the colour harmony!!

In every love There is a point in future when you learn to unlove The day you undo the probable Neruda in you And stare back at the road Withdrawn, like a festival ground Abandoned by the kite runners And bustling girls. But then, rivers don't happen Unless it rains. Over The bamboos, the honey bees and your face You need to flow, dash through the woods And jump over cities, before the pace recedes into the swirls of the deep. Darling dear, getup And kiss the skies Let the heavens come down To conspire against you Leave your mantle for her olive To end like a morning mist be the primordial fire Of her genesis.

It's not like sparrows leaving the country side Nor the bulbuls for another tree. But like fishes on fishing boats Or the antelope before the leopard race. You leave a last time. From home From work From love The legend says of eternal sleep But it's just a case of memory loss The indifference that creeps into a frozen valley. The faceless exodus of another race. 

photographs of people long passed away adorn the night rain sweeping in memories. are they together, still ? arm in arm as the frame contains? on a grey afternoon, among the champa trees. the mother hugging her precious jewel on to the warmth of her bosom. the decades in between, the picture and the present An era fading, in a family album losing to termites suddenly bloom like violets, tossing out of the frozen time. the cradle, the talcum and the smell of love. you stare on to those frames searching a milieu-                            of corridors                            petticoats                            evenings                            jasmines and     ...

love a man uncertain of his life you will learn to love slowly taking in every breath of him as if to save his warmth, for the infinite future, the desert of nothingness you shall cross over and again unless you meet your time love a man uncertain of his life you will learn to forget what hurt most and nothing really matters, other than the smile and the entangled fingers the days will seem full as you live the maximum. the afternoons you loitered around suddenly come back with an urgency asking to fill in, gather the hours hug them close as if in no space or time thats when calenders matter as you tag your days with memories, spent and design what remains, in random like a kid with his building blocks. love a man uncertain of his life you will learn to love the wind the evenings, the home comings and the barren skies. love a man uncertain of his life more so, because he will love you dearly, as he does his life, slowly gliding away like a knot on a bridal hair.

History is to be noted in moments Christmas break in a trench Raindrops in a burial ground.  Night without crickets  City without graffiti And skylarks without skies. Or the Corns, wind, women,  Sojourns and suntan Evenings secluded to oneself  and black coffee. thoughts like birds Seagulls crossing  thresholds of borders  on your skin. The half tint canvas Where stories procreate One after the other Of lips, hips and red streams Of bullets and bullshits Of Demons and Demi-gods Of Pope and the Peepal  Of love and lie. History is no more history But a child's game of  war and loss and war Sticks and mulberry crowns Of you and me and other lives.

                I Today as I kiss my son, and he blush and we laugh joyfully, I think of my own eighth year when nobody kissed me as a kid, yet held me close, drew me in to in-between spaces and loved me as a woman                                  II The man I married asks me, “Do you know? How ugly you look when you hiss at your son?” and he reminds, “He is a man and you a woman, so better arrest your anger.” I am at once, jealous of my son’s manhood at seven and wonder, if a woman in labor is equally ugly with her facial muscles rigid choked throat and shivering patience.                  III That day, after ...

Now, I need to understand There is Charm, in solitude  Not the made up one, in a melancholy base For love and loss and poetry, but  that which jell on to your skin Like tattoos of desire and sin. This is how two ports should drift away, Like planes of tectonic movements Each one designing a continent of its own  Of candle lights and islands. Latitudes on your body And shipwrecks on your shores. There is no other side  for an exhausted love But, the grabbing chill. Your abdomen, Like a million spiders birthing  As you gaze out of yourself  from a long distance train