Tag Archives: love

A portrait before the rains come

Dust

recurring dream

a city wakes diffused

week two at cluttered quarters

desert under my

bed

my water bottle an erect palm

an oasis

We own no cooler no AC

instead our doors remain open

we receive among others

  1. tap of sunlight

  2. waking dream

  3. smudged horizon in 3.5 x 6.5 frame

  4. call of duty

  5. glimpses of tomorrows and yesterdays hongsangsoo-esque in their playfulness

  6. cue for indifferent / friendly tea

  7. smell of night-soaked underwears on the balcony

  8. call of duty

and of course dead skin of the city

settles over utensils shoes chairs

and is wiped

so

settles for window panes

magazines dictionaries my oxford

and Lyra’s

fiction and poems

Indifference

like dust on poems

night slips

tiptoed

over you

dust at traffic intersection

neon-possessed

under a red moon

sleepy sands in yous eyes

you conjure

a different city

I hear something shatter

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.

Happiness

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.

Give it a thought

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.

The song must go on – a plea

I don’t know where the song ends;
at what point in our lives
it succumbs to the quicksand of
collective amnesia.

The hope of rediscovery,
if there could be any, rests,
well,
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… would you?

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. 

 

 

 

a lonely dream

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.

Breeze a-travelling
drops by a conch – takes with it
a song of loneliness