untitled ...

What if I become a snail struggling to hide my body into a stony silence?

What if I become a porcupine and you can’t make love to me anymore?

What if I become a comma and fill those empty pauses?

What if I am a riverine nymph and swishing my fishy tail escape into the ocean?

 

What if Hitler’s mother had Jew connection and Osama bin Laden’s Hindu?

What if my mood stops changing like the monsoon sky?

What if I become You and I peep into your soul?

What if someday you get the strength to let me go?

 

What if I become my eyes and close it against the world?

What if the blue black night becomes me and you watch but can not see?

 

And

thoughts are a museum; pictures on a wall ...

you leave it but it never leaves you!

for my unborn children ...

I have looked for you

into the pregnant river water

on the right side of my bed

in the crevices of my long stretched days

in basil leaf and jasmine flower.

I have looked for you

among the happy giggles of children playing.

I have looked for you in his warmth

 in his heartbeats.

In the day, night, dawn and dusk

and in the coiled vine of desire

I have looked for you.

When insomnia becomes an infection to the eyes

I  colour your apples

Name your dolls

Sing you lullabies.

When the night becomes a blue-black bruise

I look for you.

When the orange Sun looks like

an excess bleeding in the sky

I look for you.

When he holds my face in his palm

I look for you.

I lie

I nurture secrets

I long for the sticky knowingness of his skin

I die to see myself in his eyes;

All for you

Only for you.

Waiting for you to be.

Wishing for us to be.

happiness ...

‘I will call you for sure;

We shall meet again’ he promised...

 

In between the velvety folds

of those promises she built a house, long cherished.

And to live in an imaginary house is the best,

her house, built from the grit of memory

has no trial and no test. 

good to have a fantasy house with hopes and dreams so little,

as the walls of which bear no rhyme and not another riddle.

no expectations, nor fear in the mesh of other allusions,

longing neither to belong nor to search for meaning in this illusion. 

Resting under the painted ceiling out of which Images grow,

she feels happy as the walls cannot anymore smell of sorrow.

Not aching to make sense of the day or the night,

she doesnt weep any more, try as she might.

For she knows this is all there is, and this is so,

there’s no panic of an end, and no one to leave and go!

 

 

an utter mistake

Her father did an utter mistake

of not holding her

of not carrying her on his shoulder

showing her the world.

And you too have done the same

of not binding her with the sacred thread

or a stained centre parting, the mistake

of not giving her someone to carry your name.

So she never learnt how to belong

She never felt home.

 

And she kept dreaming

of roaming in faraway places,

of the night sky

all alone,

her fists closing on strangers’ stories;

 

Now, often,

she becomes a kite, the string lifts her and

she flies.

She feels that she bears a river inside her

her hair floating like water-weed,

she lies still and listens

to the upsurge of a river within her,

the water rises, rippling in circles,

legs, waist, arms ... and

she paints a blue bird on her navel ... 

And she never learns to belong
she never learns home.
 
They made an utter mistake
Her father and you!

for http://magpietales.blogspot.in/

untitled ...

One day

a bird named fear

flapped its wings and sat on your shoulder

whispering sweet nothings  into your ear.

When you closed your eyes in pleasure

It hooted and entered your head.

It furled its feathers and made a nest there.

Since then you hear the beating of its wings

inside your skull.

You see its jet black rapid eyes wherever you look.

Now, you smell the bird even before it appears.

In the night, lying beside your man

feeling his body against yours

you wonder whether you belong,

 a place

as uncertain as your unborn child!

waiting ...

for http://dversepoets.com/
http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.in/2013/03/poetry-pantry-143.html

How long are you going to wait for him?

The night has fallen. Go home, woman!

There might be a storm.

The dust on the street is swirling

with the stray paper and plastic bags,

night has consumed the signboards, windows;

buses, scooters, flashes have turned around the culvert

and now there’s only a left over sound.

The insomniac night is seeping into the breath of the trees,

the insomniac night is licking the roof,

there’s a strange restlessness in nearby skyscrapers,

night is swallowing the shadows.

Go home woman

 wait for the man, no more.

Go and see

The day that you had left behind

fell asleep waiting for you.

a few remedies ...

If you feel lonely
read a book
or watch an ant,
stand at the balcony
and observe
millions of same story
in different clothes,
you can even think of that person
whom you carry in your brain
like a nagging dripping rain,
listen to the footfall of the day
that had already receded; or
stare at your sorrow.
Your sorrow is a tree that was pulled out
but whose roots had spread all across,
your sorrow is an old photo on the wall
that was removed long ago
but the square imprint remained,
Your sadness is a blood red hibiscus
with a red bud and a red corpse.

And then, suddenly, ... perhaps ...
in the smell of a dovetail autumn wind
or in between your shadow and the soul
you may find peace.