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Gaye Sep 2015
On a foggy florescent triviality
I was coupled down to a pear tree,
Insanity lurking deep inside its woods
I called them noise of my emotions.
Realty became too hard to trust
That I sometimes fell into the
Rustling of the dry drenched leaves
And the emotions made sense
Behind the darkness of my closed eyes.
The sweetest part being locked up in me
Is the emotion being non fictional
That the gentle rain embers into mist
Until I vanish into the uninterrupted dream!
Gaye Mar 2016
I saw her across the highway, shyly dancing,
Mute spectators imprinting her inside their memory,
Some to their cameras.
She tangled the desert with the whirls of her skirt,
Walked its bare chest with anklets melting to the hot sun,
Only to sell salt, her monopoly, and sing in perfect melody,
A stranger to the land, a stranger everywhere.

Where does it hurt? I have no idea
Somewhere inside, it was raining, raining heavily
Music and art and love decoding themselves to a new myth.
At absolute moments like this-
I cried, powerlessly begging for help, distressed corridors-
Pushing me across wind, water, light and obsessions
It did hurt. Everywhere.

“Your eyes are black, black as coal, oh banjara!”
I was sinking into her scrap clay
The pedant moulded into pots and toys and saucers
Lurking with words she barely penned, love,
As divine as it is, like onion in peels, hidden.
I wanted to sleep, in the most innocent leg
But she kept travelling, everywhere, everywhere.
Gaye Feb 2016
How bright is the lone desert tonight?
I’m at my store to catch a sight,
Hot and cold fantasy there upright
I’ve never been in such hungry delight.

I walk the Cuban café with blues
Eyes on albums and letters on glues,
Your bits rushing my lips like juice
When my brain pass me your clues.

I have not seen you in a while for now
But the sturdy and shy love you sow,
Far into a fierce gone hair on blow
Has set my calm waves on crossbow.

Reasons beyond seasons and time
Giving myself to your heart not dime
The world has shrugged to your chime,
I've finally found my home, Oh Valentine.
Gaye Sep 2015
A muggy dream walked to me
Yesterday night, all roads down
The equator
With the taste of salt and sweat
And the clocks of the world
Stopped for a moment,
I wrote without papers
Of all the things he ever said.

The drama of falling from a cliff
I did not know I was dreaming,
A careful section of love letters
Obscured under leather jackets
Flew with the body, down to the sea.
My red mail box had to wait
For the Orientalist’s stories,
It did wait.

I trawled his journals and poems
Like a desperate lover hunting-
For a vilified unpublished hero.
I didn’t want to be his Halloween-
Horror night or fallen oranges of the dusk,
I wanted to be the cigars he puffed
The rancheras he sung and the clipped
Clothes that hung on his backyard.

The clichéd sappy night fall,
Physical sensation and a tight lipped smile;
I had to write poetry, chew my nails
Chop my hair to fall normal again.
Why did they not teach in schools
To pause poems and eat popcorns
Why did they not tell me
To stop my wiggly sly will?

Lover, I’m drunk in Chaucer
Sea and a monster, now I’m drowning.
Let us paint the house, draw the walls
And say sorry to malicious kids we made
Let us take photographs, hang them on
The walls and make trips back to our sacks
Let us drive the hills, sing songs
Shock the folks and live out of track.
Gaye Nov 2015
I don't enquire his broken elbow,
His breakfast date or half aged umbrella
We never spoke, neither did we smile
He's a character I look up to everyday.

He wore glasses, starched shirts and
Ate at a local hotel all day,
In his ancestral home haunted by-
Bushes, he lived alone with a window pane.

I see me, a generation of threatening
Solitude when I see his barely made way
Nobody knew the exact reason
Nobody read his palms, he was alone.

I look for him everyday, the old man,
I imagine the gentle engineer he was,
Today he's dying a little every season
With the mangoes and its roots invading.
Gaye Feb 2017
Seems to me I am doing something wrong,
Terribly wrong to the birthday cakes you
Ate and bikes that broke your spine, but
Spaceless words leave me with pipedreams,
Three years, long and gone but it's not easy
To quit binoculars, I always watch over you,
Obsess over the voiceless words and
Movies I did not understand but I know that
I will keep chasing unless one day you
Pop out of that lousy little town. One day.
I have high hopes.
Gaye Mar 2016
All pretentious bores,
Read and internalise
As much as possible
With all your dull brain.
You may have all the
Time in this world to
Sit and Google me,
Stalk my friends and
Assume my life, get a life!

You are inappropriate
To be associated with,
Oh heavens! I’m glad
You totally hate me.
Poke your nose on
Your own ****** ***,
Wash your wits and
Take healthy naps,
Drink cold water, it helps!  

I’ve tried to be candid
As possible, if your ego
Cannot digest, get help.
Listen, read, talk and eat-
Good, you probably will
Start to think good.
Peace be with your
Dignity and respect you
Desperately cry for! Amen!
The poem I dedicate to all those who are desperate to know what's happening in my life and where I go with it, thank you, you really make me feel like a celebrity. Thought you all needed a well-penned response, hope you all enjoyed it. Peace.
Gaye Sep 2015
When the world spins, you look around and wonder
Who you are and where you belong?
And the whole world seems upside down.
The meaningless existence and angst
And the little scare around you
That makes you doubtful about the tomorrows.
I know this feeling
Because I was not myself with my sun sign
I was new, a totally different me
I tried to quit remembering
But I just can’t stop thinking that flows into me
It took me to unknown grounds, crowded towns and deep narrow lanes.
Alienation is not being alone
But the haunting strangeness of your thought process
And the feeling that comes along with it
To run away from the phony society
And seek an asylum in solitude.
We have a special thief inside us
A hunter who could grab our heart and body
And leave the motionless torso to wander in reality
Why shall I be forsaken?
I cannot trespass my broken images
They make a clear picture and meaning sometimes.
This pluviophile is lost today
With the intuition she felt so deep,
There is no recovery from this sentimental thrill
And she is happy with this madness!
Gaye Nov 2015
If the world is truth, let us pretend to be insane
If I’m life, set my tongue on fire, let it burn
Because my paintings bleed, my tales flee
And my eyes see no meaning at all.
At impossible desires my heart wake-
Every morn and die with desires at night
The masks are all torn between the streets
And the thread that connect them to deeds.
Gaye Nov 2015
Somewhere next to the sea when the waves are not still, when you don't smell of the summer sun and I not of the ****** sand, lets get married. I want the tango night, dance to the drums late night on your rooftop with some cheap *** bottles. Lets not sign the deal, lets feed out hearts, lets see how miserable we are gonna to make each other. Lets get married my love!
Gaye Nov 2015
When things grew into necessary betrayal, people took aspirin. I ran. Everyone dream of running, I feel it too often and then I forget my legs, the little spirit inside me and pretend to be a slave, caged and beaten. There's a conscious forgetting which is needed, the other aspirin. But you **** the beer, throw cards, break the plates and kick the half empty bottles and you run..run through the streets, the crowd, the dingy lanes and you rest your head on the ground.
Gaye Sep 2015
In every world you unveil the memories
To remember our deepest longings,
The fortunate accident to grown old
With another soul faultless for you.
The unaccustomed feeling is pure
To disillusion the hate reality,
The empty soul is yet somewhere
Passionate enough to awaken life.
Go get it from the holy basil
Spotless enough to compromise!
Gaye Sep 2015
When you’re off the shore there is an empty recap,
The mind who fell from the moon
And thoughts that struck the deepest of the depths
With memories and stories and a whole lot of emotions
Streams a new location for this resonating soul.
When the rooms get smaller and the boundaries –
Make no sense, there is the field you spoke about
We can go back, sip some tea and talk endless
Till the morning breeze kisses the red spot of your sky.
We were total strangers until the first lazy scribbles
But you spoke of bamboos and the music that flowed
With similarities and glee coupled with few lines of poetry
That you made me realize, life is worth living.
I know your son, your mom, your wife, your dad
I know your little girlfriend and your dear little diary
And I know the person who is ageless and nameless,
I know my friend, you are someone unusual.
When it rains, I know you’re coming to talk about-
Ganges, journeys and cravings and feel so excited
When you get the touch, that somebody is there
Destined to share the same feeling and the exact thrill
Of every moment and cherish memories.
Let us go back to the days- you the song and I the poet
And our days that we never shared
But we will someday meet at your ranch
Talk endless without the distress of judgement
And walk a little longer and paint red, red and white,
You can drive me home and I can drive you to endless letters.
Gaye Nov 2015
I met my ghost yesterday, on the bus at a time young girls are not supposed to travel alone. I was thirsty for freedom; she sat next to me dressed like a wanderess, she smelt of some cheap perfume and her face a golden cage. We sat together like anthills and did not speak, we were immigrants of a violent history, she sold her body and I my brain.
Gaye Jul 2016
In the monsoon,
I walked colonised streets
trying to befriend a city,
forged fields and bright street lights,
they often vanished inside my eyes
to see happy children on beaches;
glass ceilings shattering to find a sky,
that broke down abruptly
to weep on my shoulders.
I swam in the rain
only to meet those children at the beach.
They roofed me under white curtains,
for the Witch might try to grab me,
plait my hair
and take me back
to her hall of circus.

Every flower,
every breeze,
every wounded bird in a city
are part of a folklore
where minstrels live,
they all sing me
back to beaches.
Gaye Jan 2016
Blonde pages and bulb lights, titled peaks and tethered bags, I sniff
Hug me safe, quite; the beats inside a wrap where nights mutely tailed,
Past not breed but memories not leak; roads to touch that fright me kip
To a world I see, breathe and live; flesh, blood and dreams on sail,
You, your world, your soul, your journey, I sit-aside, a tiny stake
Gaye Sep 2015
When the world slept I sat at the barricade of old classics I ate all morn and at night I went out with the characters one by one, I got drunk, drunk in poetry. The rhymes played at the backstage of my ears and words danced over my forehead. I sat to pen them down and they disappeared with promises of coming back another night. When I slept for odd little hours my muscles ***** me and then they came and flirted with my dreams, gave directions to my winds and wrote music notes for my even eyes. I did not wake them, the dreamy bodies that travelled late night. Where did they all go? Half naked body and an exposed heart did not look for a home, skinny bones and busy fingers lonely under a ****** dark sky killed many restless nights. There was a regretful pile of unwanted recollections I never made peace with, they mocked at me. The odd hours became safe, comforting and easy to swallow? There was no starry night or awaiting lover at the balcony, only a dead village, deaf people and dumb streets. The village girl somewhere missed the city terribly, a convenient companion of her sleepless nights.
Gaye Mar 2020
He is probably one of the few people who still carry a handkerchief wherever he goes. While I wash and dry his clothes under the scorching South Asian sun, his handkerchief safely finds its home inside those formal pockets. Wet and divine.
I have forgotten to write. This is another failed attempt after a few years of not writing poetry.
Gaye Sep 2015
What’s the color of the sky in your memory?
I know you loved your twinkling mansion
But with misty eyes I realized that-
You’re awaiting just beneath my heart.

I hummed melodies lacking pace
And studied verses to sidetrack you
But do you remember the days
I talked to you endlessly?

You kicked me with at most joy
And somersaulted all around me
But you never knew that I dreamt-
A thousand dreams of loving you!

I’m sorry for all your dreams
I’m sorry for all your smiles
You deserved to be born
But I butchered you!
Gaye Apr 2016
In the end, I never really climbed-
Them, they gave me panic attacks,
Razors loped my flesh and I ran in
Circles over a reverse nightmare,
Spiral staircase, awful storeys,
They all scooted to 1999.

I want to climb down my 1999, burn
And not be smolder in an ashtray.
I hope to fall asleep, away from
The city, away from my guava trees.
I have my history of walking,
Suddenly lost without postage stamps.

Will you take me to Ferris wheel?
Push me down the spiral staircase,
And sleep next to my 1999? Will you?
Will you take me to Ferris wheel?
Push me down the spiral staircase,
And sleep next to my 1999? Will you?

“Some other day”
Gaye Jan 2018
I don't remember when I first read Sophie's World, today I sit and write about Sophie's world hoping someday someone is gonna read it too.

We live alongside her, well, I live in the third world and we hardly know anything about it. However its a reality, and I see myself like the Italian grandmother who appeared on my computer screen this morning trying to make a conversation with 'goo-goo'. I am just being another 'cucumber with anxiety'.

Hey goo-goo, okay goo-goo, play Mary did you know!
"..this child that you delivered, will soon deliver you"
Gaye Nov 2015
When he asked me to draw something I made little flowers at the corners of pages and when I grew up they bloomed all over my notebooks, today I pick them up one by one, look through the pages to see him and the evenings humming birds sang on its branches.
Gaye Oct 2015
I swallowed her and now
She lives inside me or I live
Through her, we are alive.
I’m her friend, her teenage
And fantasies, a sixty year old-
Hair and books she ever read
Long distance phone calls
And delight matched our
Love for Sujata, Mr And Mrs Iyer
And I sat on her couch on my
Despised vacations sketching
Letters to Milena, Quabbani
And we spoke of her brothers,
Generations and cafes I went.
I’m Delhi, Bangalore and
Endless conversations-
She never met and she’s my
Lost Malayalam, postcards and
A world so familiar, a childhood.

Hold your breath and relax
I’m going to stay and listen
Till you are out of stories and
I repeat, remind and you smile.
I’ll get you melodies and 60s
Harold Robbins and Nutan,
Your weirdness and aloofness.
You don’t grow old with me
I’ll live, I promise as your fonts
Visit places you walked and
Write to you all, deep- blue
Letters, deep- blue-letters.
You are my first high-heels
Strawberry fields and music system
I’ll recite you a love story
Picture him as our classic heroes
And giggle as girls sixteen and
Seventeen. You swallowed me
And I live through you, we’re alive.
Gaye Sep 2015
It was 3:30 in the morning
The aunt died, heart attack they said.
I only have a pale memory of her
The pink-house, protest and abuse.
Grandfather plucked us from there
the next day
The pink hibiscus my mother planted
did not depart.

She is dead today
I went to see her in black clothes,
The house, an empty aluminium box-
With kids playing ‘ring around the roses’,
Uncles debated politics and aunts gossiped
And some moaned inside.
I waited outside with few strange women,
They asked me questions
plenty of them
The anti-social me smiled.

The morning was usual
Mother made noises in the kitchen
with her steel plates and old radio,
Father forgot the fish on his
green kinetic honda,
Cats had a feast that evening
I did yoga, read newspaper and did-
not take a wash.

The dead body arrived late noon
in an ambulance with her expatriate son.
There was a sudden burst of cry-
inside- her daughter and grandchildren.
She looked like the fish to me,
The fish my father brought that morning
from the market, cold and dead.
Her daughter’s cry reminded me of-
an elapsed day in my pink house.

My father kept pink flowers on her feet
and prayed
I did not move, sat with the same chitchatting
women
The chanting became loud and it reverberated.
The body was finally taken to the fire
My mother came late, she wept.
The body burned down in minutes,
Dear relatives decamped.

I sat on the same chair
with my cousins
drawing the family tree, locating stories
and laughed over family jokes.
Then we sat tight lipped with brandy fumes
and cashews.
I came back home with my father
in the green kinetic honda,
I looked for the fish and the cat
I could not find both.
Gaye Nov 2015
At certain junctures of a journey you feel you connect to certain people, places and situations at a different level, hardly comprehendible, quite different from the hundreds of people you've ever met and many places you've ever been, they leave you with a spirit, their inherited tastes and an obsession that you will go back to it all someday.
There's a comeback Old chap
Gaye Sep 2015
Images ran wild, they boiled the water,
Like a train running off the track
They trickled down, metaphors poured out
The world, million voices, reverberated
Buzz-buzz-buzz, inside my head.
I was alone in that room
With panic attacks, lust and voices-
That slipped in through my half-window.
I broke the mirror, the brutal paparazzo
Who printed pictures of my many facades
I looked at him and grinned,
Clink-clink-clink they smiled once-
Dancing with wine glasses and alcoholics.
I walked, walked fast and twirled-
Like a tornado inside my cube
People spoke outside-life tales, notebooks,
Their late night phone calls and fine men.
The world didn’t bother to open the door,
Tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock the clock yawned.
I sat on the floor and opened my pen,
It vomited blue letters on the yellow paper-
The customary dilemmas, past and blunders
But something was new, a story.
I looked for The English Patient, the nurse
And his burnt skin I misplaced
They did not appear, I lost hope.
Gur-Gur-Gur, I snorted like a mad cat
Misdirected to an old jute sack.
I climbed up to my bed, hid under the rotten-
Blanket and closed my eyes, the images ran,
Ran away from me, climbed the hardwood staircase
And fell down, I broke my knee.
I opened the books- USSR, Pasha, Buddhism,
Laughed loud like an unbalanced bloke,
Tore them apart into pieces and pieces,
Hush-Hush-Hush, my yellow monkey warned
And I played with him “hush-hush-hush”.
I sat next to my half-window
The pseudo city, dozy walls and the distressed-
Street light. Out of track.
Images flashed again- chewing gums, pink house,
The anonymous Christmas gift, malnutrition
And the hibiscus my mother planted,
“Incey Wincey Spider- Incey Wincey Spider”
I sang all day looping around a pole.
I sneaked down to the floor and dreamt
Eyes wide open, a black and white old film.
There was no exile, no god and his sins
No wafers and secret lessons upstairs.
Only the sea, popomatic, DD evenings
Cassettes and a rocking bamboo chair
Aw uck- aw uck- aw- uck , the seagulls squawked,
I slept.
Gaye Jul 2016
The catastrophe of being a poet is that you are an annoying brain with delicate bones made of glass, who watches weird TV shows and reads bizarre newspaper happenings, ponder over the final chapters of your literary idols while walking the rain with hands inside your pajama pockets and dig out incomprehensible meanings someone managed to scribble at the back of his notebooks. Psychologists have such complicated theories about your social ineptitude, hence you die breathing the yellow notebook pages of a second-hand bookstore even though your brain signals warned you about chronic asthma. But you'll live for centuries inside punched hearts, libraries and under lazy bedsheets because at least for a moment you made a total stranger giggle, weep, scream and sometimes jump in joy over a well-penned verse. Did your friends tell you 'you ****'? Well, no one's gonna  remember those *** holes and always remember if not today, but someday you'll be someone's wonderwall.
Gaye Jun 2018
I can so relate to the threat that I pose,
the threat that I went in search of sentences long and old,
the round bold letters on postcards to the university and the ghostly presence from a tiny village on the map.

Yet I do not understand why I foolishly ran away at 20,
I do not understand why reading an acknowledgement online gives me a high.
The journalists in Bosnia declined to report the crime that included visiting places on Google earth, wondering about nights and cupcakes.
Gaye Sep 2015
I’ve been waiting for so long,
On the road that never ends
Migrating between seasons to my
Pastoral lands north and south
Searching for your unfamiliar face
In forest foothills, swarming buses
And basins next to the Ganges.
I can wait till the moon hits the sea
The time- till you come, till you come.

Flashing lights, chiming bells,
Inscent sticks and a peculiar charm-
You carried, they said.
But you’re flesh and blood for me
Truth and reality knotted between
My garland of jasmine flowers.
I can wait with full heart and glistening eyes
Till you come, till you come.

There is no haste, I’m anticipating an upcoming
There is no starry blanket or mount chariot
But there are fireflies and a summer sun
Playing peekaboo with my shadow
Behind the mangrove forest
Envisaging your ticket to this world.
A crew of lasses claims and expects you
But you’re beyond love they could conceive.
Let the world scream, cry and yell
I still can wait till you come, till you come.

You’re a friend, philosopher and guide
I adore, worship and awaits your arrival.
Merchant ladies who walked my hut
Asked me all day to keep a ghee lamp
I lit a thousand lamps and still you dint-
Walk my shed. This life is not long enough
To witness thy face, eternal and mysterious
I can wait till you come, till you come.

The journey is beautiful, endless and offhand,
Walking through lanes strangely acknowledged
But there’s a feeling familiar still so odd.
The walk is not to say good bye but it’s a quest,
A prayer to reach your mountain nest.
There is the world- cirrus and starry nights
I can escape for the time forever from tides-
That counts the time- to the unknown!
I can’t wait, till you come, till you come.
To?
Gaye Feb 2017
To?
Once upon a time people 'mailed children',
I was imagining me inside a postman's bag
And travelling to your city,
I would have self-posted me
To which address?
Maybe to your university.
Gaye Nov 2015
They will say I was only a delusion, few broken words hardly comprehendible and a room full of tobacco scent, they will execute me for my outlandish brain and hang me on public every single day . And I wont be there to tell them I was something more than few mad absinthe drops and love letters to a mysterious man, I knew it from the beginning that they will not find the secrets I hid under my curly locks.
Gaye Sep 2015
Soaring from the breath of my soul
Winding silence in between my dreams,
I stared at the swellings of my eyes
Over creeks and soil wiping them dry.
From Gulmohars to the things unseen
My earthly shell has learned life
To heal the revealing wounds.
I’m prisoner of the fortune no more
I live and breathe in tranquility,
The poet’s potion to heal the bitter portion!
I was the White Mountain faceless
And lonely like the tiny blazing aura
Numbing away from the crammed world,
Slight and elapsed like the deft cloud.
A new season I can foresee
Inside the distorting images,
Archaic and ripened from lemon pennies
To receive this broken unattached life!
Gaye Dec 2016
Did you know-
The greatest Triumph of the year?
Time has a meaningless cover,
Well, Time is meaningless, anyway.
Sigh.
Gaye Sep 2015
Sand castles and the noise of the water hitting the rocks,
Shells and the sand grains that carols the summer dusk,
There was laughter and memories and the endless- restless sea
There was him walking on the coast with prayers on his lips.

He doesn't know who he is, he was in quest of peace
He had a scar which haunted him, but was lucky-
To dye it with music and holy rites and endless dreams
He’s the holder of the thread of his kites today and he’s flying.

You’ll not rot and rust and return back heaven like dust
You’ll sing the songs, long exiled master pieces of yours
You’ll heal insomniacs, meaningless souls and corrupts
You’ll be what you always wanted to be, a happy man.

You were a stranger yesterday and today a pal
Tomorrow you’ll be remembered for the footprints-
Melodies, conversations and your 200 year old piano
You’ll be missed someday, but today you’re my friend!
Gaye Mar 2018
This is how it is, more or less like Ramanujan,
Or I don’t know if it’s okay to think like this,
Whatever makes you comfortable, stable.

I know how it feels to be outside my body
When appachi, valyammavan and all others
Exist in minor contradictions, but you must
Realise that the pictures that run your mind
Include things as silly as our car loans.

In the slanting late-night musings that you do-
Beneath the green and white curtains of my room,
I collapse into a cupboard of my little history
And you stand as a ghost in absence. Lost.
Like a child, like how I used to be. Crying.

Have had I told you that you smell like
A jewelry shop in brand new air freshener,
Just after a midnight Medimix shower
Perhaps you could have recognized me-
The tiny girl, daughter, lover, and mother, next you.

Where did I fail? Probably in the mornings I learned
To walk, the years that taught me math lessons,
Times father reached me as phone calls,  
In college as a pair of blue jeans and love poems,
While in Chandini Chowk, inside the tiny room-
Upstairs home and all the hours before I walked
Into the college library with my roommate.
I would like an opportunity with poetry (again), please let me know.
PFA relief of writing something after a very long time.

Best,
G
Gaye Sep 2015
I sat under my dining table
Of eight chairs and forty eight columns,
It felt like a house with
Windows, dust and unwanted curly locks.
Sitting cross-legged on the white floor
Reflecting my clothes, body and words
I pulled my nails, sang little rhymes
And hit the chair legs with my little thumb.
Guests came, gossiped, recited tales
Gulped tea and left with more stories,
Some returned, others did not.
I sat under my dining table, awaiting
Plates, conversations and fuming-
Black tea. It did come occasionally
With my mother, father and few strangers.
There were books, umbrellas, newspapers
And sometimes samples of medicines,
They sat like Victorian women in long gowns
Who did not speak even after a tempest.
I sat there morning, noon and evening
Unaccompanied singing little rhymes.
Gaye Sep 2015
In the space sliding of a nameless burn
My degraded past and revolting chattels sob
Sketching reality into lasting trace
For my spirit to sink in this bitter survival.
Can you recall the regal cloud of my smile?
The mistake made by your dense remains
To banish me from my bare actuality,
The agony to escape and hide in mystery.
I wish I could tell you the story left behind
The roots of my prevailing sustenance
But there is nothing you could do
For this stubborn old wood!
Gaye Sep 2015
I wrote them, he did not write back,
The walls of the buildings bore his name
and the jammed rhymes swam
at the tip of his pen,
they did not recall his youth
neither did I.

I sat back on the arms of my pillow,
he has become the city, the
restless street and restoring noise
I ran away from. The first grade corner
and kneeling nostalgia rushed
the doorway, vanished.

He absorbed the flames, lifted
the loops around my legs and my
mix matched shoes. The choosy
memory ripped off my rib cage
and filled it with
deep-deep golden moments.

When did he defictionalize my
September?
I never felt his hands or the mind
or his vertebrated little words but
The city, its lights and the marks
and traces
stagnated my baked brain.

Today I feel uninvited,
I miss the way I mused over his
******* youth, the music of
his wine soaked eyes and
the flawless silence he embraced.
Like always
He has become another cotton seed
Lost after my September.
Gaye Aug 2017
There is enough everyone has done to explain certain things that still doesn't make any sense to me, but moments like these, I just sit under an umbrella and hum my grandmother's songs.
I have a feeling that I am going to later regret this.
Gaye May 2016
I feel jealous that I wasn't there to grow up with you, in the rain. The matchboxes I used to play doll house burst yesterday night and it rained my entire face, wet pillows weeping over my loss. You haven't seen those match boxes but did you feel the rain under the city?
love rain
Gaye Aug 2017
Your generation is full of pillows that need hugs,
Come here, congratulations, you finally made it!
Gaye Nov 2015
I jump with glee
And break my knee
Eat homemade ghee
And **** with Lee.
Just fun.
Gaye May 2018
Joseph Kern had never seen The Starry Night,
Had he been there, the parsonage across
Van Gogh’s memory, leading to Arles or somewhere else,
Had he been there, he could have thrown the pebbles he
Collected that flew through his window
In the afternoons he eavesdropped.

I like to think that Joseph Kern has seen The Starry Night
While somebody played the
Violin Concerto No. 2 in E Major, BWV 1042: II. Adagio
I like to imagine him  amongst the thickly applied whorls of paint,
I like him across the English Channel, waiting with one of
Rita’s puppies, echoing the sky-
Not as it looks but how as it feels.
The Starry Night, 1889
Three Colors: Red ( Trois couleurs: Rouge), 1994
Gaye Sep 2015
What am I in search of?
I don’t know.
This insomniac was in quest
Of an answer or maybe
An asylum for my lunacy,
I walked aimlessly,
I searched down the tracks-
Of the water that fell from my eyes,
They didn't answer.
What is it?

I got wish threads and stood frozen
Tangled what to wish for and
Walked back with an empty heart,
A confused mind and a lost sensibility.
I don’t know what I want from life,
I know I’m in quest of something-
Which I cannot name.
What is it?

There is no place in the world
There is no air to inhale
I’m living, I’m counting, and I’m waiting
But I don’t know for what this living-
Counting and waiting is for.
What is it?

Temple bells, Qwaali and Candle lights
Made no meaning, they killed me
‘They’ told me I will find solutions but,
What is it?

What am I in search of?
What is it?
Gaye May 2016
It's that time of the year again,
There are jasmine buds
Inside my pocket
And I walk my yard
With ink stains on fingers.
At a distance
I see you and take refuge
In your love
The hooting breeze
Walk my door, but
When I sit to write
Love poems, there
Are only bald-chested hills
And ghosts of dead farmers
Grazing my eyes
What should I write to you?
Gaye Sep 2015
The naked sound of the earth dream of
The stealing wind my mind left long ago,
When it rained after thousand years
Illuminating my heart with
The measureless lure of emptiness,
I danced to the desolation of my life.
I saw life masquerading under the drops
That fell from the shifting citadel above.
I lost the bliss once for my sin
And here comes the rain with my rebirth
To cover me with the desert sand dune
To wake me up in another land.
Gaye Sep 2015
Yong Marx, yet to die, jumped
out of an air-conditioned car, a
journey Berlin to Bombay as the
Dream merchant of Utopia
metamorphosed him into a subhuman
white bearded national bourgeoisie.

The third world girl who was climbing a
tree without Motorcycle-
Diaries hung to her clothe looked
like an Engelian mistake possibly
not from Cuba, Zambia or Bolivia,
certainly not a Soviet artefact.

Alienation, self-affirmation and all
unlike modes of production confused
his surplus brain. The dichotomy
of imaginings and reality with the
girl proven anti-thesis kafkaesqued
him an added ****** struggle.

A shift in his struggle with a smile
on her lips gave a  hint of welcome to her
Animal Farm. He did get inside.
The moulded furniture, preoccupied sickle
and the lacking exploitation
left him a disappointing proletariat grin.

She opened her mouth, blue words
did not discharge. Neither the mid wife
nor the revolution pumped her conscience.
He got up, disappointed, alarmed,
cursed the chap who misdirected
to a class-less renewed pattern.

“Comrade” she said shaking his hands,
the blood did stir for a moment but
the fight less slant , **** suits and
her distant reality pained the rationalist.
The amusingly alienated young Marx
jumped into his car and left for utopia.
Gaye Oct 2015
There was a world, a world
Where there were trees, birds
Happy homes and rivers
There was a world, a world
For man, animals and little
Hopes smiling over hills
There was a world, a world
So real like the ones on your
Tablet screens and T-shirts
There was a world, a world
Where there were no masks
No protective coats and wars
There was a world, a world
Where children played with
Water, tree tops and berries
There was a world, a world
Without guns, atomic bombs
Volcanic eruptions and storms
There was a world, a world
Full of oxygen, live music
And men dancing on streets
There was a world, a world
That made little sense over
Colour, money and language
There was a world, a world
Where man fed each other
And slept under a safe roof
There was a world, a world
Humans needed love, hope
And shoulders to cry on
There was a world, a world
Where man loved each other
And  nature, his mother.
Gaye Jul 2016
Sometimes I imagine sitting under our dining table wanting to chop my hair off, days and nights oppressed, yet not to run the rat race. Partly because I was too resistant to be happy, but with the first monsoon showers, I almost collapsed inside my oversized grey T-shirt that began to turn white, infinite gaps inside mind channels, I sat and watched strange men winning Wimbledon. I stopped writing one thousand words a day, themes and perspectives slipped into a closed brown diary, and I always worried what if someone finds it and reads it aloud in the public sphere in Prague, right in front of David Cherry’s rotating Kafka, how miserable he died thinking he was worthless, how miserable it would be to listen to voices that came beneath my dining table. I talk to a shy Kafka, every day, under our dining table, today he shaved my head.
Gaye Sep 2015
I and you won’t be
Two unfamiliar women of our land.
I’ll not leave you to the radio
To swallow up our history,
We’ll have phone calls and photographs
Transported between seasons and changes
And barracks of old classics
Drilled in between our conversations.

You don’t leave the land, abstract-
Smell or your braced triangular family
But I, your daughter, a nomad
Demands change, unbuckled knees,
Thunder and lightning than a
Frozen damp lake.
I don’t know if this absurd let you down
Being a floating female disc
Without a silver hanging off her neck.

Your cotton sarees and senseless arguments,
Modest gestures and peripheral smiles
Walked miles with me.
My uncivilized ways and half assembled days
Somehow compromised your 7pm calls.
You didn’t declare an ownership
Or terrified me with protection
But your roots branches and leaves
Held me with an irresponsible luck.

You did want to walk with me,
Comprehend your traditions and family tree
But you grew obsessed over my books,
My anglicized friendships and father’s ways.
I don’t want us to wrap up stories
Let us be ‘us’, flesh and blood
Without English comprehensions,
Fork and Spoon-
The world is desperate to squeeze in between
‘us’.

I want to sit next to you every eve
Even when I’m miles apart
Sip your ginger tea and gossip with Leela
And I know you have more of
Mukundan, MT and Padmarajan
Jolted in between your memories
Wanting to be told, to be felt.

Retreating monsoons, half naked veranda
‘Shifting houses’ and ice cream spoons you lost
Bridged the gaps of a dysthymic brain.
Your diary and worn-out scribbles
Lifted an awkward silence, I ignored.
And I know there are plenty of
Conversations
Separated by a trigger.

Your four loud aunts and their-
Disproportionate-pinches,
The main house and its innumerable doors
And the single toilet your grandad possessed
Will always be ‘our stories’ with mango pickle
And little almonds
I recollect as your curfew years.

You need not worry, I will not-
Sit with bubbles in my mouth.
I can pinch your cousins and
Exchange few golden bangles.
I can walk the temple lanes with your-
Mother, silken skirts and jingling anklets.
And I know the family recipes,
The exact nicknames and garlanded gossips.
There will be days, get-togethers and
Photographs
Added into your prized collection.

A subconscious music flooded my psychology
When chlorine water, light-lit-days,
And flirtatious silly men
Swung in fine tune next to me.
There was always a detached-attachment
That translated a traditional ghost
Who announced a corner for itself
Somewhere exact I cannot pin point.

Let us not freeze the prologue
We can walk door by door
Between generations and blue window panes
In a coordinated tune guided by-
Voices of our ancestors.
The genes inside me needs a
Second hand journey
With-out an altered you and me.

— The End —