Like a candle flame
he’d been working through the night.
He needs the quiet luxury of a beedi
that’d recede his throbbing headache.
He scrutinizes his sculpture,
reminisces the greener days,
A young pair of hands busily crafting
one idol frame…
Since then it’s been a tale of flickering
fortunes; a journey in search of brightness.
He coughs severely, even the beedi’s smell
seems to let him down.
He imagines his wife’s blank stare,
the sour smile of his disabled son …
This studio is such a muggy room,
the window no better than a pigeon-hole…
He watches his rejected works,
mutilated forms stacked in a corner.
The candle gasps. The eastern sky
calmly lightens up. Goddess smiles benign.
Poet - III
Poet – III
“The verse-writer lives by the river,
Your Majesty, in a ramshackle hut.”
“I’m inclined to believe
that such creatures form a rare breed.
Let summons be served to him at once!”
Summons were issued, the ‘creature’, a frail
short individual, was brought before the King:
“So you write poems a lot, don’t you?”
The thinned man, with eyes fixed to nothingness,
meekly replied, “Just as buds bloom into florets,
florets bear fruits, my muse inherently paints
with an untamed brush.”
“You speak well, but let this be known
that henceforth no one in my kingdom
could be allowed to misuse his own life
by scripting valueless rhymes, or influence
others for doing so.”
“Your Lordship, it grieves me to say
that you’re yet to become the absolute ruler
of a poet’s instincts.”
“What will become of your wretched
poetry, if my men behead you
this very moment?”
“That very moment, my blood
would seep beneath the earth and nourish
the flowering shrubs that I’ve planted.”
“Take this ignoble worm out of my sight!”
Imprison him, he mustn’t see sunshine again.”
“My cursed life would merge with soil & ether,
yet these chrysanthemums would remind you
Your Majesty, that they are mere prisoners
in a land where pride slaughters verses.”
“The verse-writer lives by the river,
Your Majesty, in a ramshackle hut.”
“I’m inclined to believe
that such creatures form a rare breed.
Let summons be served to him at once!”
Summons were issued, the ‘creature’, a frail
short individual, was brought before the King:
“So you write poems a lot, don’t you?”
The thinned man, with eyes fixed to nothingness,
meekly replied, “Just as buds bloom into florets,
florets bear fruits, my muse inherently paints
with an untamed brush.”
“You speak well, but let this be known
that henceforth no one in my kingdom
could be allowed to misuse his own life
by scripting valueless rhymes, or influence
others for doing so.”
“Your Lordship, it grieves me to say
that you’re yet to become the absolute ruler
of a poet’s instincts.”
“What will become of your wretched
poetry, if my men behead you
this very moment?”
“That very moment, my blood
would seep beneath the earth and nourish
the flowering shrubs that I’ve planted.”
“Take this ignoble worm out of my sight!”
Imprison him, he mustn’t see sunshine again.”
“My cursed life would merge with soil & ether,
yet these chrysanthemums would remind you
Your Majesty, that they are mere prisoners
in a land where pride slaughters verses.”
Earthen lamp
You are the shine on our path,
your tapering crown glows bright,
rouses the ‘heart chakra’,
the perfect unison of Shiva and Shakti.
Twelve vermillion petals bloom,
we feel a universal rhythm
emanating within the kernel.
We are no longer perturbed
by the obscurity that lingers
underneath your pedestal.
We are embraced with
swirling luminous waves.
We flow like turbulent streams
pouring ourselves into the sea.
your tapering crown glows bright,
rouses the ‘heart chakra’,
the perfect unison of Shiva and Shakti.
Twelve vermillion petals bloom,
we feel a universal rhythm
emanating within the kernel.
We are no longer perturbed
by the obscurity that lingers
underneath your pedestal.
We are embraced with
swirling luminous waves.
We flow like turbulent streams
pouring ourselves into the sea.
Poet - II
After harrowing hours
hoping to see the day, you arrive
at the end of a tunnel, and find
a misty twilight.
You watch a dying sun,
bloody wounds on firmament
and glittering streetlights.
Yet on you trudge,
for the road shines ahead
and you’re not bothered
by the nagging shadow.
hoping to see the day, you arrive
at the end of a tunnel, and find
a misty twilight.
You watch a dying sun,
bloody wounds on firmament
and glittering streetlights.
Yet on you trudge,
for the road shines ahead
and you’re not bothered
by the nagging shadow.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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
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
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
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
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
All that cannot be left behind
loosened
dandelion tufts
sail in the breeze
my wife’s wheelchair
makes a creaking sound
**
the room
devoid of words
carpeted with dust
it's still ten past nine
behind a plastic bouquet
**
rain brings
known scent
of freshened earth
on a pond surface
circles overlap, and fade
**
[ Title inspired from U2's "All that you can't leave behind"]
dandelion tufts
sail in the breeze
my wife’s wheelchair
makes a creaking sound
**
the room
devoid of words
carpeted with dust
it's still ten past nine
behind a plastic bouquet
**
rain brings
known scent
of freshened earth
on a pond surface
circles overlap, and fade
**
[ Title inspired from U2's "All that you can't leave behind"]
Storm Tanka
(TANKA)
I.
cover the path
with red petals
beside my window
your unbridled hair
rustles through branches
II.
your tears
bathe the earth
fill up potholes
not the darkened corner
in your eye
III.
you breathe your last
i get consumed
in silence
electron-arcs
rip shadows apart
I.
cover the path
with red petals
beside my window
your unbridled hair
rustles through branches
II.
your tears
bathe the earth
fill up potholes
not the darkened corner
in your eye
III.
you breathe your last
i get consumed
in silence
electron-arcs
rip shadows apart
Fade out
A nagging drizzle
bathes pinnate leaves,
I enjoy the luxury
to loiter with my beliefs
as I listen to the verbal opulence
of raindrops
that gather inside an earthen pot.
A melancholy flute
guides me to a little flower shop,
the wind informs
about a plane crash in Mangalore,
over a hundred voices
going silent in the haze,
over a hundred vessels
getting emptied in the rain.
bathes pinnate leaves,
I enjoy the luxury
to loiter with my beliefs
as I listen to the verbal opulence
of raindrops
that gather inside an earthen pot.
A melancholy flute
guides me to a little flower shop,
the wind informs
about a plane crash in Mangalore,
over a hundred voices
going silent in the haze,
over a hundred vessels
getting emptied in the rain.
the impasse
Had Jesse Owens tried his hand
as a sharecropper when at high school,
he might have ended up
being a landlord himself.
Instead, he chose the track as his lifeline.
Within forty-five minutes
his soaring resolve
made him a monarch.
Had I joined the service of a clerical staff
years ago, I might have been
by now, the head of a blissful family
with weepy kids and a beaming wife.
Owens didn’t take long to perceive
his ‘inner potential’.
Neither did Dylan.
Nor did Neruda.
Only, the literary journals
where I send essays, poems & short stories
do not seem to care
to reply.
as a sharecropper when at high school,
he might have ended up
being a landlord himself.
Instead, he chose the track as his lifeline.
Within forty-five minutes
his soaring resolve
made him a monarch.
Had I joined the service of a clerical staff
years ago, I might have been
by now, the head of a blissful family
with weepy kids and a beaming wife.
Owens didn’t take long to perceive
his ‘inner potential’.
Neither did Dylan.
Nor did Neruda.
Only, the literary journals
where I send essays, poems & short stories
do not seem to care
to reply.
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