drawing circles
on a window
trying to capture
slipping drops
of rain:
to save them from
falling to an end
or keeping them
on an edge to fade?

either way,
they will go away -
life passing in play.

I open doors.

Hunting for the perfect house.

I dislike their colored walls.

Rooms too big, too crowded, too glum
the feeling is wrong;

undone.

mistake.

I close doors.

Looking for perfection.

I like plain walls I can paint.

Too much? Too little?

I am counting days

walking from the street to street

finding my way.

The night has been commissioned
to awaken in me
the ubiquitous longing for your touch.
The mindlessness consumes me
when I wander from dream to dream,
fantasizing the ever after
that’ll mysteriously become present
once you touch.

The exuberant charm in every swipe
of the breeze broadens a smile,
reminding me of the endless passion
for good humor and intense delight
that you decree in large measures
whilst I quail in love.    

It is diabolical, this game you play
of keeping in shadows
while I wither,
in the unremitting glare of the sun
that keeps me on the banks of the dark lake
leaving me with only
a few drops to wet my hand.

I will implore to have an end
to this ceaseless battle of restraint and abandon,
But am only left with a tremulous belief,
it is all not false what I see,
in the glorious mist that night casts,
I do not only sleep.

I keep flipping through
photo albums,
smiling fondly at pictures
of me taking my first steps,
playing in delight,
holding hands
once in a while.
I keep flipping and they seem
to come to life;
the colors glaring,
the rush of the sounds
and smell
embrace me for comfort,
it seems like yesterday
I stood there,
smiling a toothy smile,
thinking this was the best day
of my life.
It feels good to flip through
photo albums,
they never fray and serve
to remind.

It will be alright.

It start in my ear
leading to a shuffle
of my thighs
the sudden focus
of that one touch
centered
pinpoint precision
and the rush
which spreads across my body
in shivers that break out a sweat
cold and hot
fire and chills

the aftermath is only
the lingering sensation
while sounds return
to thumping of my heart

nothing compares to the rise
the mighty rise
of something as potent
as coming alive

I feel the rumble
of the groan
tremble through your body
sending shivers
delightfully
down my spine
while I arch my neck
and ****** my face
while you spill
your desire,
coaxing heat
to spread through my veins,
the feel of rain.

I'm writing in circles
my mind pliant
to ridiculous words
that choose to course
down any lane
in my brain
and I type constantly
and click on Backspace
defiant to relearn
the art of writing
poetry.

But it not my brain
that fails
but something within me
that refuses to place
itself where it should be
so that I can feel things right
and not keep up restlessly
flailing my figurative limbs
looking around for inspiration

wanting to write,
poetry.

The flower dripped red
to the crusted ground
shed its wings
and broke to death
crumbled
to not be found
while the sky howled
turned green with rage
and cast a hue so gory
that the little humans
who crawled didn't seem
all that ugly.
They lashed their whips
and clanged their chain
growled in anger and pain,
howled the wounded
like the dog they sat next to
and licked the healing
scars they sheltered
from that ball of fire
which sputtered every hour
and darts of flame swept the sky
the human roamed naked
on their claws and feet,
they shed their clothes
when they faced the heat,
their face twisted in frowns,
they'd left their polyester shoes behind
they didn't need anymore
to cast the dye

It is in in stillness
that chaos loomed,
reaching for the edges
in varying degrees,
mounting that peak
of every climbing emotion,
in stillness,
it is like streaks
of the most glaring hues,
subdued; weakened,
uncouth.
Do not be fooled
by the stillness.

Crooked
needle
rightened

               (straight)
when
changed
the
angle

               ... wait ...

movement
puts
things
in
place?

On an isolated strip,
sheltered by them green,
the wind ruffled my hair
and time moved gently,
I heard a sigh,
that was swept away in a roar,
in the land of his shrine

I think it was my soul.

Ripples on a steady pond
chase each other to the brink
cease to exist therein
but aren't to be denied
their try. I don't know why.
The pond remains heavy
without any recollection
of the stories that are told
by the sun's reflection
on its shallow
facade,
which never lasts.

Come,
Lay a finger on my pulse
And tell me I'm alive.
Come,
Feel the weight of my sigh
And tell me I'm alive.
Come,
Test the flutter of my heart
And tell me I'm alive.
Come,
See how clenched is my jaw
And tell me..

I'll survive.

Rolling
stone
           tum-ba-ling,
           trem-ba-ling
down
to
the
stream
wide
           leaving
           green
           aside
Determination
boy!

a wasp flew a straight line
from its nest to me
cloaked in puny sunshine
it thought itself to be free
unheard was its buzzing
unseen its rainbow wings
untold was what it carried
i only felt it sting
the suspension like a drawn sword
cut through the silence within
the absence of feeling retrieved
was healed by the relief of loss
an epitaph if to be given
would affirm the infinity of the end
a promise given in portions
partitioned to satisfaction
make one see through the gloss
to the plainness within
that grieves in honour and truth
shedding tears of blood
it tastes the purest fruit
in the acceptance of its pain
lies the moral of our story

- Sneha Iyer & Vijayalakshmi Harish
   04.01.2012
   Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish & Sneha Iyer

Co-written with my akku Vijayalakshmi Harish :)

It was the middle of spring
when our love took root,
I had tears rolling down my cheek,
he had a smile that said he knew.
His arm was around my shoulder,
and mine around his waist,
clutching tightly to a fold on his shirt,
this was how we walked down the lane.

It was the beginning of summer
and like the blazing sun,
our passion bloomed,
days together, hours with each other
even time grew lazy with us two.
His arm was around my shoulder
and mine was around his waist
clutching tightly to a fold on his shirt,
this was how we walked down the lane.

Towards the end of autumn
leaves began fall,
our foreheads often wrinkled,
in harsh tones we began to talk.
He had plans, and I had a dream,
he was stubborn as I had ever been.
Our silences drew longer,
our worlds a shade apart,
when we did meet halfway,
the resentment followed fast.
His arm was around my shoulder
and mine was around his waist
clutching tightly to a fold on his shirt,
this was how we walked down the lane.

It was on one winter morning
that he finally left,
he carried his dreams,
on proud shoulders,
leaving behind a cold bed.
His arm was around my shoulder
mine around his waist
clutching tightly to a fold is his shirt
I wept as I saw
our photograph;
a reminder of our days.

There are trails of red
like the threads
of a scarlet dress
that reaches for the floor
on the walls
gripping the paint
dragging its name
telling a story
of how things break,
fall apart and come together
to create something
that makes us
all
afraid.

life feels like
reading through
a dictionary,
without looking
for a specific
word.

relationships
are like shopping
in a mall,
where nothing seems
to suit,
and the ones you try
don't fit.

coming home seems like
wading through
a pond
in a heavy cotton skirt,
pulling me deeper,
than  I
want to go.

I look at the mirror
to only find her staring back,
she who's mastered the art of smiling
and to hide those stray tear tracks.

Silence is her weapon of choice,
it's edgy tip enough to raise dread,
in face of her frosty ire, one would
prefer the bursts of temper instead.

Like the duck that paddles in calm,
she too rests surrounded by muck
and underneath, her fury churns,
ready to blast it all to dust,

She's picked up every insult,
stored it in a corner to recollect
and designs her story of vindication
ripping apart every shred of regret.

Her hands are coated in blood
of the desires that she choked to death
she has emerged strong from battles
and slayed monsters who rest under her bed.

The dirt underneath her nails
should tell you the moral of her story,
she is not deterred by pain,
she is not enamored by false glory.

I see her staring back at me,
and raise her chin in pride,
her scars wave the sign of victory,
I only need to follow in stride.

I had reasons to doubt
for she had led me astray
one season
and like barnacles
she caused unease,
I did have cause for worry.
Her lure,
akin to a siren,
rivaled the beam of the lighthouse
reaching beyond the horizon
I was convinced
was made to keep.
She ebbed to only surmount
and sheath me in her charm,
her scent had me follow
like a puppy does its master
for she was to lead,
and I was to be lead,
that was the way,
this is what she
always
said.

Like a shrub among trees,
I seem too have become attached
to my past,
roots so deep
they linger, poignantly
in every breath of my leaves.
Strive as I may
to reach the sun
and grab at air
my arms fall short
my legs too nimble.
To keep strong,
I’ll just stand still
and hold this poise
till I touch and sky.

Silence
the
nerves
churns
mutters
and
calls,
murmurs
whispers
scr­eams
and
falls,

with
silence.

Before the storm,
after they are gone,
giving the cold shoulder,
under the fallen boulder,
under blooming spring,
idle wandering,
watching them sleep,
heartwrenching grief,
going home from work,
dinners with family,
reading that book again,
watching that movie,
eating on the sofa,
cooking a meal for one,
afternoon paintings,
written ramblings,
browing for random words,
clearing cluttered drawers,
on a crowded city street,
in a random group meet,
nod when an acquaintance greets,
but,

silent.

Taking
off
my
shoes
as
they
wore
off
when
I
took
this
wrong
route.

So
simply
will
I
slip
words
that
rhyme
like
down
a
palm
would
ice­.

to be conspicuously happy
feels like riding a bike,
backwards,

you've been told it is fun
(and you assume it is too!)
but the mechanisms
are so faulty
your feet refuse to rotate wrong,
your brain is confused and takes long
to right itself,
and eventually its forward-backward again

because that's the right way,
that is how your feet have been trained.

Snort,
like
when
water
wrestles
with
your
nose,
when
someone
steps
on
your
toes.

It has been some time
since I started loving myself,
I am now ready for someone
else to do it as well.

Staring into the dark,
many questions I have asked
and I am still awaiting replies.

Tired of holding
my knees by my arms,
while I tell myself not to cry.

I am the modern day woman,
with her head in the sky
and her heart has gone stone cold.

I am living on dreams,
which are little white lies
I tell to give myself hope.

It has been some time
since I started loving myself,
I am now ready for someone
else to do it as well.

My rocky past has left scars
and every time I look in the mirror
they tell me I’ve taken things too far

The armor was to have a *****
a confession to be made in time, I think
but now it has turned inside out.

The dregs of strength, I have left
tt all reside within my head,
in collusion with endless doubts.

It has been some time
since I started loving myself,
I am now ready for someone
else to do it as well.

Don’t be fooled
by my high heels, small skirts
and those bright smiles.

I’m the same one
to smokes up my pride and
name mistakes on speed dial

May be I am cursed
of things like endurance and such,
and happiness will come edgewise.

It has been some time
since I started loving myself,
I am now ready for someone
else to do it as well.

With one song title at a time
we are writing a story
of secrets told in silence
and yearnings
sung by
melodies.

One song title at a time
is how we we write our story
of secrets told in silence
and yearnings
sung by melodies.

Glances as we pass by
is how we make time stop
a few hundred hours
of us together
in that pause.

Fleeting brushes of our hand
is how we toe the line
the spark of heat
sending shivers
rekindled every time.

Distant in a crowd
is how we pull each other near
every nod is a connection,
each chin lift makes
the distance disappear.

Leaving things unsaid
is how we confess our feelings
broken talks, abrupt halts,
and heavy silences are
what we find appealing.

Daily morning greetings
is how we surrender to fate
following the course it sets
not yet willing to call
whatever this is
a mistake.

We all need our stars
here and there,
across landscapes
even and jagged.
In the glow
of the buttery sun,
they are hidden,
blinded by the sparkle,
awaiting the sweep
of darkness,
when we seem them out.

But, they are every present,
our stars,
in our days and nights,
always ready to be sought,
found,
and guide.

We all need our stars.

A gust of wind
spread them far and wide.
Wading through blades of grass,
crawling through mud on my knees,
feeling for those jagged edges,
I place together, piece after piece.
Some caved to the power of the wind,
crumbled in the face of glory,
a few drowned, or let themselves go,
with the river that ran in fury.
There are many glaring holes
than run so deep,
the picture looks bleak,
but the ragged pieces will fall,
albeit in the end of it all,
I will truly have,
to show the world
a wonderful story.

There is little to do
when I'm struck
by the sheer brilliance of it all;
there is no mystery to eternity,
no carnal creation of lust,
but only one human body
bestowed
upon a wandering mind.

Stymied
by the crosses I wore
on my back
while I tried
to wade past
bright lights.
It got notice,
and I remembered
the battles
all over again,
but I got stymied
because,
this was my chance
to move on
to the other end.

There is no delight like the end
to the shrill whistle of the kettle set to boil.
While the brew might be dense,
Perchance a lil’ bitter,
the gulp of hot tea is ever divine

Flicks
of
a
tongue.
              Licks
              of
              fun.
                        Coming
                         undone.
Pardon
my
pun.

Sweet
buns.

fingers
tightly wrapped
to comfort, clutch harder,
a single caress
to reinstate
the vows
two golden bands made,
every day.

I cannot find that phrase again,
a phrase I had seen on a page,
of one of my favorite books.

That phrase made me feel warm and light,
lifted something within me, something I cannot describe,
words cannot truly represent
what that phrase did to me,
it just evoked many strange emotions.

I have strewn around every book I own,
ruffled through every page,
rummaged through every nook and corner,
hoping to spot a familiar color,
assuming I will find it in a familiar place.

I worry I may never find that book,
and those words, I will never again read,
but I truly worry, fear even, is that I'll not remember
how it made me feel.

Beyond the tightly drawn silence
the truth lies resolute.
The silence;
disguised by nomenclatures
like an elusive smoke wave
disppears; so mystifying,
in our everyday.

Who is watching, but the wary?
Evoked by fear, sometimes impatience,
the eyes that wandering.
And some cower, secure under the shield
of substantial fashion it gleams;
the easy retreat.

Should I fight?
Dawn the lens that zooms in
to clarify the tomes I carry
that boast of the legacy of truth.
Unknowing if it will sooth.
Or should I just nod along,
turn the page and carry on,
without dwindling about circumstances
that shape or uproot.
Existence.

But, why do I question,
when I have already begun,
listening to silence.

love is pain
so deep it shrivels
everything it touches

mighty,
to spread waves
of heat and chills

selfish to evoke
memories of the time
the soul pulsed

devious
to throb in places
the fingers can't trace

love is death
of the concept of self
and the emerging after-self

soaring
to heights beyond measure
and fall in a blind rush

crippling
sounds and voices
to mourn in silence

love is life
of a buoy left at sea
after a raging storm

drifting.

I asked the lady by the door,
peeping in see the room,
"Do you know where I sit?"
She smiled and said,
"Your  card is placed!"

"That's the problem!" I cried,
I seem to have forgotten my name.

"What am I called inside the room?
Is it the same when I'm out, or at home?
Do I have only one name,
or can I have more,
like, go by four?"

There was noise in the room,
a constant wave of a murmur,
and I stood there, alone and scared
trying so hard to remember

I lost my name outside the room
I lost my table, my people, my place

I stood outside the room for a while,
then silently walked away.

After countless prayers
and endless wish lists
I have a spot light
on the center stage,
but I am left
with broken slippers
that gave away
while I climbed
the creaking stairway.
I broke a heel,
to twist my ankle
and grimace in pain,
to only shed a tear
and cast a smear
on my face,
to count the steps
I still needed to climb
to find my place,
but ended up counting
the endless mistakes
I have made
on my way.

in the middle of the night,
at the dullest hour of the day
when i am restless,
and lazy,
and ambling out
my mind cast away,
in the middle of the ride
on my bus in eventide,
when my rage falters
and parries
with the wisdom
of my sage,
until the sky changes color
and shadows change shape,
when caught in the cold
of the lost and the unknown,
when watching birds twitter
and fly to back love home,
in the middle of a book,
after a sweet song,
when dancing to a tune
or making my face frown,
I only need to think of you
to keep going my way,
hoping against hope,
I will meet you,
someday.

Like the rising sun,
the silver lining the clouds,
the break of dawn
after a storm,
it's been compared to it all.
I've had three decades
of lessons in hope.

Years one to ten;
as defining as they could be,
these were the years I felt
the most powerful and free.
I left strong impressions
on all walls and windows
where I banged my head
and thumped my hands
I yelled, screamed and bellowed
My anger and frustration
Of having always been left behind
And the constant wait for my
Parents to pay me any mind.
There were countless fascinations
Like pens, books and TV,
When boys could be friends
And nobody would look twice
When I had short hair and ***** hands
And didn't act like a good girl,
Meek and comely.


Years eleven to twenty
was like a roundhouse kick
left my heaving and breathless
and it behaved like a *****.
I'd paint it all in black,
Which I more through most of it,
Angsty, brooding and dark,
lost, empty and afraid,
I discovered parts of me
That never before existed
And I climbed that *****  of esteem
After picking myself up from the pit.

Years twenty one to thirty
shaped the way I think today
made me feel secure in my skin
naked, scarred and less afraid.
I thought my self the master
Having now conquered it all
Work, travel and money,
I was so focused on soaring high
I was not prepared for the fall.
And fall I did, so hard,
I shattered all illusions
Of love, friendship and family
dreams and masked delusions.

Three decades I've lived
and the fourth I have begun
I've felt the entire spectrum of emotion
Transcnded them all but one.
That deep yearning I feel
Is my last nugget of hope,
Fall mindlessly in love
And be loved in return,
The sole wish I now hold.
And till I hit age forty
Hopeful I'll remain,
For I banged my hands,
and got my way,
Tried other colors
Moved away from black,
Grew my hair long
Left home as a little girl,
I grew up and came back.
I did the impossible,
Or what I had so deemed,
So the lessons in hope continue
And the rest is now to be seen..

It is with
the sweeping abandon
of thunder
and the stinging bite
of lighting
that the heart leaps;
beating wild
to a conundrum
that is offset,
which fears and thrills,
encapsulated
by the release
of passion,
so severely withheld
until the roar outside
provokes the flare inside,
and in the heady mix
of fierce power,
spirited temper,
propositioned fear,
and debilitated living,
does the soul tremble,
does the skin shiver
and the body
comes to life.





,

let me write two lines
which leave you blinded
in my grief
of not having ever written
something more potent
and lengthy
and in those two lines
you may read
my entire, complete
and exhaustive story.

Let me grab that blanket
to wrap around ourselves,
a pillow for the head
and feet,
a bear to cuddle perhaps,
hold on, this needs to be done
properly!
I'll make a quick dash
pass those shoes,
bright by the wall,
to grab something to eat;
something easy, fast,
comforting and plenty,
that'll never make me
feel that pang;
go hungry.
Under, now! Hurry!
It is the perfect dark,
it is the perfect quiet,
to settle under the canvas
and fall into sleep.
Away now, from that cut,
crawl further up,
and their sounds will fade,
they'll even stop flashing lights,
and patting our walls
to pull us away.
Hold on tight, don't fear
they can't get to us anymore,
we have been here too long,
we have come in too deep,
see, that rent in our home
can't even be seen.
Let us sleep.

I saw the sun set
and the birds fly south,
I sat on a rock
and killed the snake
which couldn't slide out.
With an ice cream cone in my hand
and a balloon that flew behind
I saw men march past,
looking to their left
holds knives in their right.
I had a broken look
of the mountain
that looked girly in pink
so much for its might,
I thought,
may be things aren't always
as unseemly,
as we think.

Sweat pooled
above my chewed lips
while my ears turned pink,
toes curled
inside my shoes
sweaty fists
opening and closing.

Flat eyes watched
and waited
while I grew deaf
with the silence

I have a coffee machine
which spurts and groans
in the morning,
while I sputter and grunt
in wait
for the liquid that
dissipates
the clouds which surround
my brain.

It has a faulty handle,
and needs to be held just right.
I learnt after two stained washcloths,
and three fingers
which turned pink
on sight.

It also has a button,
which turned on sometimes
shoots sparks,
I feel the current,
(I can see the ****** thing!)
but do nothing,
will do nothing,
till it dies.

It has been months
with my machine,
but I like this routine,
of it and I,
I have learnt a lot about myself
about my discomfort with change,
about my unchanged need for comfort,
about the degree of my laziness
and about how I'm willing to
make things last a while,

I have a machine that teaches me lessons
all before I have my first cup of coffee,
I mean, what more could I ask in life?