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.