the colour harmony!!

  It’s a long way home Through the woods and greens And the sparkling blue. It’s a long way through the yellow fields, and wind like   cotton flowers over the sky it’s a long way home to the west end, across the bridge, and into the clouds.   When you walk alone, Through the roads like pythons at rest, you learn to dance Your hands, your robes fly like seagulls over the infinite sea   A long way, Through the years marked over your tree of life as faces, dates and moments. Through the loves you buried And others you died of.   A long way before the rain And through the flood   A long way, a long way, of purple skies and red earths Through the strings of guitar And the music of the mountains Through the forest and moods of life in its variety A long, long way, Such a long way, for the final turn that would take you home.     ...

The hour before you commit suicide Think of, red flowers. Buddhist monks. Magic seeds, like rain on your face. Flags, revolutions, flying high. Dancers in red. Autumn. Think of, the setting sky and the red sea. Fallen roses. Lips dried up, like parched land. The red of your veins, like a river, dead with no rivulets. And, the red planet like another time. You see, the sindhoor bath of the goddess, in gold. The red flowing out from a million cuts. The red earth, holding the female red as if a baby sacrificed at the altar. And now, you realize, The red leaving the borders like the words you left unsaid. You hang Swaying in the breeze like a bridal wear left to dry.

At times, love takes the guise of fake morality Preaching, the candle light path ways, While, loving you passionately like a deep blue night.   He paints his canvas, summer Like fire on his veins And pass like wind Unaware of the spring, mounting at the edges of his vision.   Just pause and turn back To see gulmohar fluttering beats of you and me over April sky Like butterflies on a flight   I am no sculptor to chisel a language out of your inexpressive eyes and sudden flashy smiles.   Why don’t you flow to me? Like an ocean after a quake.  

There is a point of time in life When, the word love overflows the four walled strokes of language To touch the most subtle corner of human imagination.   It’s a journey to your Bodhi From the most personal, of your fantasy.   You open your eyes to the world, for the first time And feel the pulse of the red earth On your empty wrist.   You no more crave for the body, he. Or meditations of eternal love. But some handy ones, occasionally For the vibes in you, Just in case.   And now, the world expands Far beyond your finite backyards To show the sea coming to you, the sky falling down in smoke. And to brood over silences of Guilt, land, memories and other stories.   You see love crossing your courtyard   And dissolving into, the streets of hunger and the abandon As ships into the Mediterranean. Leaving no signs of the pride, that was.   Learn to love the...

I wait for time Like pollen wait for wind. I wait for the night Like night waits for the sound of cricket. I wait for the next train Like rails waiting to meet. I wait for your smile Like a baby waiting for its mother. I wait for the sun Like rays waiting` summer. I wait for the dawn Like birds waiting for the flight. I wait for your shadow Like dusk over the sea. I wait for the holy mass Like sins awaiting penance. I wait for the wind Like a desert wanting green. I wait for your fingers Like spring waits after the snow. I wait for your lullaby Like the sky waiting murmuration. I wait for the pole star Like wedding bells in fairy tales. I wait for a nation, open ended Like clouds and the endless sky. I wait for my city To come by night I wait for the past To repeat. I wait for democracy To dissent. I wait in waiting rooms For distances uncovered. I wait at the festival ground For people to turn up. I wait at the foot of northern hills. ...

  You don’t write for a long time When birds have flown west and valleys turned brown, from the gold of the fall. Those evenings you sense your breath in your body, rhythmic like the sea at night. Deep blue, over the silver of the night. And, you wait for your myth to sprout, like baby Jesus. When midnight announces Revolutions, like destinies.            

By the time you near forty, You begin to enjoy your own company. You find a seasonal garden within yourself and roam leisurely, among birds and insects,      or look at the lone sky and breathe in the vastness it contains.   You realize, men are mere havoc in the life of a woman, glorious in her own terms.   The blurredness of distance and her clarity of vision. The peace she makes with herself. The long distance gaze of summer noons. Her moonlit sandbanks, amidst overcrowded everyday.   At forty, she awaits love Mild, sedimentary and distanced. Like a child counting twinkles at night.                

  The loss of a pet cat hurts more, when you are twelve. You have grown up, a bit more than your little brother who hopes to get another one. A bit more to realize, the hollowness of a replacement. And much less than your mother, smiling through the wetness of her eyelid to know tears wont bridge the gap between the grave and the years awaiting you.  

  We saw sparrows, flying over may flowers He, from his window sill and I, from my corridors of twilight shades. We stood there, floors apart, as distant time Gazing out at the leaves before the fall   Time conspires against people hiding them, inside frames of yesteryears. They move around in black and white like a movie from the silent era, unless snow melts on the first dawn, when reindeers come out to shade them gold.   You meet for a first time, some day after so many days together In a city, you shared. On those lanes you walked together, Unaware, in the crowd. You hear the music of the alphabets in the words, you left for the other to pick up. Smiles and silences glide as if in love, like never before.   We take the road to the South, One summer day And meet the sea like a flag flying out, from the edge of the world. We become the blue of the current in our veins ...

Boredom is a sign of depression. The type that affects the stealthy rich What else to do when you have had your lunch taken a day off at the beach debated on how climate change is directly proportional to the class wars and refugee hike Smoked while counting stars, Joined a toast at your friends garage and sang of love and longing. Boredom affects your religion When you have nothing to pray. As your thoughts take a flight on sleepless nights over abstract canvas of life and letters. The type, which a toiling body miss the moment it falls asleep exhausted, under some way side makeshift Or on mud, on a full moon day.

Once the love is spent, and the heartbeats turned to screeching summer Treat him dead.   There is no point in opening your bosom to the skies and weighing down in some anticipated longings.   Its not love, my dear But your trampled ego that makes you helpless, to get an edge over those ill fed hours you wasted, over some worthless parasite.   Forget what went by, like footmarks after a rain History is, after all, a selective remembering.

Once in a while, you meet someone who gradually walks, on the thresholds of your imagination.   Flashing through your mind, on those remote hours as you pause from work, or stare out through your window as the day sets into the glimmering sky.   They are like wine and the colour brown, unavoidable blend of dusk and passion you nurture, on your veins.   Make them your pigeons Let them roost and leave than die on your balcony Over fed and senile.  

On days I don’t write I think of ways to die.   I am suddenly reminded of War bodies under the infinite sky Starved bodies, dead. Bodies from the borders floating head down on our seas. Female bodies, on which they calculate the circumference of flesh and blood, and mark points of highs and lows. Bodies burnt alive or stripped For skin tone and holy truths.   The living moment seems heavy It threatens me with an endless mirage of distant time. It seems tiring to fill in the hours amidst the uncertainty logic. To wear all those over grown costumes of everyday To eat, sleep and work on a daily basis. To smile, love and talk to fellow humans.   Time stands still, like a breath I forgot to inhale.   I stare out from my kitchen window, and withdraw to that corner on my bed, where I cuddle every night, into some unknown womb   It’s not about being lazy, But a call of...

Its not the curse, or the anger Or the days when you pull off your hair And scream, that invites his bad omen. But the lone hours you spent near the river with a sea inside. The silence you fall into, like the disheveled stare of insanity and the many moons you lose to other worlds that mark his roads to Byzantium.   I feel the goddess in red, on my nerves On those days of calm after a storm When I sit down and count his sins like an eagle with its eye on the chicks below.   The seeds of sorrow sprout a poison tree Spreading shades of blue, on his body Like the nerves of a city at night. The male god no more holds the blue, Nor does he survive the storm before the first rain.   She, my goddess of strangled desire, awaits his part in the cosmic drama. As the story of the betrayed king falls out of the printed page as letters without a language, the knots of the curtain unfold.   Th...

Life unfolds in spasmodic dramaturgy Performing a rite of passage On those days, between two loves. One dead, like a dry river bed and the other, an anticipated dawn.   The days, or years in between Open its bosom like a tropical desert. The shadows one leaves behind become Birds of the Western Sahara. And you too slide, from birth and beginnings, to stories of early spring and aborted winter.   Days spread out like an atlas and you become the land and the sea, pockets of displeasures and spent out waste lands, fading like vanishing islands.   The interlude is a life span by itself Where you begin as an unhatched soul. Design the routes of an insect cycle and wait for the light, to flutter out your butterfly wings.