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Showing posts from 2012

I cant title it

In our country ruled by gods, varied,  news is like fire
that only needs ignition.  Every other anti-social tales, whether it be  corruption chains,  food insecurities selling the female body,  child abuse waste management,  or what ever, similar images and news filter in over the democracy  like a river overflowing  banks of human wisdom.
And now, the current rape. Media: print, visual and social are oozing out red. Stained butterfly marks carry outlines of age old sin on print and posters. Gathering images of a mapless country conjured upon a dissection table, squashing young or old  from Gandhi to Irom or from Kashmir to Kanyakumari
My doubts are not about the news but about myself reading the stories one after the other sitting in my drawing room  and drinking hot coffee. Why do I read them? and expect more to come by ? What details do I search in it? The act of rape or the feel of flesh as its stripped off its skin? Is it my agitation marked as silence that takes me back to another page? or is it a brutal carnal voye…

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1)

Posters on an island
Islandsare half baked flour beds
where you sew in townships of late wisdom.

You sketch seasons, on them
Spring, summer and autumn,
and paste them on those designer walls.

Evenings have become so clich├ęd
that I no more see sunsets in my coffee mug.
You smoke out, Or is it me?
over written scripts of type set nothings.

The streets that I walked through,
last night
had by lanes of culinary shops,
spice hunts.
Colors of you and me,
across grey stone pathways.
2)
I
I won’t burn in love,
Or be cellars of Persian wine.
Wilderness has lost its exotic greens
To pale yellow sandbanks sane.
You displace cannibal weeds
And I miss my mermaid yearn.

II
Lost my way,
I would rather say,
In those sunflower islands
I saw on his lips
As he smiled that day
Quite far away
In that candlelit darkness
Of a screen less theatre.
3) I won’t speak of your bindi
That sweats and form
upright reddish waterfall sketches,
To the left or right
On your forehead

That male god,
Arrogant, adamant and what not!
Already has one on his crown
F…
My stretch marks are returning
like emerging waves  upon the beach tan of my skin
abdomen is a civilization that grows to complete the globe

Feast of the Female

Along the process of evolution
A genre stopped midway and, grew buds of laughter  and love, as they flew past horizons of water colors. Lilacs, Lemons and Strawberries and called each other Diana.
Women of the hills, daughters of Vayu and of the valley, gypsies of flower gardens and tastes of spice routes, are borne of a race, unknown to the domestic walls of  routine and loss
As they move, in and out of boredom and bedspread to the kitchen sink, they breed zygotes of storm on their bath, breads and dinner plates.
The feast for the Gods, that they serve upon their bodies, in between the legs of the dinning table, are nothing, but routine rice puddings on skin salt less and stale, for  the lust of the other race.
To taste the female you need to fly along and cross paths of Odysseus, wonderlands of Alice,  and northern sunflower fields, taste wine, laugh aloud kiss the air, and copulate downstream where the river meets the green. 


Diana- Goddess of hunt, moon and birthing and associated with wild animals and woodlands.

Sniffing

Dog is a political animal each organ, each act, functions with a purpose. Slogans of teeth or tail. Her note pad scribbles leave out all those smiling dogism. tales of love and debt. and marks out one in violet, and later red, named sniffing. she has had dogs, from Sniffy to Snoopy but, none were more, a dog than a man, she met in a moving train. This animal, sniffs you out from ur morning bed, office desk and evening calm drinks your coffee for your black that may lead you down, stairs of dope. It licks, cuddles hugs , and even pierce you neck as it sniffs, for semen of men. The holy river, dosent make you a male God in white dust. It part ways, along your valleys of mounts and dungeons as you too, slip out of your skin with an ancient curse. Even though she was sleeping, a baby sleep, as he sniffed. She would get up and scream, "Infidelty is my birthright." and then, once again. She would call him, a dog.

Words

Words are pitiless enemies
They haunt from places, far away
where one has left them
in half dazed moods.

They linger on your evenings
and over the dinner plates,
Even when one has oared
to other shores
of spring and summer

As I ride back to my
Original wrath,
I am clueless of my sin,
taken in.

Leaves fall and lands freeze
As another day dawns.

As I unlove

Men, I ought to have loved
from birth and beyond
have made me sense laser beams

Sharp and sudden threads of silk
pulled at random, over the senses

The weaver and his machine
and the arrow marks of pain

and then,
when the suddenness leaves,
choking my throat,
boredom
inevitable indifference,
casual cruelty,
and more, a vomit of scorn
defines the later me.

As I unlove

Hallucinations in Pink

It was a short and steady poem
from an age 
when people wrote letters. 

Papers of dust
from the underworld
opened like woven cobwebs 
drown you
in smell 
and later, 
hallucinations.

and I see a pink doll frock
washed carefully 
and left to dry.

While I wait with my little dolly
at the kitchen door
I tell her stories of princesses 
in pink gowns.
and of our evenings, flights
of fancies. 

She had chubby cheeks
for me to kiss
and yellow curls.
so that, 
I could dream.

Color me a paper boat

Wish i could draw a you,
and then me, 
fill us like picture cards.
colors
overflowing 
like, in a pre-school sketch book

the yellows slip out of sunflowers
and greens, from hill tops, reach the skies
you see crows, colorless, flowing in a distant past
clouds , sun and rain peep down
to us, on a sail.

deep blue sea
dusk, wind and waves
shoulders, fingers, us.

Play grounds of an elevener

I saw female curves in my early hour dreams. And often, drew them. Silhouettes in white, on my class six blackboard   
Later, we played King and Queen. Lone, after school hours, the creaking cot, and the dusk, mounting wrote poems on our skin.
The jealously, the bangles, and the dance we shared, Conspired, in my shower Where, we saw each other, budding
The colors on my canvas, Blues in rain and reds in snow. Bodies on a map, Latitudes, lust, slaughter, Seasons on my butterfly frock
I am the queen who waged wars of loss, Ran steps, climbed trees and bought a skipping rope. To abort, the lives Feared crept in.

Thus spoke Love

Each time I end a relation,   I dust my room. Not in search of bloody remains, but for something worthwhile
suddenly you get hell of a time, and you sleep endlessly.
and that's how , one day,  I traveled to my pre-history.
In a backyard where I made mud buns, on white earth, that turned black as I drew on it, once, I saw, yellow blue flames  twist and shake, over wooden blocks, like cabre dancers.
The red embers, those peep out of wooden bars, wink, and I forget the smell of loss and my worries for a grandma, burning
may be, that's how, I learnt to dance over human flesh and rise to the skies  for a moment or two, before stretching in your sleep. and calling it a day!


Thus spoke Love