the colour harmony!!

  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.        ...

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, 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.              

  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?  

  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.