Tuesday, November 15, 2016

Would you believe

if i say i can see buds bursting into dreams
and in one blue dream you are gliding through
cloud-ridden moonlight, and when i call
you tell me this is no time for words, then another
bud bursts into a summer sun and i find you
lost in a quiet haze sipping a melon sherbet
i ask you if you have noticed the archaic
fountain where gold-winged butterflies make
their nest and you quip there is hardly a reason
to look for relics as all winged marvels have gone
where falling cherry petals make a blizzard

if i say, since then the dreams have stopped
busting out, since then life has been a foggy path
without end, only a here-and-there glimmer of sun
which i mis-read as golden butterflies, believing my
poem to be the soliloquy of a yearning alchemist
neither is it the sadness of a commonplace poet
but rather a thirsty quest for togetherness

Friday, April 29, 2016

For Prince


You said there is blood in the sky
was that a premonition you said
you knew when it'll rain purple blue
when someone will take you out
from your hide that is made of rainbow
So when the angel came and beckoned
you in the purple rain you forgot about
the song on your lips and looked long
at me were there some words hidden

With meek steps you left as the worst storm
rattled my doors putting off candles because
the blood in the sky had to fall because god
had no reason to heed the call of the million
doves who cried till life went out off a billion
songs Yet its still raining still your voice hasn't
stopped echoing from mountain walls because
an angel called you amidst the purple rain

[ In memory of  Prince Rogers Nelson (1958 - 2016)]

Friday, April 22, 2016

Love Tanka


i can no longer
feel you, either by love
or by reason -
the end of a bridge
fade into vagueness

why must i become
the falling leaf
of winter -
lovers and flowers
blooming in the roadside

sauntering aimless
without you...yet with you
by my side
---a quick spell of rain
---paints a rainbow

Tuesday, April 19, 2016

Aokigahara - The Suicide Forest


1) near the forest
a dust-worn Toyota
lies abandoned-
a parrot shrieks overhead:
i'm comming, comming, comming...


2) the noose dangles
from a wild tree
a gush of wind
hurries through
deceased leaves


3) he nails his anger
one after the other
into a stolid bark:
you cannot rule the breeze,
neither the fire, nor the rains


4) not even a flower
buds here
to feed butterflies
this stoic world
needs no spring, no autumn

Monday, March 28, 2016

Poet

[ An ode to the poetic mind of Pablo Neruda ]

rummaging
through a jungle
of beliefs-
i run from house to house
chased by a raging bull


how do i
describe you
in words alone-
all the words in me
are 'stolen'


hidden under
a white brimmed hat
i read faces
bricks and lanes
burnt by Santiago sun


when the end came
six and half hours later
i was envisioning
the army searching my house
for a man named 'poetry'


treading on  a planet
snapped from all modes of return
the soil
coloured with blood
of perished revolts

One February we were selling love

the thrum
of a tranquil guitar
at the Beatles Ashram
we'll meditate
along with butterflies

***

what can you offer
to the morning breeze
the chorus
of four bright boys
merging with the fog

***

bloodied
by twilight
one black bulbul
tells you the tale of a god
selling peace in packets


***

freed
from the hubbub
of money machines
this spring we'd sell love
to the babblers

Saturday, January 23, 2016

Pathankot

sound of gun salute
reverberates
amidst the silence...
home, they brought the coffin
home from Pathankot

Saturday, December 12, 2015

No more words

When a sudden silence falls
between us, when you look at me

that way, an inquisitive butterfly
starts flittering around

a sense we are drifting apart
and the need of a good reason to cling

glued to the dance of a petite
bright spot under quiet clouds

We were also in the hunt for nectar,
but we are not butterflies

Wednesday, November 25, 2015

'for Paris' (tanka)

war broke out
at Bataclan theatre -
shall we keep acting
like  dead bodies
under the trigger?

Wednesday, September 9, 2015

White lotus (Haiku)

white lotus--
the sky losing
its darkness

September Tanka


such small-boned
my solitude
amidst the mountains
even winds cannot gnaw
those massive chunks of sorrow


you write
my name beside
your lover's
then strike it through—
fungi growing in monsoons


images
of a riotous spring
keep stinging--
i seek comfort
amidst the rhododendrons


village huts
obscured in cloud-light
the stillness
of graying hills
broken by cattle bells


mother
in her youth, and mother
in old age--
how fast does time travel
between horizons


basking
in the glow of a dream-
am i not
beyond the grasp
of mortal waves


let my poems be
like star florets
rekindling
the dreams that are lost,
lost in a sea of despair

Friday, August 7, 2015

5 tanka

a snowdrop
wavering in the mist
our love
coerced by the wind
droops further

*

my new specs
broken,
i use the old one--
who says you'll no longer need
your ancient visions

*

when I came home
I saw Death waiting
I called my sons:
leaving you to the whims 
of sunshine 

*

moonflower
may you climb your way
towards the moon--
we planted our dreams
in a vale of dead colours

*

if caterpillars
could feed on yesterdays...
(my) old dreams
disintegrating
for want of fresh wings 

Monday, July 20, 2015

3 haiku

your nearness
cherry blossoms brushing me
in the breeze

*

your eyes inviting
i didn't know how i reached
Dunning Kruger Peak

*

a marlin
her last kill-
the look on his face 

Thursday, June 11, 2015

2 tanka

1.

my life
moth-eaten
by loneliness
a pauper keeps playing
butterfly melodies



2.

thunderflash-
i wait for the sound
to explode
her lips trembling
eyes angry with tears

The tapestry

She calls her life a tapestry,
a humble stitch-work of a home
with a tidy garden; the garden where
juvenile follies have ripened into
fruits of ardour; fruits that have treasured
seeds for a butter-flavoured mid-life, daily
talk of cups and saucers, the warmth of
genteel love, smiles, friends, sun and rain...
She has imbibed them all in her patterns.

Nowadays hours go by talking to
a yellow butterfly; how pristine will be
the twilight! What brilliant hues will
spill out of the clouds! ...She struggles hard,
hard to thread her needle again.
 
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