Showing posts from 2015

Scripts on Your Body

A middle aged female body,
Returning home from work
Walks like a balance, swaying between
Polythene of vegetables and hard earned time.

They come in different sizes and shapes,
Tired, with disheveled hair and displaced sarees,
checking the pace of their steps and the awaiting chores.
The sight of that bundle of warmth, walking ahead,
like penguins or the rhythms of the quack,
brings unexpected tears. Your overflowing heart.

Every home needs a middle aged woman, to show
the marks oflove women carry on their bodies.
Those that they sow, and
Never reap.

After Dark

Each day, each hour one lives
Is a step towards nothingness,
Not even memory in its most primitive form
Comes along that night, When you
choke your breath out as never again.

The moving train and the vanishing green,
One sleeps like an unsung rain
Abandoned, like the shadows one leaves behind.
You become the darkness outside your study,
sounds of the night that scared the child in you.
Or the snake trail on desert sand
Like the rhythms of summer.
A haunted tree, birdless and raining leaves.
The white flowers, like stars in your courtyard.
The loneliness of a one foot lane or
the sway of the kaattaadi.

But never again,
Footmarks, walking home or
A love, like Spring. The hues of your evenings,
the agony of withdrawals or
thoughts of it in some nether land

Time Traveller

When people die, you travel
to meet them for a last time.
The road becomes a metaphor
and the sky speaks of infinity.
You realize the link between
Time and travel, and fading distances
You look up from your window seat
And decode patterns of clouds in frantic collage.

Death is frozen like lifeless lips, Grey
and separated, like distant lands.
The disheveled curls and the wind
On your face, take you
to the backyards of yesteryears.
Laughter, evenings, jasmines
Smell of home, mother, incense
The swing, the heights, your nights
and the early hour designs.

A memory, now, refusing to smile
Sleeps on the ground,
Cross, like a child wanting toffee.
A body, tied up in parts
to check further flights of fancies.
You join the race of withdrawal symptoms,
and the assembly of crows.

The last wish remain, so do void
As armchair and that spot in your living room.

Birds have stories too...

Can you imagine the pain, the gripping face
and the screeching cry of a one year old
Burning alive?

What would have been the little mind frantically searching?
His mother? Her hug? Or the fresh air from the fields?
He would have died of exhaustion
Trying to push the pain away from him
Tired, he slept in peace with his little sister as
life left them.

Now, he won’t know
the meaning of his skin tone
Or the creed, to which he belongs
And he wont live to realize
the betrayal of his own race.
He is expelled for ever.

Cuckoos are born of such tiny souls,
Who no more believe in a home, a land.
They scatter like the first rain and
Don’t stop to see their seeds sprout
Among us, the vulgar of the species.

Next time you hear a cuckoo sing,
close your eyes and listen
to the cluttered rhythm
of tiny steps

Please do Die

My only wish
is to hear,
he is dead.

Dead, Like a log of wood
in the rain. The decaying slip.

This won’t do justice enough
to the many closures , many truths,
and the many many-ies draped over me.
Or may be not.
Yet, for the fakeness that is,
And the self-centered coldness
The best denial should come from life
Like a still born womb or
An unburied body.


Relations die a natural death when there is nothing in common to talk

Words have abandoned me
And smiles too. I stare on the walls
and at my children. Sullen.

On whom shall I stretch my arms?
And breathe out the fatigue of the day
And sit careless, facing the sea,
counting birds flying west.
For whom shall I rise, a full sky
when the sun sets

Every love is an urge
for a new space,
of fresh conversation.

A female in love with a man is half drowned in incest.
For she looks for that father she never had.

The Beauty of Life

The beauty of life
depends on how much
you can let yourself free,
from the colored glass cases.
And leave others too, to the rain,
to the open fields, like birds flocking high.

See the earth in you
Expand to hold the green
See the rain on the mountains
Shading hues of green on your chest
Rivers, fresh tears gather polluted desire
To become the unexpected swirls of the sea.

Find a spot from where you can see the setting sky
and the infinite city, like a distant mirage
The red robe becomes your wings
as you fly down. Not a kite
looking for its food, but
you are a seagull
in search of
its sea.

The fall is not a metaphor, or of Icarus
But the celebration of wind
in your lungs, and the
lightness of your
fingers, across
your heart.

Your Tongue My Language

A word stood confused half way
Like a lone traveler in a jungle
looking for roads taken and not.
It’s all about crossing languages,
While crossing loves

Kaalam in my language, has an infinite purpose
Spreading beyond lands, ages and memories.
The sea, the sky and silence.
When it becomes time in your tongue,
Don’t you think it gets too pointed like you?
Shedding the fancies, infinities and
that philosophical gaze of insanity?
And again, minnaminni,
Like the twinkle in a baby eye
The throb of a new love
And the beauty of the night in gold spots
like constellations visiting, becomes
glowworm in your tongue.
Yes, just like that.
As plain as you.
Now try saying Pennu
See how much it rhymes with mannu and vinnu,
The organic female.
Your tongue failed to find a word for her
You say her spine sprout from your bones
And limited her to a prefix.
Man, she is not your woo,
Not your tongue
But, my language.

Love to Desert

The loves one desert
With no remorse
Roam the city
As pockets of wind.
On those nights
You can’t sleep
They come to you
As reminders
Of the devil in you.
It’s much easier now
To cope with your loss.
Fresh and throbbing
Like a fish
Out of water.

Don’t philosophize
But laugh aloud
Open your arms
And embrace the rain
Droplets are better lovers
With no promises to stay!

Be a Buddha

Be a Buddha, in love
Take long walks
With the shadows of the forest
Spread your hands
to know the width of your heart
breathe out your desires
let it gather to form the winter mist
and later clouds like silver fields
On those lone moments
When the flesh pinch
Like nails, drain your body.
Let love, like sweat
flow down your neck.
Those evenings when you sense
The sea in you, stay away
From the moonlit sky
Or be a whirlpool
and swallow deep
Your love.
The storm that hit the moor,
Love, breaks branches like
Crushing bones
And you
The dark, insane wilderness.
Conjure your Buddha
Uproot the Bodhi
Hold it high
Let the birds come back
Like the wind returning late night
Frozen and white in love.

The Girl with a suicide-note

Is there anything more unpredictable
than a girl carrying a suicide note?

On a page torn from her school note book,
wet and scrabbled. You see
alphabets dripping out,
like droplets of blood
From a fresh vein.
It may be in her closed fist,
Determined in that tight-lipped grip.
Or in her empty tiffin,
Which, she uses to collect stones.
She walked out of Broken April
Ready to avenge.
The bullet that she is,
or the glory of the blast
Wont make her a saint.
But when, finally
she opens her palm
Her life will flow out
Like a wronged river. A laugh,
like scattering beads, went astray.
Will the mud walls or the red pines tell her
Fairy tales on holy wars
when she comes back
As a lone butterfly?

Death by Drowning

Leave you on the shore
And step in to the transparent chillness
of the early sea.
Anklets shall break off,
Taking you along the swim and the swirl
Of grey waters.
Float like fresh flowers on a stream
Swaying to the current.
Ophelia is not a single woman
But the curls that drift along
To become weeds of wild green
And a pale white face, floating on the pitch dark waters
Like moon on a starless sky.

Fishes are the re-incarnations of women drowned
And mermaids their half-naked truths.

After Aylan Kurdi

After Aylan Kurdi

You know what red is
What is to be faceless and
What mornings can bring you.
Sea shore is no more a theatre

Where you go watch
the flames of the setting sky.
But a menu card,
That exhibit soft flesh
Cold and frozen out of her womb
For the stillborn us,
building castles on the sandbank.
After Aylan Kurdi,

Don’t speak of mother’s love,
It will drown before dreams sprout wings.
And fathers too slip
In to a world of hollow pits.
Don’t speak of love,

Of you and me and other kinds
On Starry nights, Where
dreams come true.
Nights are for watch towers
like owls, looking for prey and
wind, like waves in your lungs.
After Aylan Kurdi,

Shutting Down

My dissected history won’t speak for you. Don’t write on me or on the graffiti that sing of Marley.
Your lyrics are your own, that build bricks of closures.

Words are polygamous Like rain is to swirls on a pond

But dear, My canvas carries yellow fields Like Van Gogh did To the hill top
Where birds flew in fright.

A Woman is but the Land beside the River

A woman is but the land beside the river Flowing into the original sins of the fluids. Her throat, the curve over the valley,
a steaming volcano from the fresh wraths of a love, lost.

The cultivable land
The axe
The seeds
The sprout.
The summers of her man
As a distant canvas.

No lizards cross the wall Nor do snakes, on the road Only frozen pole stars,
Waiting for the womb,
The red earth
beneath the grave of fireflies.

Can I call myself Absurd?

If convictions framed histories
How awkward would have the world looked like
Bulging here and there like ginger hunchbacks
How fast the pathway vanishes in to the dark wood
Leaving no trail of the distances covered.
Each call you make to your home

From hill tops of brown and white
Carry the stillness of the yet to be.

Who said life is not a bed of roses?
Roses are vineyards
And vineyards blackouts.