Showing posts from January, 2016


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.


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.