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.

My pillow

Many have I tried and failed,

soon have they all backed away,

but the one left is silent and still.

Every night as I lay down,

my head and tears weighing down

there’s just this one to hold it up.

Stream of eyes tell the tale,

wild hiccups turned dumb

cushioning the countenance a world averts.

Doesn't mind my raging punches,

doesn't laugh "I have good sponge",

sharing comfort in its silence.

World moves round and so my head,

the soul itself is a child on a carousel.

The artless shout - "It is soulless"

still I cuddle it close

knowing what it is to me.



[ Maybe two years old. Times of depression is when he was born, speak your mind about him.]

The dip

A sudden jolt of surprise,
All I feel is the muscles contract
And slowly relax as the love swelled.
Then the womb purred with pleasure,
My arms moved on the soft skin
Tracing a line of raised hairs,
Till I found a little dip of love,
And a drip of honey fell on my heart.

Snowfall

I awoke feeling inebriated,

not the usual hangover

but as if I was freshly drunk,

I got up and looked outside; I smiled.

It had rained two days back and

yesterday they stuck their heads out

in ‘dirty’ yellowish white

but I was too busy to notice.

Today, my backyard has had a snowfall,

purest white of coffee flowers,

their scent, the sight;

this is worth staying alive for. 

To my space

As my dirty feet rest on your chest

I feel the hate of the fresh paint running through

But I know you recognize my warmth

Even after time has worn out so much.

Strong are the memories I cherish

That avalanches into my heart.

The one to whose arms I crawled,

Like a father had held me on feet first,

Whose heart grieved at the sight-

Of me with a school sachet; crying,

Always watching over me as my mother would

As I reluctantly finished my homework.

You, my closest friend, saw first

The fascinations and fantasies of my puberty;

Then slowly turning to a comfort

When the beast of depression tortured my mind

That’s when your door swung shut, leading me to exile,

Keeping me warm and beautifully lonely,

The chill on your walls teaching me to be cool

Slowly shaping myself into a character.

Now you see me in the same old chair,

Pair of empty eyes gets you worried

Then a smile stretches your red shades,

You see in my liquid depths, the beautiful face

Whose shadows had adorned my dreams,

In the meditative silence my ears strain to hear

Her musical footsteps from miles apart.

Your heart so full, you make bed for us on your lap

For me to make love to her on the warm sheets,

The love these long years have conceived

Making her an extension of my loneliness.