Showing posts from October, 2015

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.