Invoking the Other

Starting out to the far off

belief and bare foot hike,

hanging to a hint of rhythm

dropped in strands by Sakthi.

Guidance to a liberation-

a step out of the weak links

that binds to the web

of preservation and degradation.

Before the loosening trance

there is the view of a reflected white slope

along the vibrant green path;

a return anticipated - to warmth.

Inspiration from winged birth-givers,

still bleeding black from veins,

and a shower of heated counsel

built on a past of swelled up ignorance.

This deceptive acquiescence

shall transform to knowledge

on vitals of an inward gaze - 

an eternal awakening of Sakthi.

A Loud Check of Colours

Slipped; not sure whether I fell.

Maybe I flew

into a loud check of colours.

A few grains ran deep roots,

something that revived at length

from diving into village pools

and dark cloudy, pregnant evenings.

From there till the red skies,

still hanging in the air-

only a modern cousin of childhood memories,

is what gets me lost in roots.

Yes, I went far

but pictures clear with a thrust now

like a sudden whiff of sun

seeping through young rubber tree leaves

that lines the path from home;

There, you can see the white roof from here.

The revolution and passion of the red sky

has moved in time

churning in the chaos of difference

as I started living in vibe and vibrance.

Pain, Sorrow, Beauty

Lines from the most romantic poem

Is not how you remain in me.

It’s pain and sorrow that I remember.

Pain – when distant from an illusion

you would enter the room

to accompany the illness of my mind.

Thick cataract was closing in

before you were there

to promise a vision within reach -

a moment to witness the world real

before drowning to sleep.

Sorrow – when your red bindi turned to grey,

my jokes flying over your head.

I see the Halloween horrors of childhood

lit again in gloomy pumpkin figures.

I could see, how it resounded -

your wails, echoing through the corridors,

laughter to all but few.

I had borrowed that dark tunnel

where wheezing unborn children screamed

in the agony of unrequited love.

No, my lines refuse to profess love,

they elope from those stupid fantasies

because there’s sorrow and pain.

And there’s beauty to it.

Present Dissonance

Among the dissonance of the city,

busy selling myself to it,

never was there an evening

spend looking at little intricacies

of those honeybees,

their lack of tire

in their daily trade,

moving from the yellow flower to the red,

fixing deals on the nectar of life.

I wish I could capture this moment

but I’m not here anymore,

to wait; to watch; to learn.

Life has gone from bees to mosquitoes-

from suckling to blood sucking

and an unrest.

I wish I could write poetry. 

Homecoming...

Here, leaning on a wall of hope
the life rushes back in a blurry vision.

Outside the eve is full of life
but my aesthetics are inert,
lying dormant, deep inside,
waiting to burst into dread.
There, in sun’s golden spray
a bird seems too occupied
collecting fresh straw.
I see his prophetic smile;
his newborn son’s homecoming.

An old black and white picture
bursts over my drooping eyes -
a home built on hard work
and that he cemented in love.
A kiss to his son’s forehead,
the Joyous warmth of welcome
never spoilt by drunken joy -
the heritage I claim as mine.

The throes of waiting
for even a single strand of hope.
I’m the father now
listening to your last cries - “Home”.
Gazing down into those half-closed yellow eyes
I wished to be dumb.
Biting down, I touched water upon your lips
which was dry for mother’s breast.

Home is far, he knows,
tears too, I know,
but, I promise you, we’ll sleep once there.
Spine-freeze, even after I’m home,
watching you come in tranquility
of respect and an equanimity.

Broken and wedged between
two big shards of a short life. Me.

Life Fragments

Travelling with life,

Circus of Deja-vu flashing,

Moments saved in remembrance

Of the smiling mirror image,

Time frozen in an album of memories.

The barely awake graphic pictures-

The machine world’s gift to me,

Add to the happy vibe, and music,

Capturing past-fragments in the notes.

They merge to form a life size portrait.

Whores of Beauty

The lift when my travel bag is packed,

The heart thumbs and tries to prophecy

About those distant whores of beauty

Who often seduce my life drive.

Innocent fears slowly drown

In the joy of the takeoff,

Wider perspectives perch themselves nearer;

With each gaze, and gust of the wind,

That lifts the hair off my face,

Disillusioned colours of life

Clear up into newer shades.

Alienating the past

My conscience holds me to the ground

Threatening to step on my ‘thought pipe’,

Breaking apart I manage to look around;

Found a thug who spilt blood

And another who cut down trees.

I had departed, but acceptance was hard;

My pen with a broken nib,

The fire break I had cut

Across my imaginative wildfire,

Whole of my beautiful perception

That was sodden and covered in snow.

A scream escaped from the alienation,

I couldn't remember the last time I screamed,

It reverberates around me

The world and its naivety cover its face

And I breathe again,

Wait! There; life is circling back.

Crystal memories

My love and sadness drone, and then drown

in the glass of red wine I hold.

Thorns of past are driven deeper into flesh,

it festers; turns yellow.

My child tries to get up a third time,

I thought I couldn't wait to see another fall.

In my wait I slowly start dreaming of a chaotic river,

it’s rhythm carrying my repressed wishes,

sloping down the narrow bend and disappearing.

It took two firestorms

to burn down my conceptual home,

I still carry the corner stone

and some crystallized memories,

I’ll carry them till age murders my youth

then I’ll rest my head on the lap of the survivor

and try to sink into myself the past we survived. 

The painter

He paints; over and over

the perception his colours brightened

day in and day out.

Empty bottles in a rainbow trail,

it appears a naughty child’s playroom,

till the canvas thickened

with the blending of his lonely ways

and life juice of unknown faces.

The expressions of their life

rode through his face

as he sketched, rather as he etched,

each thread with his brush strokes,

joyous lightning flashing his fuller eyes.

Here’s another picture -

he slides down the wall

all thoughts gone astray,

the same eyes, so vacant,

like a distant lighthouse

watching ships wrecking themselves under darkened skies;

his figure drowning in shock as he pictured

the obtrusive end of his temporal hero.

He could only paint their lives

on canvases with colours overlapping.

Those tranquil moments now past

he watches, content,

with a cup of steaming coffee beside him.

His face mirrors the thought,

so lost in the world he perceived,

that he loaded the canvas with

until the realness of the world he so carved

branded his portrayal -

“That’s what they call art”- and a smirk.