Sunday, December 30, 2012


Wait …. Wait ….

Re read my lines …;

Before you read

feel the space in between...

they are filled with the depth of a river…

Let your eyes listen to those prayers

that reverberates with the birth of each word.

Close your eyes and repeat after me …

Begin slowly …  

And then let me know

if you have liked it …
 
 

What do I do with so much love?
They are of no use in my everyday life.
Sometimes, I use them in poetry
for it leaps, I don’t know from where!
Or at times, I bury it below the Gulmohar tree
...
And keep expecting burgundy red flowers…
My pitiful waiting!

 
 

This beautiful painting was the inspiration for these lines ... I actually wanted to write a happy note, especially as it is a new year ... but it just came like this ...

She does not have a sorrow;
If she had, she would have dipped her pen
in its velvety darkness and
... written those saddest lines, tonight.

Tears were not there a few years ago,
tears were not there yesterday,
even now they are not there.
Those tears, they just wouldn’t go away!

..... Baishali
(inspiration - poet Hughes Mearns)

Thursday, October 25, 2012

sex




I heard the word
when I was 7 years
and at school.
I scrawled it neatly
on the last page
of my school diary.
Teacher saw it
‘Gosh what a rotten girl!’
and my mother was summoned;
I remember her face
red in shame and despair.
Since then,
till date,
the word remains dirty.



Sunday, September 9, 2012

The poet

Don’t call it loneliness
name it poem;
those dense dark moments
spiralling out of her pen,
words intense like sin ...
 
Don’t call her weird
call her a poet;
she who has etched
a blue butterfly on her arm
and
she who writes
in the middle of the night
dipping her pen
into that pulpy sorrow
which she collects gently
from her belly.
 

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

Musings ...

Last night the rain came. 
Tip tapping. 
All it wanted was to whisper a song into my ears.
 All it wanted was to die in my arms, singing. 

... and I was busy reaching out for my umbrella, 
adjusting my window panes, 
securing the bolts!


 







*******
If only I could come out of life alive
I would have brewed it one more time 
like my strong black coffee
slightly bitter, as fate,
a little grey, as those discarded days.
But this time I would have remembered
to put a dash of sugar,
this time I would have learnt
 to sip it at leisure.
If only …….




Sunday, July 1, 2012

...


I do not remember clearly;

was it Belgium or Srilanka?

Or maybe Himanchal

Or else in my dream

I saw Buddha

sitting in a giant wooden structure

like an altar, perhaps,

with a make belief tree branching out behind,

eyes peaceful

but a mourning in the incline of the lips.

The knees are blackened

by the candles lit by devotees,

a piece of stone had broken near the palm

and nails hammered on his elbow for some repair work;

the feet chapped and scratched

maybe while cleaning

or by some naughty children.

He almost looked like Jesus Christ;

and the branches behind Him

reminded me of the hands of Lord Shiva.



Wednesday, May 23, 2012

untitled...


Sometimes in the past or
 may be a few decades ago
I had hidden myself in a painting. 



but the noise of colours annoy me now.
The four seasons from the painter’s
 deft stroke whirl and roll in a frenzy
and I can’t stop my tears.
And the familiar doorway and this white wall;
they appear fearfully dreary.
 

I want to step out.
I need to find myself.
But I have forgotten
in which one did I hide myself!

 
 



And where beginning to repeat each other:

He was her

And she was him,

She was her

And he was her as well,

She was, she wasn’t,

And he was them,

Or something like that.



Especially in the morning,

Until they’d sorted out

Who was who,

From where to where,

Why this was and not that,

A lot of time elapsed,

Time poured awaay like water.



Occasionally they wanted to kiss each other

But realised, at some point,

That they were both her —

Easier just to repeat.



Then they’d start yawning with fear,

A yawn like soft wool,

Which could even be crocheted

This way:

One was yawning very carefully

The other was holding the ball.

I want to build myself a house

As far away as possible

From all the things

I know.



As far away as possible from the mountains

Out of which squirrels leap in the morning

Like apostles in a clock

Naive beyond belief.



And I don’t want it on the shore

Of that white tiredness

Where I could see through every window

An enamelled scale.



And I know all the tricks

Of the plain.

What else can you expect from her

If at night she frees the grass and wheat

To grow through your ribs and temples?



In any place at all

I’d get so fearfully bored

I couldn’t even

Hang

On my wall

Pictures

The doorway would look too familiar

I’d be feeling I had to move on.



If only I could build myself a house

As far away as possible from

Myself.

I want to build myself a house

As far away as possible

From all the things

I know.



As far away as possible from the mountains

Out of which squirrels leap in the morning

Like apostles in a clock

Naive beyond belief.



And I don’t want it on the shore

Of that white tiredness

Where I could see through every window

An enamelled scale.



And I know all the tricks

Of the plain.

What else can you expect from her

If at night she frees the grass and wheat

To grow through your ribs and temples?



In any place at all

I’d get so fearfully bored

I couldn’t even

Hang

On my wall

Pictures

The doorway would look too familiar

I’d be feeling I had to move on.



If only I could build myself a house

As far away as possible from

Myself.

I want to build myself a house

As far away as possible

From all the things

I know.



As far away as possible from the mountains

Out of which squirrels leap in the morning

Like apostles in a clock

Naive beyond belief.



And I don’t want it on the shore

Of that white tiredness

Where I could see through every window

An enamelled scale.



And I know all the tricks

Of the plain.

What else can you expect from her

If at night she frees the grass and wheat

To grow through your ribs and temples?



In any place at all

I’d get so fearfully bored

I couldn’t even

Hang

On my wall

Pictures

The doorway would look too familiar

I’d be feeling I had to move on.



If only I could build myself a house

As far away as possible from

Myself.


Sunday, May 13, 2012

the river and I ...


I go to the river everyday
to steal a little bit from her;
so that I can take a pinch of peace.

Daily I come to her
trying to measure her
feeling her through my fingers.
Every day I pilfer a little river
with a swiftness to be coveted,
to steal a little peace and
a palmful of serenity.

And yet I fail.
For she changes too!
From a straight line to a curved one,
now still and the next moment swirling,
greyish blue under the bright Sun and then
at dusk a  moss green,
now crystal clear and the next hour
 pretentious, draped in those silhouettes
just like me;
 as I am happy now
and miserable the next hour;
cheerful on Monday
but the whole Tuesday I am pensive.
In the morning we all sit together and I laugh
and then I cry the whole night.
She is no different
but like me.
So I come home, late night,
tired and disillusioned.
                       ***

and I realise I am the river ... and peace is not to be sought outside but within myself ...



Wednesday, May 2, 2012

untitled...












Through time, pouring away like water
we have been living together;
my soul and I.
We are so familiar
 that we almost
 repeat each other now.
She is I and I am her
or both are us
or something like that.
To be far away
I went to the shore
but she was already there
struggling to hold that whiteness in her fist.
When I had thought of going to the mountains
she started whispering
the noise of serenity into my ears.
Then, I had wanted to escape
 into the wilderness of the forest
but I was afraid
 that she would weave
the moss green grass and twigs through my ribs.

For long I am searching for a home away from myself.

They’d been living together a long time
And where beginning to repeat each other:
He was her
And she was him,
She was her
And he was her as well,
She was, she wasn’t,
And he was them,
Or something like that.

Especially in the morning,
Until they’d sorted out
Who was who,
From where to where,
Why this was and not that,
A lot of time elapsed,
Time poured awaay like water.

Occasionally they wanted to kiss each other
But realised, at some point,
That they were both her —
Easier just to repeat.

Then they’d start yawning with fear,
A yawn like soft wool,
Which could even be crocheted
This way:
One was yawning very carefully
The other was holding the ball.
I want to build myself a house
As far away as possible
From all the things
I know.

As far away as possible from the mountains
Out of which squirrels leap in the morning
Like apostles in a clock
Naive beyond belief.

And I don’t want it on the shore
Of that white tiredness
Where I could see through every window
An enamelled scale.

And I know all the tricks
Of the plain.
What else can you expect from her
If at night she frees the grass and wheat
To grow through your ribs and temples?

In any place at all
I’d get so fearfully bored
I couldn’t even
Hang
On my wall
Pictures
The doorway would look too familiar
I’d be feeling I had to move on.

If only I could build myself a house
As far away as possible from
Myself.
I want to build myself a house
As far away as possible
From all the things
I know.

As far away as possible from the mountains
Out of which squirrels leap in the morning
Like apostles in a clock
Naive beyond belief.

And I don’t want it on the shore
Of that white tiredness
Where I could see through every window
An enamelled scale.

And I know all the tricks
Of the plain.
What else can you expect from her
If at night she frees the grass and wheat
To grow through your ribs and temples?

In any place at all
I’d get so fearfully bored
I couldn’t even
Hang
On my wall
Pictures
The doorway would look too familiar
I’d be feeling I had to move on.

If only I could build myself a house
As far away as possible from
Myself.
I want to build myself a house
As far away as possible
From all the things
I know.

As far away as possible from the mountains
Out of which squirrels leap in the morning
Like apostles in a clock
Naive beyond belief.

And I don’t want it on the shore
Of that white tiredness
Where I could see through every window
An enamelled scale.

And I know all the tricks
Of the plain.
What else can you expect from her
If at night she frees the grass and wheat
To grow through your ribs and temples?

In any place at all
I’d get so fearfully bored
I couldn’t even
Hang
On my wall
Pictures
The doorway would look too familiar
I’d be feeling I had to move on.

If only I could build myself a house
As far away as possible from
Myself.