Thursday, July 29, 2010

Poet - 1

You must have observed
the way sugar cane sap
gets drawn out in a juice machine,

You must have seen
fibrous stalks getting compressed
wringed and mashed
by squeaking rollers; a syrupy
liquid collecting at one end,
and coarse refuse on the other.

Poet, you’re no better
than those sugared stems.

Friday, July 16, 2010

Apocalyptic in Emerald City

[ COLLABORATION WITH SERGIO ORTIZ ]


The drunken clock is broken
the hour crowds; the room shrinks
on top of its universal ashes,

a wide eyed magpie at the window
grumbles: “you say
light harms me
and close the window.”

String marionettes hang on the wall
stare at each other. They’ve been drooping
this way ever since my father brought them.

Rush hour traffic jostles outside,
the magpie keeps complaining,
crowds swell, room shrinks further.

I hear the sound of a sugarcane juice-machine,
fibrous woody grass getting pressed
squeezed and crushed,
it refuses to be thrown away

like used-up memories.
A stray dog timidly walks away
with a piece of husk.

I gaze at a distant high-rise, feel
my pulse and know
I need a heart.

I've lost my virginity ......... lost it to you
my "half crucified
fully naked god.” You nail me
to a hymn about

a rainbow yet won't give up
an ounce of your pride
to write me an apology.

Yet, it is I who needs to find
the pieces of an inflorescence
strewn on the ground; I
who bears the burden
of hunting them out.

I who needs to see
that they never make a cluster
of individual you's
for fear of losing.

Thursday, July 15, 2010

Radiance - I

Candle flickers in a dingy room.
As he strains his eyes, his wrinkles deepen.
He takes another close look of the idol:
damp clay fragrance fills his lungs.
The lotus eyes of Durga are to be painted
by tonight. He trembles while mixing colours.
The fever hasn’t subsided. It's been three days
since he was last able to work. As he clears
his throat, another bout of obstinate cough
burns his chest. He has noticed blood
in his phlegm. And this is not the first time.
Year after year, he’s grown a habit of living
with fever, with blood stained sputum, with his
handicapped child, with stranded rain waters
and mosquitoes, under one corrugated roof speckled
with holes, allowing moon beams and sun rays to enter
at will. He knows he must complete his work
by tonight. He knows his brush never betrays.
With bold strokes he’d usher in brightness.

monsoon haiku - II

pine leaves
lose patience
rain plops

plopping sounds
build a chorus
the path bends

path bends
near a bungalow
a milestone

the milestone
where sun had died
years ago

years ago
a young July
brought me here

here I stand
a rope bridge sways
above a stream

the stream
doggedly cleans
bloodied rocks

schizoid July

[ Tanka]

I.

careless rain
her amusement
in gray-headed morn
a butterfly escapes
from its confines

II.

desperate to open
stubborn windows
she struggles
her door bell rings
intermittently

III.

she finds
a bunch of tiger lilies
beside her door
fiery red pigments
stain the murk

Mid July Haiku

I.

taciturn woods
eerie wind
chases butterfly

II.

butterfly chooses
my flower
my afternoon

III.

the afternoon
fades
eagle in sky

IV.

your sky
your own cloud
cracked in middle

Sunday, July 4, 2010

monsoon haiku

pine leaves
lose patience
rain plops

plopping sounds
build a chorus
the path bends

path bends
near a bungalow
a milestone

the milestone
where sun had died
years ago

years ago
a young July
brought me here

here I stand
a rope bridge sways
above a stream

the stream
doggedly cleans
bloodied rocks
 
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