The morning chill
came with a thin drizzle -
dipped in tea and
served with tobacco.
Nausea was gulped
down the throat for
breakfast - the back of
palm wiping the mouth.
Trapped in a brown
jacket and your green
eyes, I felt a sudden urge
to ask you to follow me
to a place I had reserved
solely for your arrival which
sometimes smells of coffee
brewing in the morning.
The urge to approach you
was strong, and yet
I did not, for this morning
the sky shared an intimate
kiss with the clouds and it
began to pour - people routed
indoors and you quickly took
resolved steps, covering
your head with a diary,
the front of which had
a picture of two flowers
nudging each other.
Boys in warm sweaters
and girls in knitted scarfs
carelessly dawdled around
as I walked back home, alone.
Dec 1, 2017
Dec 1, 2017 at 9:41 AM UTC
I'd make a fine stone in
the Duck and Drake game -
skimming through the surface
with the bare necessary contact,
to sink when slowed down;
you had seen me slowing down
and sink with a faint splash,
the moment you said it was better
that we meet in letters,
best we do not meet at all;
or did I say that -
I do not remember;
perhaps yes, for you never
said a word which could reconcile
me with my self which I left that evening
on the shores of the big city
and hurried back, leaving you
to go round and around -
the cab guy picking customers and dropping -
nobody ever finding their true destination
but only places to go.
Ever since I have housed myself in
the crowded cafes where
people smoke cheap/semi-expensive cigarettes
and sip on tea/coffee/lime-tea/black -tea/ginger-lime-tea
and talk-
the talking never ends and it is an all right feeling sitting
in the bright light, knowing that people have things to say when
I can vaguely recollect my thoughts.
If I was a Jean-Paul Sartre, I would avoid pondering over your thoughts
like the beer mug in front of his eyes at which he would avoid looking for
half an hour straight,
but I am not a French existentialist philosopher
and reading four and a half dead poets a day,
plunging myself into nicotine only tires me enough
to fall asleep,
and this is when you enter my dreams.
Your arrival is agreeable to me and I always
find myself sitting confused in one of those galleries
which my mind constructs -
a glittering set for the presence of
the two of us -
faces of other people in my dreams,
I do not recall.
We kiss and I am almost convinced that it is real -
there is no room to feel otherwise;
much like the first time when I kissed you
and you moaned a little, quivered a bit;
here we have it all going - our tongues slithering our soul -
teeth biting our nerves - this is how a kiss should be;
if there was a thing called a 'perfect kiss',
then our kissing portrait would make rounds of
the internet under the Creative Commons license -
a picture which young undergrads would use
in their assignment -
perhaps frame it on the wall
and when the grades come out, they would
get wasted with their pocket money in one of the
many sun-lit bars where the music is loud and
kisses are stolen behind the closed doors of
the public washroom.
You leave me in my dreams for a moment or two
and I get restless again, taking fast, counted steps to find you
and you arrive again -
such a relief it is to see you, and know
that it is a relief for you to see me too;
to life I wake up, knowing that you are far away and
that I could still be with you in less than three hours from now,
but if I should - I do not know.
I step outside and aggressively look for a cigarette -
a certain tangible object so willing to burn for me
and wrap myself in a jacket like I once
wrapped you in my arms.
Your warmth was more than
my jacket bought at a fifty-percent
discount could provide,
I thought you felt the same
but perhaps
I was not of your size
or you did not like winter
anyway.
Nov 23, 2017
Nov 23, 2017 at 9:25 AM UTC
On my 26 x 39 (inches) bed
lies a pillow –
mushy and white –
named ‘Desire’
on which my head sinks
once a day or night,
sometimes twice when you
shed your eyes of negligence at me.
The pillow cover –
17 x 26 (inches) –
made of wrinkled cotton has small,
three-petal purple flowers printed on it,
that droop when you
let your well-crafted features
not sink into my sight –
a tease that you are;
only salty tears to revive them at night?
You are a post-midnight snack
dipped in vinegar –
a little of soya-sauce and sesame oil
to coat you up;
would you not let me have a bite
of your flavoursome existence –
only then would I be able to
sleep well –
my head sunk into oblivion on my
17 x 26 (inches) pillow named ‘Desire’.
My 26 x 39 (inches) bed may not have
enough space for you,
but I have learnt to live in
a compromising manner –
I would crawl up a bit
and make space for you
so that we both can lie-down
and let the seasons pass –
monsoon to autumn,
autumn to winter,
winter to spring,
and spring to summer.
When summer comes next year,
we shall get up from my 26 x 39 (inches) bed
and comb our hair,
have a light breakfast;
I may perhaps smoke a cigarette
or two,
and then we shall part our ways.
And when you leave my house,
it shall become a shrine for lovers
who walk hand-in-hand,
stop by in mornings,
afternoons,
and evenings,
to offer freshly-bloomed daisies
to my pillow named ‘Desire’
which has the shape of our heads imprinted –
seasons of love well-spent.
Aug 20, 2017
Aug 20, 2017 at 6:00 AM UTC
Call me a Cat and I will purr at your touch;
Heaven and I will open my doors - lay out twinkling stars;
Senses and I will make you drool;
Water and I will be the first rains flooding your parched rivers.
Call me a Poem and I will rhyme my stanzas for you;
Sleep and I will instil smile-provoking dreams;
Warmth and I will be the wool - the winter frost moistening the window pane;
Time and I will rust your tear-evoking memories away.
Call me a flower and I will inspire a painting - hung for display at the exhibitions;
Envy and I will introduce a poet to a painter;
Hunger and I will burn your harvest away;
Thirst and I will dry off your wells; poison your rivers.
Call me Sun and I will never touch the horizons;
Moon and I will be new forever;
Tree and I will lower my branches,
yield you fruits for seasons to come.
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 3:58 PM UTC
I had never known
a person
with so much kinetic energy
as to uplift me
from the sinking mass
of fragmented debris,
but this woman
who
laughs heartily at common jokes
and gets drunk on
one shot of ***** - 30 ml.
She has got my senses blooming -
painted like lilacs in spring.
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 1:19 PM UTC
Oh Woman,
when I fold aeroplanes for you
with neat creases
on thick white papers,
and,
paint three-petal flowers on them
with yellow wax crayons
which
I stole from my 6-year-old cousin,
and,
fly them to you from the corner of my balcony
so that it flies straight at you
cutting through the cold breeze
and naked trees;
you,
pick them up from the ground after their
successful landing
with distracted eyes,
throw them back on the ground,
stamp them with your black boots,
and walk past them
with disgust
as if my paper planes had sunk the twin towers.
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 2:05 AM UTC