Shoot it if it rhymes

2011-12-20T08:41:00.000-08:00

Koshy’s, Saturday night

The red checked tablecloth
always plays tricks.
Eyeball always gets stuck
on the white squares. Funny.

Squint, and I swear, I see
a desolate gondolier, prying
open a treasure-box
full of dead rats.

Sewer
water creeps up through the
red squares. Dark, damp
patterns happen
like shoulder-cuts and rumps
of slaughtered pork.

Life
Ceases on the table as a plate is
laid,
really and truly.
A sheet of white paper
follows.

You can write an ode
even to a misguided
trout, the tablecloth
says. The thought
lingers.

2011-12-01T23:27:00.000-08:00

Plan for a Sunset

The thin gay man in
the glistening tank top
and tight golden trunks
sways.

Bollywood blares. A
suspended raindrop
threatens to baptize
an over-ripe pear.
A gull calls, from
a distance. He sounds
thirsty.

I make plans for
the impending sunset. Let’s
have an overdose
of Indigo this time,
I tell God.

Over the choppy
waters,
the sea chuckles.

2011-10-17T00:22:00.000-07:00

Sanyukta

Cherub mine,
your curls are question marks
to a world losing its rainbows.

Deep in your eyes,
a drop of nectar cuddles
a world that fled my world
long ago.

And your smile.
A swing from papa's twinkle
to amma's warmth.
A hammock next to God.

Sanyukta.

Maybe some day,
I will tell you how
papa and I shared a smoke
as the rain-tree baptised both of us.

How amma and I sparred
on the wings of a practical joke.

But till then,
I shall just watch
the dimples
on your knuckles.

Photograph courtesy Manasi Shankar

2011-07-18T23:48:00.000-07:00

To a Drug Addict's Dream
Circa 1980

In the desolate lanes of time
Where memories hawk rainbows
You came to me as a rare hue
I couldn't afford to buy.

In the dead gold-mines of reason
Where drunken phantoms romp
You came to me as a lone nugget
I couldn't gather in my mind.

In the cracking wastelands of sanity
Where talent dries to the last drop
You came to me as a drop of wine
I could never, ever feast on.

In the blink of a drooping eyelid
In the shadow of a broken dream
You came to me as a lightning vein
I couldn't harbour in my eyes.

2010-11-02T09:53:00.000-07:00

Neptune's Visit

Mom always liked the fish-man.
Simple rain, without the accompaniments of
thunder, lightning and water-logging,
often delayed the fish-man.
Even kept him away for days.

Then the sun would peep out one day,
grinning through the jack-fruit leaves,
wicked.

The fish-man's bicycle horn
would startle the sparrows.

What ma? Sardines eh? Buy buy.
Your fry is magic. Also curry, pickle,
moiley, stew, roast, all full magic.

Baby in America, Singapore, Dubai,

all will love.

Mom, charmed to the gills,
would buy sardines, mackerel,
and black pomfret.

2010-10-24T09:27:00.000-07:00

Attic

An old 'Brother' typewriter,
with the space key missing.
A snuff-box full of dust
and cockroach-wing flakes.
A half-decayed pack of Passing Show cigarettes,
its damp, moth-eaten mascot
with its smile intact.

An old gale, trapped
in an ink bottle, scrapes the blue scales
one last time.
Its identity is remembered.
A silverfish peeks from page 97,
browned and dog-eared,
from Chekov.
It leaves a keyhole-shaped cavity
on the pastoral Russian landscape.

Two fingertips, one brown and one fair,

share a millimeter of electricity.

From a distant childhood, two mothers call:
"What are you two doing up there?".

2010-10-07T21:16:00.000-07:00

Escape

Finally I break the igloo
of heat
the bubble of the beyond
within the ribcage
between torrents
of advertising copy.

Close your eyes and I'll let you feel
a kiss between the shoulder-blades. Reach up on your toes and
you'll see a shadow. Just a matter of time.

What if you came from the beyond
of the beyond
and christened my gloom
and left for the beyond?

Here I am,
vast as a desert
and as sprinkled with sand
and footprints of wayfarers.

Death is an oasis
scorched in the heat
of the cold.

Let

me

sleep.

2010-08-29T21:12:00.000-07:00

White Ebony

Some days,
you scrape the
sand off the
sandpaper.

Some days, the
fins off the
shark
take over
as door-stoppers.

Some days,
eyelashes are dams
shredded by
white-hot, angry
gales.

Some days,
shave-foam seeps
right into the pores
and wets
the larynx.

Some days,
metal tries to cut water
and draws sparks.
Manhole covers fly
like frisbees.

Some days,
black's a shade lighter
than white.

2010-08-15T23:27:00.000-07:00

Status

Some
thing

creaks
in
my
face
book
page

2010-08-04T07:45:00.000-07:00

Re-coil

Serpent, you may have the last laugh.
While the maggots are dense
with their brainy little waltz,
while the dark eggs' hatchlings
go blind before birth,
while the eels turn magenta
from touching raw corals,
you may crackle in purple-venom-laden glee.

Serpent,
who knows what your thoughts are?
Dreams wet, shiny and dripping,
rhyming with scalesong
as you walk.
Memories rising in slithery smoke
while grass-blades shrug in wet revolt.

Serpent,
be
my
guest.

2010-07-05T00:32:00.000-07:00

Swansong

Swans, simply silvered

from the stalactite mines

of yesterday's magnetic waters.

Swans.

Long necks in swooping grace

like heroins from a Russian novel -

feathers flouncy and shiny,

wind-tunnel-brushed-back tidy.

Swans.

Webbed feet making ploppy pictures

on marble floor.

Beaks outlining haughty arcs

in the monsoon-thick July air.

Sanguine eyes, beady and shallow,

probing like blunted bayonets.

Swans.

Arriving to sing,

departing with silence.

2010-06-08T22:34:00.000-07:00

Shellspeak

Dawn brings the gulls out
white, crackling, cocky.
Salt, deep in the sea's sinews,
long for an eye.
In the depths of the fishing net
a lone mackerel gasps.
An old litany escapes
from the church's tired heart.

The harbour coats old wounds
with coarse salt.

Far away, a coffin closes.

2010-05-11T02:19:00.000-07:00

Question to an artist who killed himself

For a moment and a half,
you cling.
Fingertips digging the precipice
of my skull
and as I close my eyes I see a kid
drooling in the ecstatic oblivion of madness.

What is it that you seek,
you ask me.
Through trillions of chafed sun-sets
robbing cake-shops

for crumbs with burnt edges
slanting, sleeting rain boiling

on raw burnt tin sheets
and the smell of singed flesh?

Masked trapeze.

Springing up from the safety net

the Big Top

ringmasters with cigarette-holders

a mile long

and pointed, pronged tails.

Why is it that you paint your face,

you ask me.

With white and vermillion

and a grin with curling corners

and the skull of a mouse for a nose?

Why is it that you

paint?

2010-04-21T05:31:00.000-07:00

Quay Notes

Some salt. A little water-lily smell.
A rust-drop from a forgotten anchor.
A coir strand, unspun from a rope, on a pier.
A horn that cuts through the steel-packed fog.
Grey mud that cascades
from a dredger's ballast.

Harbour.

Around the Chinese fishing nets,
listless men gather with little talk and less fish.
Hyacinth, cradling air-pockets to hearts,
speckle green into the grey waters.
A pink water-bottle floats,
trailing old school-tales. A bubble bursts.

A white boat, drunk with passenger-weight,
weaves down the bay.
The jetty stirs awake.
Baskets of fowl, fish, and bananas go aloft, suddenly.
Two gulls rake the sky with an off-key duet.
A kingfisher cuts a cameo.
From an old memory, a baby cries.

A bawdy song cuts in from the toddy shop.
Over a dish of pickled prawn,
a lifetime is shared.
Love and lust mingle in the toss
of a jasmine-scented plait.
The dredger honks.

Inside my shirt, an old sea-breeze blooms.

2010-04-11T22:35:00.000-07:00

Steam

A gust of hot shower,

like the first June drops of rain.

In the shower stall, mist and breath merge
like tongues seeking lust-bubbles.

A jaw clamps a shoulder, raising alarm

on the soap-stream sliding down from the neck.

A hand
- opening, closing, tracing, moving -
trails down a goose-bump, then cups.

On a lone soap-dome, a tiny rainbow bursts.
Its ghost slithers down the chin, the neck;
rests in a tiny hollow, gets split by a nestling hair.

Firm softness pulses to the rising rhythm
of hearts' beats.
A voyaging shampoo-drop snuggles
into a navel.

Higher above, an eyelash trembles.
A word, unsure and unchristened,
reflects on a sigh, retreats.
A loofah, aided by trembling fingers,

finds a mate in a valley.

Heat, having left the shower, reaches for the sinews.
A tiny muscle twitches on a glistening calf.
A wandering nail resurrects
a forgotten pore.

On the floor, wetnesses meet in slippery silence.

2010-04-04T08:48:00.000-07:00

Sibling Revelry

You 1961

Me 1962

You iced tea

Me rum, Coke, rum

You natural leader

Me natural dropout

You Allen Solly

Me street seconds

You lamp

Me shade

You birthday

Me candle

2010-03-26T04:07:00.000-07:00

Fire

I smooth down the sheets

easing the wrinkles of our love

feeling the dampness on my fingertips

and making me think about you.

You, with your

salty hairs and shaky voice

crooked eyebrows and quick skin.

Anguish builds on the clouds

rain collects within my eyelids

and fire, it spreads into the room.

Fire that makes stolen kisses seem like twilight drizzles

cools raging storms

lights damp gorges with desire

and drips lightning with twilight.

I feel your pulse on my shoulder-blades

your heartbeats on my breast

and your salt on my brow.

Alone, I look out at the stars

and your voice breaks into the room.

2010-03-18T05:09:00.000-07:00

Ode to the Sulaimani

Cheap tea leaves
One-quarter lime
One mint leaf, probably unwashed.

A tiny glass with slats running up half-way
One blackened pan

One tiny kitchen.

Ten grubby fingers
One large heart.

Insha Allah,
The Sulaimani lives on.

2010-03-12T20:04:00.000-08:00

Home

Three wilted asters
droop down from the bin,
serenely.

An ancient Mercedes
suns itself
under the tamarind tree.

Salted beef, rotting lettuce
and Simla apples
blend fragrances.

A lone mouse,
tired from a long moonlight scavenge,
retracts into its hole.

Fresh biscuits, brown, warm and crusty,
line the pan at Chai Day.

In the fish stall,
shark and tuna, shankara and mullet,
pomfret and rohu
rub fins in heavenly unity.

The happily mentally challenged man
shuffles by; grin, twinkle in eye,
and wicker basket intact.

Asifbhai smiles
and sunshine descends.

Johnson Market.

2010-03-03T20:18:00.000-08:00

Terminal Talk

How was your chemo?

Alright. Nauseous. Your muscle biopsy?

Inconclusive.

Means "No fricking idea", right?

Ha.

How are the tremours?

Status quo. Can still sign cheques.

Still working from home?

Yes. Miss all the office gossip.

Want to do a play on Saturday?

No, got chemo. Sunday?

Sorry, my acupuncture is on Sunday.

Thank God we won't have old age!

I know!

2010-02-25T09:38:00.000-08:00

Offline

One after the other,
the birds came.

All white
all chaste
all blank.

One spoke of empty rhymes
and blind ballads
another, of blisters
that grew crimson with the setting sun.

One wept of feathers
lost in a molten barrage of scalded dreams
and yet another rested its beak in mire.

One said, "I've flown over rusted, demented kingdoms
and blood-soaked flower beds".

His brother, with claws blunted
from perching long on sunburnt spikes,
remembered a drop of wild nectar.

One stepped out of line,
indecisive.

Photograph courtesy Pallavi Pandey

2010-02-17T02:53:00.000-08:00

Kaiku Haiku?

It drips

from the edges
of a blunt dagger.

It churns

the insides

of a rusty boiler.

It slithers

in the depths

of a stinking sewer.

It moistens

the sweat-streams

between skin and moving skin.

It weeps

in the blackness

of a windowless mind.

It laughs

from the tip

of an infant's pink toe.

The poem.

Everywhere.

Disguised.

Devious.

2010-02-08T21:28:00.000-08:00

Made in China

Latif Bhai cuts the metal strips.

Ganesh and Giridhar sharpen their sides to knife-edges.

D' Souza picks the junglewood bits,

sells them to Peer Muhammed

who sizes them down to knife handles.

Nair mates metal knife and wooden handle

on his attic work-bench.

As Ammini sharpens each against the spinning stone wheel,

sparks fly.

Their son, Pravin, trims all the edges,

adds the rivets and cleans the knives.

Rashid Bhai mounts the crate, packed with knives

onto his green Raleigh bicycle

and trundles around, galli-galli.

Leela Behn touches, feels, pats, bends, twists, haggles,

and buys one.

In another part of the city,

legions of precisely made stainless steel knives

made in a Kaizen-certified factory

glisten in a supermarket's flourescent light.

2010-02-02T20:25:00.000-08:00

In Absentia

Please remember

to feed the fish.

Water the flower beds.

Remember to rake
the golden brown leaves

on the driveway.

Fluff the pillows;

wipe the rain water seeping onto

the blue marble floor.

Make the doves feel at home.

Lead the rooster to a worm

every other day.

Pat the cats, bathe the dogs, air the carpets.

If my memories come calling,

just turn away.

2009-10-05T06:06:00.000-07:00

Current Feelings

The saddest water
I found in the canal.
Green, a burnt green
of snubbed-out desire.
Thick, murky aftertaste
of layered longings.
Twigs and seeds, feathers and shells
melting between grinding planes
of current.

Salt from unspent tears
feeding ugly, lethargic, unforgiving,
smirking, whiskered fish.

Then, from nowhere,
an Amber glow falls.

2009-10-05T06:02:00.000-07:00

Painshore

Every day I take a long winding walk
on the shores of disease.
People I meet smile
and make pleasant talk.
“What colour is your pain today”,
an old woman asks.
A white dog wags its tail
a baby cries softly
a bird hoots.
I walk on.

In the tea-stall,
a smiling man offers tea.
In his glass cupboard,
deep-fried bananas reflect
the sunset glow.

I seek you
in the sand speckled with baby sea-shells
in the wind that breathes salt
in the sky that slowly starts to bleed.

I walk on.

2009-09-28T09:06:00.000-07:00

Mind the Monkey

Where does he go?

What does he touch?

Who does he bare
his sleaze-yellow teeth at?

What's his perch?

Rain-gobbled bark
of wilting mangosteen,

rotting leaves layered
with dead drying dung,

alabaster alcove, gilded spire,

driftwood dynasty
or mossy rooftop?

What does he hold?
Memories woven lazily
into gossamer globes,
luminous and warm?
Fear, singeing the skin
off barrels of wasted hope?

What does he speak?
Elegies bursting with manic laughter,
Sufi-words stranded as beads
on shiny rolling string,
incense swirling up, soothing
raw, ragged nerve-tips?

Mind, the monkey -
cageless, wanton, naked beast;
first to appear
and last
to leave.

2009-09-05T10:15:00.000-07:00

Spring Cleaning

Layers off.

Clothes.

Skin.

Bone.

Marrow.

Guts.

What was left

flew out

through the window.

2009-06-19T00:53:00.000-07:00

Way to Go

Yes, all entry sealed.
Steel dust ground into contacts
sentries guarding heart,
posted at each valve and ventricle.
Filters over ear drums,
deodorizers in nostrils,
number locks with Swahili numerals
on chastity belt.

Maybe I should try breaking into
Fort Knox instead.

2009-06-02T23:26:00.000-07:00

Damp

Rain.
The city is one grey damp huge slushy
wet blanket.
The sun sprinkles powdered light
that gets filtered and scattered
miles above.
Wet crows, wet bullocks, wet
dreams shelter the hearts of damp memories.

Morning.
Face up on a park bench
granite digging backbone,
tamarind leaf canopy superimposed
on grey clouds.
Why does cloud 21 take the shape
of your nose?
Why does the pie-dog’s white patch
remind me of an old holiday?

Life’s questions are beyond me
today.

2009-05-19T05:40:00.000-07:00

Rain Tree

You’ve visited my house, yes; many times,
But have you seen my rain tree?
The one with clouds for leaves
rainbows for fruits and little droplets for seeds?
Come with me, touch it.
Shake its branches, let the crystal drops descend on you.
See how wet the roots are.
See the damp bark, the rain-filled hollows
And the gum-mingled resin
trickling from the pores.

This is my rain tree
this is me.
Don’t hurt it, please,
even with a blade.

2009-05-05T00:49:00.000-07:00

Conspiracy

God was in a benign mood.
He said, take my diamond mines
To park your thoughts.
Close to the core of the earth,
Where old secrets jostle
The fire of my loins.

God was in a forgiving mood.
He said, come sit on the apex
Of my shoulders, where the Everest breathes
Silence into the breaks between clouds
And rest awhile.

God was in a relaxed mood.
He said, come keep your heart
In my valley of flowers,
Let it cool with the dew
From the slumbering tulips and daisies.

God was in an indulgent mood.
He said, let me soothe your face
With a shimmer of silk, the breath of cherubs
And a serenade of peacock feathers.

I said,
Let me lay my thoughts on a park bench.
Let me perch on the step outside the washroom.
Let me keep my heart in a parking lot, and
Let my face be soothed by a reckless monsoon drop.

God looked over my shoulder
At you
And smiled.

23/04/09

2009-04-26T21:44:00.000-07:00

Feelers

For a change,
Let us touch
With our bodies.

Lay bare our hungry skins
Reach for slippery corners
(not of our minds, this time)
And feel a different fulfillment
Rise.

Let us journey on different wings
Cling to different cliffs
Ease a different rhythm
Tease a different ink

Leave Kant for cont-
entment
Keats for heat
Brecht for breast
Sinclair for sin

And roll up some grass
In a page of Grass
Afterwards.

2009-04-17T00:29:00.000-07:00

Brown Eyes

The baker said,I want brown.
Sin-steeped chocolate sauce,
Caramel crusty and burnt,
Cashew roasted to an infinite dark.

The painter said,
I want brown.
Raw umber, tempered
With a downy fawn and spiked
With shots of bronze.

The chef said,
I want brown.
The goo off the overdone sausage,
The edge from the cinnamon stick,
The fat from the greased
Old turkey.

The farmer said,
I want brown.
Early light glinting off the wheat
The patch between the calf’s little horns
Bushels ripe in silent wait
And twilight.

Then you opened your eyes
And all fell silent.

2009-04-06T00:18:00.000-07:00

No Thanks

Not for me,
the half-imagined whiff
of a comforting breath.
Not for me, concern gift-wrapped
with a bright satin bow.
Not for me,
the safety of installments.

Come to me with all the tact
of a baby gorging on a breast.
Come to me with all the restraint
of the rain racing to wet the earth.
Pick my brains
shred my skull
devour my guts like warm brown sausages
and pound my blood to crimson your forehead.

If you don’t feel like it,
please,
vanish now.

2009-04-02T04:00:00.000-07:00

Then and Now

Some day, I'll collect your tears
in a thimble
and wash away the salt,
drop by crystal drop.

Some day, I'll stop a raindrop
in flight
and steal its sparkle
to light up your eyes.

Some day, I'll make a little windmill
that turns
with your sighs
and breathes out rainbows.

But meanwhile,
Pass the tomato sauce, please.

2009-03-25T07:07:00.000-07:00

Listen?

Maybe it's a little dark corner
of a forgotten dream.

Maybe it's a thinning strand
from a satin drawstring.

Maybe it's gum, cracking
on the bark of a graying tree.

Maybe it's a grain
from an old footprint
on a silver beach.

Maybe it's the eroding lead
from a pencilled love-note.

Maybe it's the blunt sparkle of a moonstone,
seen through frosted glass.

Maybe it's the last raindrop in a monsoon puddle,
about to evaporate.

Maybe it's your voice,
still alive,
from another world.

2009-03-20T09:23:00.000-07:00

Carrier

Walls of silence
build between us
every now and then.

What will build a ventilator
in the brickwork
so I can send a pigeon
with a kiss in its beak?

2009-02-25T07:07:00.000-08:00

Time out

Every moment subtly reminds me:
"Your time is running out".
The screech of the morning alarm.
The wail of the siren.
The hands of the watch,
the clock, the time-piece
the newspapers
the newsmakers
the heartbeats,
mine and next to mine

Racing pulses
turning fan-blades
foreplay, play and afterplay
run
ning
out.

2009-02-14T08:55:00.000-08:00

Tonight

Tonight, let me talk to the moon
silently.

Tonight, let me weave a prayer
with strands of silken guilt
and breathe it to the stars
silently.

Tonight, let me walk the dew-kissed path
and crumple the autumn leaves
silently.

Tonight, let me hold a warm, threadbare memory
kiss a lost, lingering thought
caress the feel of a pulsing brow
silently.

Tonight, let me endure your absence
silently.

2009-02-08T23:18:00.000-08:00

WEEKEND WIST

Why does the weekend
Bring in its wake
Wishes and wrinkles,
Promises and pauses?

When all I know
I need is
Your touch
If only for a millisecond.

2008-12-19T05:41:00.000-08:00

GLOWSSARY

Brothel (noun) – shovel used for drinking soup

Brass band (noun) – elastic ring that secures a woman’s undergarment

Cyst (noun) – annoying female sibling

Penile (verb) – to draw an Egyptian river

Tincture (noun) – punctured can

Pestilence (noun) – magnifying glass used to examine an irritating specimen

Ergo (noun) - a reluctant departure

Bovine (noun) - a grape-bearing shrub that peeps

2008-12-01T21:07:00.000-08:00

Tarun and Celia glow towards Mumbai

A flame in the heart of a coward
Kills a the glow in a tiny heart
Chefs lose their embers
Lovers, their love...
As the world says, "Waa, Taj",
Here's a ray of tribute.

2008-11-15T20:51:00.000-08:00

Leaves You Spellbound

Blue is that hue
that resonates within:
the soul, the marrow, the sinew
Light trickles from above
leaves take the cue
and before I know it, cripes,
this actually rhymes!

2008-01-02T23:56:00.000-08:00

Downstream

A smile.
A bud of fluffy drool
on the lip-tip.

Tongue a pink rosebud.
Eye a sky full of fireworks.

A slow step. Falter.

A chubby foot, a bit like a sixties sedan,
up in the air.
Fat rounding up and falling
around the waist
in slow motion.

My index fingers out –
hands come and grip them.

A pause.
Then, the sparkling, saline, amber shower
hits my face.

My son has made a mark.

2007-12-20T01:30:00.000-08:00

Return to Sender

Meekly, let the doors close behind us.

Let the forlorn templates with caving margins suck us into their vortex.
Let crimson dissolve in the deeper finger-reaches
And let Bolton sing,
“Can I touch you there”.

Let the earth’s clitoris erupt a shattering thunderstorm and let all the birds fly away to Ithaca.

As silence settles, let me say my last prayers.

You, my friend, can watch from behind your misty glasses.

2007-12-20T01:28:00.000-08:00

REMINDER

Did you ever know
there’s a handful of snow
with my name etched on the verge?

Did you know the gale that filled your raincoat had a mouthful of my breath?

Did you see my eyes glint
in the puddle
that splashed mud under your step?

Could you, my friend, lift your tongue
to the hail that raced
with my pulse?

Did you, but once, feel the sweat
from the lone ray that signals my lust?

Did you ever touch the sand
warm with my last regret?

Move gently on, close your eyes. Death has my name on its lips.

2007-12-20T01:14:00.000-08:00

Hero

Father,
my knuckles ache as I write this.
Father,
my knees buckle as I climb.
my fingers shake
my feet hurt
my voice trails, off and on.

Father,
I cannot carry a child.
my forearm is a mite smaller
than you saw it last.
my thighs, once hard as my will,
can’t carry my weight, sometimes.

The end seems just a little larger
just a little closer
sometimes.

Would this have killed you, father,
had you been alive?

Wherever you are, father,
please, please touch me where it hurts.

2007-12-20T01:13:00.001-08:00

Presence

Mist from the hills
rolls in and fills the hollows, treescapes
sleepy curves on mountain-paths.

Mantras from the temple
blend with soft-spoken bells
to fill the air, drop by cool crystal drop.

Rain from the heavens
fills the streams, fish-ponds
and little cupped hands
held out in prayer.

Boatmen’s songs fill the harbour
laughter fills the playground
shifting moods fill
the heart.

There’s just no room left
for you, my friend;
but just see how you fill my world.

2007-12-20T01:11:00.000-08:00

Sorry

With a pulsing, searing,
snaking thread,
I reached inside you
last Wednesday.

What it touched was a
little pool, pooch - a tiny thimble of eye-water.

My mind forgets, pooch,
the handicap of its own shadows.

Spinning the strands of love and hurt
in one bittersweet thread – silk and barbed wire in one satinscratchin’ rope.

Hang me with it, pooch,
by all means,
but please, please smile.

2007-12-20T01:09:00.000-08:00

Written in transit

The truth is simple:
I love you.

Listening to the rain
pitter-patter-pitter
patter on concrete
tasting smoke and cold
tea at noon
alone.

A month of journeys.
Thatak-thatak of journeying rails
video film on bus screen and
“please extinguish your cigarettes…”

Crimson-baked sunset in Andhra, somewhere
in the plains
Doves bantering at Marine Drive and
rumali roti at India Gate
Mirror-work cholis resplendent at
Law Gardens and
black tea near Teen Darwaza
The valley of Madam Marina
sheltering midnight lovers
Bottles of beer and kids
fighting for empty dreams;
A Saturday night binge.

The truth is simple;
like your hair
that smells of ‘grease and sunshine
and sweat’.

I love you.
1986

2007-12-20T00:22:00.000-08:00

Cat trap

And then, the cat-trappers came.
Large, netted cat-bags in hands
cat-whistles attached
to necks, with dog-tags;
identity and shrill instrument
in one fabric loop.

Cats sensed the intruders,
the impending doom;
paws poised mid-move,
whiskers trembling, eyes darting
half-finished meows frozen
in the summer air.

Cat-trappers.
Anti-feline squad
in rubber footwear, tails bristling
like antennas,
annihilators of the Siamese,
tabbies
and the common houseproud
kitties.

Stealthy stalkers
lethal demolishers

determined bellers all.

2007-12-20T00:12:00.000-08:00

Satin

Maybe a small, in fact miniscule,
lavender bouquet for your birthday.
A sweet-smelling,
feather-furry-felt-
downy,
soft medley of whispers
gift-wrapped in orange blossoms.

Maybe a journey
into the centre of your eyeballs
honey and treacle, melted
smooth-flowing into
your memories.

Maybe a brush
against your breast
dragonfly wings fluttering
on butter.

Maybe a glance, framed in guilt
maybe a touch
maybe a word
maybe a whole belated lifetime.

2007-12-20T00:09:00.000-08:00

One more twirl

Is there a waterfall where you come from?

A tiny whirlwind that touches the edge your sanity,
like the breath of a dark animal
that you dreamt about…
the one you saw dart across the hay field.

Is there a woodfire, safe in the cocoon of your mind
an ember that you’ll save for a rainy thought…
Is there one last longing before I leave?

See the last lead leave the love-note
the last grain leave an old foot-print
the last feather descend your spine

Turn the page, but slowly love
Let your fingertip seek one last, last waltz.

2007-12-20T00:00:00.000-08:00

Outercourse

Where’s my free fish,
She asked me again,
where the fish is my friggin’ free fish?

I’d left it on the ledge,
I said,
with the rainbow and the prunes,
maybe the rain came
and washed it away.

Where did you leave all that kindness, she asked,
the kind of which I thought will never dry away?

I’d left it for you
on the garage window-sill
maybe a thief came and
took it away.

Where are your words with the slur and the salt,
where is your tongue with its sly, gilded tip?

I’d left it all for you,
just hanging loose –
maybe ol’ Spot came
and licked it away.