a city wakes diffused
week two at cluttered quarters
desert under my
my water bottle an erect palm
We own no cooler no AC
instead our doors remain open
we receive among others
tap of sunlight
smudged horizon in 3.5 x 6.5 frame
call of duty
glimpses of tomorrows and yesterdays hongsangsoo-esque in their playfulness
cue for indifferent / friendly tea
smell of night-soaked underwears on the balcony
call of duty
and of course dead skin of the city
settles over utensils shoes chairs
and is wiped
settles for window panes
magazines dictionaries my oxford
fiction and poems
like dust on poems
dust at traffic intersection
under a red moon
sleepy sands in yous eyes
a different city
Dreaming love, a day dies – incomplete.
Crows fly away into the black.
Their caws will return
to the familiar morning …
of grumbling engines,
bodies swaying to the beat of metro,
memory of cozy beds,
a collective yawn big enough to
swallow Monday mornings.
Good morning love – a day begins. Destiny.
A crow flies away
Struck amnesiac by rays
bouncing off glass towers.
I hear something shatter.
waves – words distilled – lap
at a silent shore. a breath
of sea in my ears
I don’t know what it feels like
To sneak so far up and surprise
The sun like an old buddy.
I don’t know if the air up there
Hums a welcome in your ears
Any different from here; however, I’d like
To think it doesn’t smell of disappointment.
I don’t expect that my heaving heart –
A compliment from the kind of diet
I am disciplined with – could ever
Live up to the thrill and satisfaction
That all of these offer.
I would perhaps never know…
But I am very happy
To see you do
What you love the most.
Un lafzon ka shukriya kya karoon
jinhonne kabhi siyahi mein bheeg kar
to kabhi zubaani hadon mein simat kar
daastan-e-dil bayaan ki hain.
[Could I ever be grateful enough
to words which, at times manifested in ink
and at others curled up into limitations of speech,
have expressed the whims of my heart in truth?]
Let me wind up for the day
and say that the day wasn’t as bad as
I thought it would be. Let me just say
the sun came up alright;
a little too early for its own good,
for by the time it decided it had
bloomed enough flowers, warmed enough souls
with hope of a cosy embrace on winter days,
like a lover’s, it was fuming red.
But it would come again tomorrow, regardless
of our failure to appreciate the beauty of giving.
I don’t know where the song ends;
at what point in our lives
it succumbs to the quicksand of
The hope of rediscovery,
if there could be any, rests,
on the reimagining
of tastes, tropes and emotions. Or are all of these part of one discourse?
Let’s hit a patch of harmony,
even if we hum it in silence;
let’s not lose this song.
Even if we forget the tune,
let’s not let time spill its sand
on the poetry that embroiders the music.
If I were a blank slate,
would you make me
an identity? Perhaps give me
a name from a favourite
novel of yours. Or just a random
name you had overheard on a bus or metro.
A name that was probably going
to an uncertain location,
like love at the back of a postcard
to someone with no memory at all.
If I were a caged soul,
would you tag me on
a postcard and send
me to see strangers in a strange land?
Strangers I already know.
Strangers who would wear an expression
of recognition – it would allow
me to warm upto them instantly,
and start all over again at a better pace.
If I were in love with you,
would you forgive me a lie – a
cowardly disownment of my feelings for you, for so long.
If I were to give up supposing,
and let you know all I know
about the little corner in my heart that has bloomed into a rainforest
– a memento from a far off paradise –
would you judge me?
Note: I had written part of this poem weeks back when everything was right except my conscience. So I decided to clean it and I did what I felt was right. Parts of it were added just a few minutes ago, in retrospect.
What lonely heart doesn’t bleed love?
Even that which has been leached of every single drop is capable of dreaming – Of storms that churn the depths, pulling the fringe emotions cloaked in the embarrassment of mediocrity, and send out in ripples the most sublime poetry, in the simplest rhythms of lub dub – something that, for the life of us, goes unacknowledged, even though its presence resonates the alleys, lanes, nooks and crannies of the slumbering city within us. Of the impossible struggle against the cruel immensity of the mountain that, on one hand, inspires awe and, on the other, incites bitterness for demagnifying, the otherwise, sound qualities before the beloved. Of the bittersweet curves of the road that promise DESTINY with the eloquence of a miracle worker, or a con artist, at every other stop. Of destiny that robs one of everything except a little room by the sea to play host to the travelling breezes smelling of salt.
drops by a conch – takes with it
a song of loneliness