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.

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.

fArewEll to pAgeS

It was a long and misty flight

Back from the distant realms

Of magic and imagination

Where I bred a child’s perception

To escape the world’s devouring harshness.

Worn out from the journey,

Drawn back to the body, its weaknesses,

The head pushed back into the pillow

Sighing and struggling for breath

Watching the spellbound pages of the open book

Waving a long-dreaded farewell.

To pen it down in lines; what I felt,

Searched around and found all I needed,

But ‘will’ alone vanished somewhere.

The telephone vibrated in a long drone,

Voices and words of chaos coming through,

A heavy sigh; the abandoned painting

Left behind a small space of mine,

Mine alone, on the fringes of dreamy falls.

(End of another book means back to the real world, until I find another escape)

tHe moRNinG aFteR a NigHtmAre

When the morning finally came around, with hurried steps and worried mind I walked to the college. For some reason the good morning wishes of the passersby irritated me. Acquainted faces appeared like blurs in my anxiousness to make sure that my subconscious had fooled me. Finding the face among the many faces I rushed over, the face that I loved,the one I had seen covered in blood the previous night. I didn’t know what emotion reflected on my face when I realized that it was just a bad dream that I had. Some sort of relief spreading from my heart into my slackened body. I was searching for the right words to say as I walked knowing that I won’t find any to express how I felt. I heard my sound calling out the name and saw a pair of cold eyes where I expected some warmth; warmth to refuel my frozen mind with a hug. Ever plunged into cold water without a second thought and found your body recoiling and the muscles protesting in agony? Personifying the world, the lil one walked fast, pulling on her hood shadowing her face, clouding my mind. Again into the dream I fall, not the nightmare, but my own world where I believe exist characters with the same lining as me: myself projected in the ways that I define, strolling about keeping me smiling. 

YearNiNg fOr anOther nOOn

All through the yawning and waking

I waited patient,

In the cold, black dress

Of the vaporous night.

He walks out of the concrete coldness

And into the procreating sun;

Thus starts my fine day,

I’m born; a shadow in the dirt.

Sun, the one who moves it all,

The one who moves me along,

Gives me longing at morn and eve

And spares my wish at noon alone.

With the warmth of the high sun,

In its golden light, he hugs me; loves me.

Memory fails- the time when he sold himself,

His core of existence embedded in me.

Dry union of a few minutes,

Before the wretched world parts us,

The life’s painless, impassive gaze

Makes me yearn for another noon.

haPPy fOOl

A chocolate,
A smoke,
Sounds for the soul,
A vista,
Or the darkness,
Feel of the soothing wind;
And wafting in the air-
The smell of the fresh earth.
Am I drunk?
No, I'm just another happy fool.

bLind thAt I waS

Blind that I was,

While groping in the dark

Found a figure; a voice,

Her hand was smooth,

Her face wrinkled.

Blind that I was,

Didn’t really know

She had faces many;

What my fingers found

Was what I believed.

Blind that I was,

Didn’t see who she was.

She took my hand

Ran it over my own face-

Then I knew who I was.

Blind that I was,

I asked her for blossoms new,

But never heard her go;

Then heard a poet sing:

“Love - She left me all alone”.


[I see the finer aspects of love.Use my eye, see through me, find it in these lines...]

mUndAne RefLecTion

Wanting to see my ‘self’,

I bought a Mirror

For my new city room;

Didn’t pay in cash,

But in bills of love.

In the old rustic scene

The lake reflected, figures,

Though dancing in the waves,

Vast and deep; true images.

Every single night

Before the lullaby of street lamps

I stood before the Mirror;

I laughed, I cried, I danced.

Noticing stains creeping in,

Distorting my mundane reflection,

Never did the thought rise

A Mirror could crack to its core.

True, it did not crack

But instead it blasted,

And its crude shallowness

Left me all alone

To think of blue, blue lakes.