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Its a Long Way Home

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
likecotton 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

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.

Love in the Time of Morality

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.

Love

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 mornings
That remind you of streets left to the rain.
And pathways extended, like a woman.

You will love the seeds you carry in your palm
And the northern skies with its …

I Wait

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.
For the snow to melt.
I wait near the river
To be the debris of a distant quake.
I wait …

Revolutions, like Destinies

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.





A WOMAN, @40

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

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.

Us

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
as we leave, hand in hand
for a mastless sail.

Boredom of a kind

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.

Love is here to End

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.

Life Happens in Episodes

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.

Snapshots from My Diary

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 death by depression in its most sane avatar.
The reminders flying high, like eagles crossing the seas
Before I lose myself to the deluge of colorless d…

The Goddess in Me

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.

The red, over the gold of her idol
In her twilight incarnation
Spreads across the sea and the sky.
Bringing the glory of the setting.

T…

Many Lives

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.