For the one I love most.
Wondering when you will take the journey back,
Smiling because soon you will be in my arms.
Our future together.
This still is a dream,
That someone can love and care
I can feel it in the way you look at me,
The way you talk to me.
Respectful. Genuine. Honesty.
I love the way you snuggle me.
Can you hold me now?
Thirty three years Alexander lived
Shakespeare wrote his tragedies
the teacher near our house
...in dhoti turned twice
still ***** with yesterday's mud
goes for another regret
what am I doing?
The play was staged
clowns and faces with paint
their age twenty
The man next door
his face well known
for the cycle he drew across the world
where am I here?
in house arrest wants to breathe
showing the foolish thumb
to people on lanes
but what am I doing?
What am I doing? Doing what? Doing what ?
Till half past three into the night
the question haunts my ribs
A inadequate path, oozing with men flood
but all headless clouds
Am I one in them?
All my life I have been placing this head
The weared out head of mine
In one body
Trying to look into the mirror
On which body does this head of mine
look like me
the word dhoti used in this poem is a garment worn by male Hindus, consisting of a piece of material tied around the waist and extending to cover most of the legs.
Realize, you are still in depths of the three fold sleep
in your dreams he still comes,do not tell him every dream of yours
he drowns in haze,
sprinkling waves of old memories over your burnt temples
blowing up particles of dust in the wind-
then all you see is hazed reflections ,
He is jealous.He puts rocks
you do not realize
you think he paves ways for new dreams
you can traverse , crossing the galaxies of hollowness ,
realize, the truth
for once draw sounds of breathe within dreams with courage
you will see how two breathlessness , unstructured dwells in your veins
just before the dawn break
you see a bird
two or three
fluttering here and there .
The city of lunatics
Left on pavements
Of incomplete poems
Over mouths pregnant with scattered letters
Wrapping singed skin
In dots and full stops
With loveless chokes writ on their faces
Lost in bruised
as the mouth tries to speak
words of damaged love
letters swept away by
imperceptible humanity rippling on the edges of the winds
where the girl swings
between unknown wings
and ruthless silence
as the facade bites her skin
Pray for Asifa
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way
than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
has left my livid ******* ;
leaving behind pavid essence
of your charred existence
quivering in my eloquent ribs ;
— The End —