A Textbook Case of Love

In the dusty corners of an ancient textbook
there are these signs of love.
Hearts, swans and arrows
brought out by an invisible cupid.
Hearts, drawn in ink and arrows in pencil
by two of us in a by-gone conversation.
There are holes in some hearts of the inner pages
with traces of Tic-tac-toe within, ending in a draw.
On some pages, swans fill the margins
with their elongated necks like a cursive S.
Their beaks seem darkened and their eyes
emotive with anger, amusement
fear and boredom: all teenage versions.
There are codes for "I love you"
formed by complex rules using the printed alphabet.
Blots of ink, appear here and there
thinning the paper with
the eclipsing frustration of mid term holidays.
Very rarely, the hearts appear in Red
proclaiming a stronger, dangerous and a bloody love.

In the mood of leaving

When everybody is in the mood of leaving
things change for good
Hardest of the rocks melt
Farthest of friendships reconcile
Greatest of the enmities stand suspended
An unwritten rule of
general bonhomie is allowed.
We leave happy images of each other
A couple of us even move to tears
weeping over others' shoulders.
That day, there is much compassion in the world
Many tears and shoulders from then
Who would remember what?
Strangely, these tears
oil the machine of forgetfulness.

Aflutter

I create my thoughts
on a gaping blankness.
Beyond all this noise
I listen intently
to the Crickety wilderness.
I sift through
the jet black darkness, housing
half eroded mounds
of buried ideas.
All this, under
the bright lights of today
reflecting on yesterday.
Puncturing this silence
I see a rare bird aflutter.
The elusive Myna of Poesy.
I take note, the setting is archaic.
But I see a fresh human trail
A small streak of blankness
through this thicket.
I walk further on this direction-less path
going nowhere and everywhere.

The Human Cage

We are a cage
A skeleton to be filled with
the muscle of imagination.
According to it, at the end of the day
everything could mean nothing to us.
The worst questions that arise
in its bloody ridges, would often find
peaceful answers by the dusk of that moment.
We have parroted karmic insolence for generations
to say that the bottom line is a blank one and
we will not attempt to find any answer to that.
We ask safe questions about numbing abstractions
as if we are seeking palliatives in them
punctuating our thinking with hemorrhages.
We shadow ourselves in the cosmos
hiding behind "It doesn't matter anyway"
but in this cage, where the sap still runs
through the marrow, there is a flow
of thought and time, and an ability
to exercise our muscle, beyond damnation.

Swan Song of the Sparrow

Next to the Crows
Sparrows were the most urban birds.
They with the easy brown color
suited well for the concrete scape.
They chirped a bit in the morning
and then people left for office.
Busy collecting food and shelter
they made their appearance
in the evening again.
Once in a while, an untrained sparrow
lost its way and we played with it
and left it outside by dusk.
There were cats in the neighborhood.
We weren't worried though.
The mother would pick up its children, we thought.
That's what happened at school.
Extinction was out of question.

Ripples

The rain drops on the window
slowly trickle down like tears.
There isn't an image I haven't seen
on this route,but things appear strange today.
I am passing by these roads in a rush
as if to escape responsibility.
Disjoint thoughts ring in my mind
A synesthetic anaesthesia suffuses it.
I have images in an ill-formed mirror
I can still see the outer world
but with a superimposing aberration.
There are only questions about life there.
Outside, in that struggle for attention.
I notice not the big bill boards and neon signs
but small keepers of flowers and fruits, waiting
for buyers from unexpected directions.
The wind is blowing hard now
The rain has ripples in its stream
There are two worlds.
Inside and outside the shelter.
I head towards my other journey.
There is a splattering knock on the window
Asking all sorts of questions
wrapped, in the warm texture of the moment.