is
a black smoke from the kiln
signaling fresh set of bricks
for the cemetery.

The warmth of the pigeon hole
is a hollowness in the whole
It is soon filled
by the black smoke, tilting westward.

Ode to Donkeys

Donkeys cross the road better than us
without wandering here and there.
They are never fickle in their gait
They are just straight.

They are not smart asses
but are deeply thoughtful.
Sometimes, they drop shit oddly on the roads
we only hurl it against each other.

Lately, I see people transfixed by these donkeys
but they never take notice.
They just proceed objectively like
the heroes from great novels.

Life and Death

Are two bulbs of a sand clock
and we slip like the sand.

We die as we live;
As each grain feels the motion
there are some already pushed out.

We only fear the fall
death is that void on which
the slipped sand has no claim.

So what do we pray for then?
Just a smoother transition.

Pulp

The sadness that grips us
is layered with smiles
as a glossy cover, binding a dull print.

Happiness is seen blurred and confusing
through the translucence of time.

The yellow on the old books
never sticks to us;
Memories are eaten away by mites
till the pages crumble at our slightest thoughts.

The joy of the irreversibility of time binds us
to the memories and we fight with mites
for our share of the pulp.

Voids

In all directions they were buried
the ancestors in the field;
And 2 bags of salt was used for each
to mark their grave barren.

That day he lies on the cot
near a barren plot
and contemplates for long
slipping into siesta.

By dusk he remembers
to light the lamp before his
grandfather's passport size photo
taken out of the ration card.

while in the field
The voids are lost in a jingle of shadows
and silently the moon light seeps in.

The flame flickers due to gust
and he watches some shadows talk
beyond the fluttering windows.

Writer

Most of his time went into writing
he looked at an object in different ways
and was always lost in a tangle of metaphors
like the electricity in the exhumed wires.

He took the safe path of non-judgment
he felt secure that way so that
there won't be that unexpected knock of protesters.

He wrote, as an observer from a distance
as an astronomer with a telescope
adjusting his focus now and then
and rarely going out of his room on the roof top.

Walls

Walls in our minds muffle the noise between us
Old ones are renovated with new perspectives.

There is crooked writing on them
in a different language
making congeniality a mere misprint.

Private and limited

Though we invented the word "infinite"
we are limited.
We often find comfort in nostalgia
like the waves rediscovering the shore.

Within each moment, we leave
a grain of sand (like the waves)
all of which are gathered again
in reminiscence.

Within a circle containing life and death
we live like the gnats around the flame
crisscrossing
and sometimes crossing over.

In the early morning mist

A touch-me-not plant closes its eyes
as the grenade lying next
is decorated in dew drops.

Innocence and the hardened compromise
savor their last few moments in that mist
feeling the fragility of their existence.

Sometimes their charred roots are left
but soon get trampled in the grand march.

Metaphors

Good, Bad and Ugly
are like the seeds
some perfect and some distorted.
I plant them within the words;

Meaning takes shape as a tender sapling
And as a scare crow I guard it
from the questions plucking it to bareness.

I watch it grow into a tree
fluttering differently in different winds
And like me
It is bent and wrinkled on it's bark.

Taking a siesta one day under the tree
I lose myself into the meaning
adding a bitter strength to the roots
And be buried, in it's shadow.

I see my village in

the beautiful soot patterns on the lantern glass
the strong taste of a wild tamarind
the gently swaying neem tree

And in that scattered hay
that found its way
To the inner recesses
Of my heart.

Silence

It is hard
to notice and unnotice silence

Briskness is a sudden slap;
But silence is an aging melancholy
that becomes stronger with time.

It is a blankness
with looming possibilities.
Like those blank pages
after the abrupt end of a story.

A poem

Sometimes, is an ugly pattern
On a satin cloth
stitched in distress.

In a happy mood
those earlier threads are broken
and restitched to same randomness.

In distress and happiness we lose
a sense of direction like the needle
and are left with scars on the finger tips.
(that fade into an equal brown)

Clay

The twilight play
was a patch of joy;
And the fine brown clay
hid any bruises under the skin.

Wounds then were exposed easily
and we would twitch
as the turmeric was applied.

Now the wounds find their way
to the grave and to red dust
which can still hide them.

In a hospital

the strong smell of tidiness
dwarfs the signs of death.

the marks of the spilled blood
are wiped clean, like the sorry on the faces
by a plastic smile

Amidst the screams and shrieks inside us
we hope for optimism and a signal of continuity
like the color of those curtains.

Good title here

An awesome start

Continuity maintained

Tense about tense

No repetition of words

checking logic(if any) for a direction

Wrapping up the story

And then dinner.

Bad poems

Are like shed skins of a snake
They glisten and glow
But inside
they are hollow.

And the poet
moves on like that snake
winding around
in search of preys.

We are stories

Untold, and eagerly waiting
to be picked up
By a grandmother feeding the child.

She narrates us while making morsels
and scraping her hand
against the edges of the plate.

Perched on the threshold
the child listens intently
and gazes at a twittering sparrow.

We are forgotten there at the threshold
till one day beyond the seas;
That twitter of a sparrow brings back
the morsels in twilight
To that child, now a man

Atop

The pharaoh laid to rest high atop the pyramid
might not be that lonely for he takes alongside
a few slaves for company.

Those slaves who tried to kill themselves
but failed, would be chosen
as a sort of afterlife punishment.

There were no equals to him in life
But death was an emergency rite.
Slaves were bound to pedestals of the same height.

They would stare at the small door till
the last light escaped.

Ropes are found now
Around shrunk mummies of the slaves
Shrunk as if detaching themselves
from their life and death.

Within the walls

The silence within the walls
has stilled the time;
But outside it is flowing,
And eroding
The crimson bricks in rain.

The imperfections appear dark and deep
like those cracks crawling towards the roof.

Moisture seeps into life
Forming ugly patches
that are expected to disappear
in no time.

Long after the rain
The smell of wet wood stays.
(like her silence)

It refuses to burn as firewood.
and stays in a mossy gloss.
In abandonment.
(like her)

Points to Remember

No.
I don't write poetry for a living.
Who would pay
a wandering soul in empty space
occasionally getting hold of some snappy verse.

Appreciation sometimes I get
But from a distance
Like that of advertisement boards on a highway
Which will be forgotten at the next lamppost.

I pretend to create the poem at one stroke
throwing all the first drafts into the bin.
They get recycled
And some one else in me
writes on them in a different ink
at a different time.

In the bus

I am part of different moments
Which stay long enough
To put them away like this
(wrapped in the alphabet)

People come with stories
And I listen to them leaning
against the window seat
And with an occasional nod.
(and half open eyes. )

Some finish them
But mostly they leave it hanging
And rush towards the exit
In an awkwardness of revealing a lot

I try to look beyond
the spots on the window glass
as people disappear along with their stories.

A more telling story occupies the seat
And we start over.

That name

The sleeping memories are tagged
with just one name
Though there were many others in frame

Later,
Paths must have gone zigzag and random
Like the drawing on a child's slate;
But it is always
That memory and that name.

Box

I guard my ego, without any scratch
like the geometry box in the childhood.

Like those circles, rectangles and triangles
I have different faces stenciled
(both Smooth and sharp)

The coldness of that iron case
Is in my speech;
Pointed phrases like the compass
often dot it.

I have different colors outside
But inside I am gray with graphite ;
Staining the hands that open me up
I leave the mark
in a fading black.

Distance

The distance between moments
is measured by words and silence
we may choose not to indulge
But still time trickles it's way

Being the moment
we mark the time like a candle
Giving out light
and hiding the darkness in us.

What's in front of me

Is a deserted queen bee
In an empty hive
pondering, the buzz of silence.

The abandoned home looks turned over
Exposed and naked
Like the truth behind the lies.

The queen waits in refusal now
Still enchained to the throne
And hears her own buzz
In the increasing coldness of the night.

I write

I write
squeezing in those metaphors
Into a bus-full of stories.

I write
Trying hard to grab a foothold
In those pressing moments.

For I know
it is the last bus home
Though circuitous.

Contentment

Contentment is found
in different things now
Not that the medium matters
But just for the record.

There is relishing of life
And not letting the moment go;
That tenacity of childhood still lingers
Like the aroma of sprinkled spices
long after the cooking.

In reminiscence
We often stretch the time
And in that longing
We some how find
A sense of belonging.

Enough

"Enough
That's enough
what you have written till now
Stop it.
No more stretching of the story. "

The words I hear
as I tease another thought to my bed
To only press it into words
Crookedly
And sometimes wickedly.

Luggage

Remembering the capital cities
was a great excitement in school
I wondered when I would go
to all those places
There are just too many.

While I press my chin
against the window
The stations rush past
and the destinations recede fast.

There is one final dead end
Where the train stops
and there
everything is emptied.

Make up

Her laugh had different colors
like that of spilled petrol on water

With that strong smell of her perfume
Something was locked away from the daily chores
But towards the end of the day the gloom appeared
like a nasty wrinkle out of the fading makeup.

She always found escape in her make-up box
And now, in that nail polish remover
Which she treasured.

Nothing new

There are no new metaphors
Just the drab old ones
Bottled in the synonyms
(Straight out of Thesaurus)

Carefulness is parenthesized
Like the laminated feeble ID cards;
Meanings are too weak to hold out
but nevertheless a filler.

So let me make it
Ergo, break it into these lines
And leave you wondering what struck you
Some trick or mediocrity?

July has

The smell of new books
(Intoxicating like that of varnish)
Fancied friends, pencils and pens
The careful walking around the puddles
While reading the messages on the raincoats.

The drying of clothes on tables, chairs
And everywhere.
The silly things written down
(Poems or just drawings)
Out of joy or the warmth at home.

Melancholy is hard to find
In such an image.
(Even years later, when you reflect)

It will take a little more time
For the pencils to darken.

Mountain and brook

we walk with a longing for rain
in silence and gurgle
like the mountain and the brook

The clouds huddle up whispering a drizzle
The wilderness celebrates
with a strong fragrance in the air.

The mountain and the brook
celebrate in contentment
in silence and gurgle.

Inward

Have that inward smile
As every one debates
What I write.

I see them in that chaos
and have that askance of a child
who cleverly hides his toys
And silently enjoys.

Curtain

You used to hide behind the bedroom door
in much anticipation to surprise me.

Now, in the same room
you lock yourself up and surprise me more.

A silence hangs in the air
like that curtain (full of tulips)
mutely wavering
under the ceiling fan.

Fire side

He was the lonely survivor
of a great war.
He wanted to collect some sovereigns now.
(Mostly inanimate objects )

Wading through the silence
he managed to reach an altar
kicked a few gods
and picked up a metal tablet.

Fire side stories deciphered the hieroglyphics
forming new symbols
out of the dancing flames.

It was warm on the fire side
As yet another story
charred to conclusion.

Little lights

The distant little lights
grip us into a gaze
Not too near, not too far
Like hopes they glow.

In a design that is discerned
only from a distance;
they light up the sky around them.

There is one thing near though
On this side.
The image of the lights
And that longing for hope in our eyes.

Far away

From the signboard of friendship
we are running in opposite directions
towards the endless horizon.

An askance now and then
to check the distance covered

But we are running;
Away
Far away.

Apartment

Different rooms and different lights
In an empty apartment;

Different stories, in each room
All packed and tested
before they enter other(s') light.

Dark rooms are special
The noise is also muffled
there are no faint lights even
(to see the shadows on the walls)

When inquired, you shrug
But the anxiety of a key holder
Shows up in your eyes.
In the other rooms
In different lights.

No-where

A sign board reads
Cremation ground->

A well laid path
Towards anonymity

Figurines

He chiseled our souls
into graceful figurines.

Some days
He concentrated on that danseuse
Trying hard to capture the moments.
Some times he just sat brooding.

He gave a final look that day
And with a sigh he left.
Later, we heard people whispering
(different people each day)
about a bloody battle
beyond the river.

It was moving
but how would we react.
We waited for him
to chisel some new poses.

One day
there was galloping of horses.
Before the sun went down
We lost our nose rings and the grace.

As the dusk fell
There was much clanking near the river
Swords were cleaned up
in the darkness.

Slowly, weeds grew out of us.
And the river flowed
Carrying itself.

Too busy

Today the poet seems busy
He said he would come up with a new metaphor
But till now there is no news.

The last, we've heard of him
He was tightening the tense
And striking off non-sense.

He would take us all
to a known place
and we shall discover it
the first time

Such were his powers
But today he seems occupied.

We wait
like the passengers;
for a delayed train
munching whatever we have;

Screen

A screened door;
Dynamic patterns on the floor
Elongating and shrinking
And measuring time.

Transport

Which bus are you waiting for?
And which one will you take?
Who will sit next to you ?
And what would the conversation be?

What will he talk?
And what will you?

Where will he get down?
And when?
When will you?
And where?.

Who will write this?
And who will read?

Drop

A dew drop on the window grill
quivering in the wind.

Images - yours and mine
along with that glint in our eyes;
All in that drop.

Stage, backdrop and prop
All, a quivering drop.

Hi

me : hi
friend : hi

me:how do you do?
friend :fine, and u?

me:fine, what's up?
friend: nothing much, on your side?

me:nothing much.

Wondering what this is?
Remember oldtimes?
A friendly stare and a blink;
That the creatures of same species share
Coldly acknowledging one another
That they are alive.

This has the same warmth to it.

Gloomy lot

Poets are a gloomy lot
They are either reminscing in the past
Or dreaming in future.
They carry a blame
of not living the present.

An idea pops up
And they put it down too fast
Making the present, past.

Just Checking

Saw the past through present's lens
And viceversa;
And I ended up
myopic.

This time that is all
the poetic licensing I've got.

The truth is , a rumour infact
That a beauty was there in the clinic
peeping into your eyes;
Just checking.

I went there.
"Can you read those letters?"
"Now?"
'no'
"now? "
'no';

"now?"

She was so close.

Pattern

Have you seen any pattern
in the wilderness of graveyard?
Death seems to elude design
Just like life.

You had a hunch
You would end in that armchair
but suddenly there was a gaping noise
And a flying glass caught you.

But you were lucky in a way;
In one piece now you tend
the flowers over your bosom.

Others lie scattered.

Trodden

Silence surrounds
As if a promise was found, vacuous;
We sit around the dinner table
Together for one (last) time.

We expect the paths to cross again
pray that it should happen
but not too soon.

The smiles of inevitability
cast a spell across, and we
Break off into stories
reminiscing the trodden path.

Taking notes

So many metaphors
still the truth lies veiled;

Will the space be a little translucent?
And time a little slow, for me
to see things still, and take notes.

Stillness when desired , evades
But when it dawns the desire fades.
So, I sit in a corner and craft the story
Ignoring
A curtainful of possibilities.

Out of the blues

I write mostly melancholies
Only them, I remember to pen down
Not that there is no happiness;
But it is more fleeting.

Joy and sadness come in cycle
Knowing this and after writing this
Can I not see one in another?

Sometimes the thinking takes me
to an objective space and I
with equal ease , witness joy and sadness
Until suddenly waking up to a jittery feeling.

Lace work

I would interlace the stories
And form a curtain;
And hiding behind that
I would laugh at you;
At your ability to see through.

The stories would be molded
With your wild imagination
that paints beautiful flowers
shrouding me.

Under the wild flowery bed
I hide,talking and laughing,to my echo
While more frescoes are created
On the now wall-like curtain.

Moments

Were the good days old?
Were the old days good?
The mime of the present is staged
to the music of nostalgia.

Suddenly we hear silence
people come out of the still frames;
pages from the book we read
turn into little boats, trying hard
to float in the puddle (of life).

Rain against the window knocks
as a distant memory earnestly invites
To come out and get drenched.

The other day

"The other day you wanted to be that datura"
"swaying happily in the mountain breeze"

'yes at that moment I wished'

"Are you going to live only in those few moments?"
"In those fleeting joys and whims"

'Is life in itself continuous?'
'or is it closely knit by us'
'with colored threads till the end'

"Yes it is weaved by us into one final peace"
'True indeed'
'but the little gaps are filled'
'With questions like these'

Who are you?

Time flows
Taking with it
The drifting moments.

Happiness and sadness
Worries and sins
Emptiness and activity
Everything is gone, awash.

Only a strange image remains
Asking
Who am I?
And who are you?

Piece keeping

The chronicler was absent that day
Else In that blue letter pad
he would have listed
the things that were lost.

As the cameras flashed
There would be speck of light
In every one's eyes.

Reporters argued for this
To be a moving story
More moving than others they said.

Storytellers wandered in the rubble
Picked up their next piece
And gave empathy.

Painters, yes, they took time
But they came with the canvas
To crayon the place.

That was how
Piece keeping was done.

Swing

Images stay
But imagination does sway

I see you
But its not you
It is me in you

Done with you now
Where is my swing ?

Let me oscillate
Meet all my selves
Till there's a snap
And a feather-like fall.

Diary

I hate sudden voids
So,I enjoin the incidents
In that process
fill up the diary

Once this gets started
There is no stopping
Flapping those yellow pages
I write some new ones

My last attempt to stop time
-The new diary with no dates -
need this to finish off
What I left in those yellow pages.

Between the lines

The distant star's light reaches us
(without any pomp)
Silently and solemnly
She would cry facing the wall.

Thunder and lightning
It was her chuckle
Then in a flash
All smiling, she was.

She comes to me
"I wrote a poem" she says
"It doesn't look like one" I say
(So broken it was ,on a crumpled paper)

She sniggers away
Leaving the paper with me and shouting
"He likes it ! He likes it!"

All day I wander
Among the broken lines
And unknown lanes
As the creases on the paper
Breathe life into it.
(Like the river routes carrying vitality )

Hope

We light the candles of hope
under the peepal tree
Will the wind behave
And not flicker them?

Caged in our eyes and hearts
Is the full moon;
Does it stop escaping
often into smoke ?

Dry leaves should describe us well
As trampled as them we are ;
Breaking often into shreds
Disconnected and burning out in hope.

Summer holidays

My sword
The old antenna
With black bulbous head

very important
bows and arrows
made of broom stick fibre

catapults and ammunition
rubber bands, folded paper

Be quick, give the signal
Have to win the battle, this time.

Piecing it

'The moon rise?'
"Yes"
'The fire-flies?'
"No, they escaped"
'Is there anything else?'
"You may use the window"
'Right. shall use it'
"Done?"
'Not yet'
"Wait! forgot to tell"
"3 stars, 1 cloud and a mountain"
"Done?"
'Nope'
"Now?"
"Hmm...Looking good"
It's done.

Adjusting

"Who was that, third from the left?"
"No it was not her"
"She had long hair"
"May be she did not"

How often things fade
Slipping out of the edges
Of our minds.
and of those old farewell photographs.

How often we long for things
to fade and slip away into obscurity
just in time.

As we sift through nostalgia
Things are always fading
Always adjusting.
(even the still images)

Flowers and Notes

Jasmine flowers and the Violin

The fragrance grips me
And the notes out of the bow
Shoot me into a creation of
The movement of her fingers.

The notes high and low
The silence and the stray note
Recreate the lost fragrance.

The smell becomes touch,
Sound becomes smell
Vision is blurred with tears
As notes scale their heights.

Into unision, the senses melt
As the music is dwelt.

Mirage

Thirst seems to be quenched
With the mysticism
Shaped out of the mirages.

Some times it is the questions
That answer the most.
And sometimes it is just time.

Mysticism is caged
In you and me
And is every where we see.

Should we settle with it?
Or should it be stirred
Shadows in the sands
Are often screened by the storm.

How-much

Very often
I am amazed at
How much people know
About themselves.

Power-cut

Every evening there was power cut
and it brought silence for a while
We would come out and play
Hide and seek
in the dim twilight.

The neighbour's daughter met
their neighbour's son
In the dark stairways
leading to the terrace.

The street would be lost in chattering
Amidst the pressure cooker whistles.
In those little lit parleys
Opinions were formed.

With the hide outs getting darker
The game would go on
for quite sometime.

How in those days
In that moment
Every one wished
For light not to invade.

Time

A withered flower
Is all brown
Just like the soiled tomb
Of my love.

Burnt in passion
Time is crumpled into
One eternal moment.

Memories turn into cinder
And then they fly.

Hemlock

Hemlocked,
He lies on the floor
Eyes flung wide open
In search of metaphors
As he is transported
For one last time.

Raining in my heart

The slant rain appears
As a shower of pearls
Against the yellow background
Of lamp light.

The heated longing of the mud
Is cooled off by the rain
And the small puddles are formed
To store the happiness.

I take the road
And walk past the small puddles
To see your image in them

Ah your image!
It hovers still
In my heart
Unwavering with the myriad
Ripples of thought

Pedestrian Space

Tattering along the street
I grapple for the losing grip.
Amidst the motley of creations
I look for my pedestrian space.

The time's turtle has sped up
In the ether of my mind.
As the space is filled
With some other illusion.

Photo

Images are fresh with
Yellowed edges
And in the light
The photo glows
Just like gold.

The checkered background
Of that old studio
The uneven lamp light
Too black, too bright.
Almost rare
In pixeled cut-outs today.

In the inner vault
I would keep this safe
Along with other valuables

So often I would
seek it's company
Till the silver vapour escapes
With the glow in my eyes.

Threads

I look up to the
Ceiling and see
Hanging threads
To be tied and untied.

Rainbow

This lovely rainbow
Seven colours, seven notes
Infinite images and myriad melodies.

Vigour and violet
One can never forget
A crown to the rainbow
The great arc.

Dark and gaudy, Indigo
Stands out from the others
The shades of dark and light
Reminders of those nights.

The infinite, the blue
Is one with the sky
In merry.

Breathing life into the bow
Is the green
As if crayoned
With some tall trees.

Yellow for the mellow
Always soothing the skies
After the thunder and lightning
And the shower of tears.

All the shades
Wrapped in Orange and
Tied with a Red ribbon
Are just waiting.

Let's lose ourselves.

Book-marks

Pressed between the past and future
We are a hanging bookmark
Marking the pages as the story turns.

Are we connected to the characters?

Horizon

We wet the sands
With our passion
The evening heat is
Our kiss

I Quench my thirst
With the drops on her
As the sea dances
To our racing hearts

The waves crash the shore
In a strange jest
As the distant waters
Succeed in their quest

The dusk settles in silence
A desire rises, in the horizon
And the two ends meet.

Motley

The color winged butterfly
Dies in the hands of life.

Little pretty hands.

Red-eye

The redness in the eyes
Smears the skies
And wavy lines are etched
With vapored tears

Drops of energy
Are drained eagerly into the leaves
Time is marked away
As the orange disk leaves.

A heaven, A hell
The same day, is
Lulled for a while.

A fresh redness
Would form again tomorrow
For it is someone's
Day of sorrow.

Smile please

A sweet little something
Speckles of joy
Freckles of sadness
Clad in all these
A beauty is this life

We are tired , I realize
But lets celebrate life and living
Let's show the darkness its place
Let's sing, Let's dance
This is our only chance

Burying the worries
Let us all smile
And walk that extra mile.

Fork

Two roads diverged and I
I sleep at the intersection.

Knock

The bees from the hive
Knock the glass windows
To let them in for light

But letting them in
Would trap them in light
Away from the warmth of darkness
And happiness that they harness.

Weed

In that strong gale
Am a quivering blade of grass.

When the night breaks in,
In the grass lands I lie
Casting a swooning shadow
On the moonlit meadow.

The early rays escape me
But reach the reaper
Dwelling far from the
Shadow of the hills.

The morning dew
I preserve
Is still afresh
And here comes the sickle.

The clown

We thought
It was just another performance
And there were chuckles

As he was buried with
His tears, His mask and
His gown .

Music

Unperturbed and undiluted
By the din.
Like the eight directions
They chattered
In silence.
Or was it music ?

The octave engaged in a symphony
Scaling each other
With ease
Of a conductor's signs.

Dusk fell
And they dissolved ;
The silence fled
And the noise returned.

I am surrounded now
By a different silence.

The conclusions were made.


( eight mute people conversing on a railway platform;
Courtesy : Gunjan Verma)

Solace

Somewhere distant
Near the horizon
Whirlpools and vortices
Are everywhere.

As a warning
The waves rise in a distance
But they reach the shore
In submission.

Her tears well up
In the high tides
As she rises up in vain
To reach the moon.

Solace is often found
By her
At the shore
In you and me.

Space Trip

You said the world was a dark place
And showed me the moon
A window out;

We then flew and settled
Amidst the stars

You said the other galaxy is new
Lets check it out
And I followed suit.

Now, we are the end of universe.

Lost

I would archive it later;
The evening spent with you

I would paint myriad images
Of the hills, of the moon
And many more

But you, me and us know
That all I was doing
Was looking into your eyes.

Cliched

I converse for hours
With the mirror
But it is your eyes
That blank me.

The moment of silence
Heartbeats in tandem
So close we are
Yet so far

In cliched expressions
I describe you;
And I realise
Language has limits.

Anklets

In the used-goods shop
I cut a deal for the anklets
To decorate the feet
I bought the other day.

Dancing
To some forgotten tune
And lost in fulfillment
They seem to be complete now.

In my thoughts
I try to sculpt her in vain
While she whispers
"Visit the used-goods store again".

Stillness

The quivering image in the pond
Breaks away with the gust

There is this ephemerality
I rant about
To the passers by

Stillness settles in
And then I breakaway.

Mishmash

The mishmash of alphabet
Is woven into a gossamer of words
Just like this one

A trap of stanzas
Waiting to grab
And transport your soul
To a strange place

Before you start deciphering
You would breakaway
From the geometric maze;

And become
A broken tile
No longer bounded
By the order of the mosaic.

Escape

I am scared
Of getting lost in the crowd
Recluse to me
Is still an illusion

I take a new bus
Enroute strange places
But still seated around
Are the familiar faces.

One busily drawing
Another busily scribing
And some others
Just musing.

I jump off and run
To an escape
But soon get captured
In their creations.

Ferried

The pebbles chime
To the stream's gurgle
I wait for a ferry
That would transport me
To that red streak
Floating afar.

As night dawns
A struggle washes itself off
The last scent of the blood
In the stream of time

The streak dissolves
Nature absolves
Another era's struggles
And the stream gurgles
In resigned acceptance.

unconnected

Did you see the eagle?
What a lofty flight it has!
Over the dead soldiers and Alexander
"Today would be a blood clot in time"

Did you call me?
What an eerie silence!
You are decorated, epitaphed
"Rest in Peace".

You

We meet and forget
The memories seem to be erased
Till suddenly you resurface
As my log-in's password.

Sixer

It would be six runs
When the ball was found
In the back yard cemetry

Every day,one among us
Would beat death to it's grave
And return with the ball

Today he went and never returned
He was not one of us.

Sweet Mints

As the sun goes up
We would start towards the school
Climb the bus
And look for our friends

Around the bend
With a cane basket
An old lady chewing betel
Sold the sweet mints
As red as the betel
Ground under her teeth

We buy the candy
And attend our school
We come back for more
But she would be gone
Leaving us wandering
In search of red trails.

Years rolled on
The morning sky is now
Clad in yellow and red
Cane basket and sweet mints.

Meter

Only the arial script
On his notepad marks him .
Typing, typecasting
He dwells in the delirium.

In the bright background
Of a virtual canvas
Dark stories are told
The hills and the morn are typed
Smiles are worded
And tears are metered

Oblivious and lost
In the clatter of the keys
He types away the world around.

Later, a tree from the rainforest
Would carry his message
Well typecasted
In laser print.

Remnants

The wind blows fast
And her silhoutte forms
Out of the raging sand.

My heart burns
With a mounting desire
To whirl away with her
And reach the lands
Distant in that blur.

Her tears fill the sea
And as I walk by
The water touches my feet
Taking away
To those distant lands
The remnant bits of me.

Re-arranged

Feelings faded
Like shelved old newspapers
Rearranging them
Images flash
In the morbid alphabet.

Rear View

Hiding behind the slopes
The glow of ember slowly appears
With the music of dawn.

The first boat is set sail
With the water rippling
In ecstasy
At the touch of the golden beams.

The fog raises the curtains
For an early morning show
With the folk lore
As a background score.

Snaking through the road
Around the hills
I treasure the images
In the rear view mirror
And thank that they are closer
Than they appeared.

Mirrored

Images vaulted inside
Are crayoned on the opaque windows
A few are lost
A few get mirrored.

The mirrors are true
But the images aren't
Stand before them
And they show
Someone else for you.

The sunlight
Is from, just another neon lamp
The silent scenic hills
Are murals on the drab walls.

The worms are cultured
Just for you
For your freedom
From this silver frame.

Hall of fame

Hall of fame
A thundrous applause;
Resounding in a corner
Of a quaint recluse.

Hall of fame
Years ago
A virgin note;
A fresh song.

Buds take shade
Blossom unknown
In to the time they fade.

Killed the notes
Revelled in mediocrity
Absolved your sins
Engraved your wins

On this cold evening
as the carriage transports you
To a new recluse
An asylum, A hide out.

The moving notes are now gone
As zephyrs carried freshness away
To the heavens.
Where,there are
Less odds than evens.

Broken

The setting sun, the silent hills
The naked beach and a kiss that fills
Stars shimmering behind the clouds
In each other's arms,away from the crowds.

The vagrant walks, The simple talks
The benches,the roads,the hugs
All hold a void;
You have now scattered into a galaxy of stars
As the broken pieces of my heart.

Wished,I could freeze the time
But the falling star betrayed me
And then you left me.

"I"

I revel in it's sorrow
I correct other's wrongs
I kill the two
I become the two
I gulp all of them to form
I get dissected into two

I live in yesterday's tomorrow
I live in tomorrow's yesterday
I enjoy other's sorrow
I revel all the fray

Images, stories well weaved
Personalities well kneaved
Connected by a single umblical cord
That sustains this discord

The cord cuts
All 'I's unite
In nothingness.
In Black.
Noooo! In white.

Umbra

I am the dark omen
As you move away from light
I am your retrospect
As you move towards.

I escape in the night
And return with the light
Reminding you life is both
Black and white .

Blood letting

To the cacophony of cymbals
The forest cover shudders
In an entranced dance
They circle the fire
The smoke from it
Glooms the sky.

Chained to the pyramids
Slaves are decorated and lined up
The vales are filled
With a mystic echo
Commanding them to let it flow.

Amidst the cheers
The palpitating hearts are taken out;
Each warrior showcases them
And lets the blood flow
Along the trails of the yore.

The blood is offered
To a squatting rock;
As the sky sheds tears
They feel the joy
But the palpitating hearts
Are dead coy.

Dried Ink

From a wavering quill, a streak
Tune the dried ink on the paper
A song, a life.

Humming it
Add more notes
The song,more personal.

Sing it, Laugh with it
Cry with it
The song, Your song

Teach it
Another life
The song,a noise
Sans real voice.

Pearl

A distant mistral grazes past
The pearl of water trickles slow
In the light beam it glitters
As it drops past the brow.

She eclipses the sunlight
And a diamond ring forms
Around that graceful waist
The coy pearl still trickling
Meets the grace
As beauties pitted against

Let me be that drop
Let me be that sunlight
Let me be the air
Around that beauty fair.

Faint Trails

Parallel threads we are
Wading through each other
Grazing closely everytime
We miss each other all the time.

Destiny intervenes
Captures us in a jigsaw puzzle
We match or rather mismatch
And evade each other

Fraility blossoms doggedness
Frantically we knock every door
Searching for evaded threads
That we lost in the yore.

Lost are the yester's faint trails
In the music of the coffin's nails.