Walk

Cold
our hands
touch
and spark

Chapped
our lips
fuse
and linger

We walk
dashing into
each other
like waves on a beach

In the mutilated
sidewalks of Bangalore

Our lives
a series
of breaks from
each other

Constantly
on the run
from family
and society

Keeping
warm
in so much
cold.

zero

your mind is a zero
everything ends and begins
in a circle
never out of line
always repeating never surprising

it is inevitable
that envy seeps in
like shared stink in shared spaces

holy wars are fought without mystery
or miracles

embrace invites like a dog-collar
apprehending bruises and wounds
yelps of pain do not help

This is Traditional, so this is Safe.
This is Practice, so this is Not Rape.

beyond question
compromises sting
so deep

your devotion is
not a clause, it is
omni-expected

hung
like a wall
calendar
the dates of your bleeding
are when you don't get to give sex
dates marked in red, dates painted black

your life seeks a zero
yet you win
yet you succeed
yet you are
happily married.

To a Friend who went to Australia

Down there, down under
you stand, between his legs,
a kangaroo's pouch
if not a squirrel's nest.

You made it.
A long way
from the school-ground
to the aboriginal's land.

Your brown eyes,
your mouth with its red smile,
and how tall you stand
still, as you once did
in the school assembly line.

I can only hope and wish
his darkness, his deceit
have been proved wrong,
or inadequate
against the sun-kissed life, you live.


June 2011.

Monsoon Fling

Perhaps it is an illusion
I run after.
I wish to find an answer
in the sense of acceptance-
one sense different from compromise
-and hold onto the comfort
you provide,
even if it's temporary and fickle.
Otherwise I may lose
the importance of life!
Forgiving is a virtue,
so is ignorance-
of the pain you present
in the flashes of pleasure.

This is not a love poem
nor one of sentiment.

---
June 2003

Schizophrenic

there's a bridge that needs to be crossed
there's a path waiting to be explored
waiting still for godot

there's a handwriting that shows a wrecked mind

and there I am-
walking down the street
walking like a stranger
trotting out of danger,
with fancied footsteps and whisperings
behind my back.

green trees-
green like hills,
and the scarlet touch across the sky
invite me to go and fly
like a stringless kite

there is some beauty sometimes around me.

---
15/09/2003

Love

Peacefulness breeds Love,
in a way Anger cannot.
To an angry mind, Love
is a weakness,
a luxury it cannot explain.

Love dwells
in infusions and potions,
and the need for
right conditions,
reminiscent of the tantrums
of a cricket pitch
towards a cricket match.

Love breeds -
in air, in gas
balloons filled with so much
vacancy.
It is the breath
of the sleeper next
to you in bed.
Or the scream
of the one who isn't.

Love needs a break.


April 2014.

Footloose

Footloose I fall
through blue and cloud,
slip
into nothing.
Buildings turn
into tombs,
smelling of favourite flowers,
the perfume soothes.
Willingness injected
into limbs
to let go.

I spread-
an eagle,
a phoenix
even an angel.
Hands and feet
equal wings.
No nest to rush into.
No young ones to feed.
I breathe
the sky,
the passage of airplanes,
and touch
kites.

I-
threadless,
needless,
carry on this flight
into forgetfulness.
The earth far away
and yet
far ahead.
Not afraid
to crash.
Not afraid
of the mess.
Wish of death,
the pure breath,
thoughts evaporate
from pores of skin,
crawling out of the body
hair, finger, nails.
Dislocated
dislodged
set free.

I remember
nothing,
only
the deepest
of all feelings,
the soul
of the meaning.
Artificial skin
shedding,
in this dawn of all dreams,
the sun rising.

The woman waking.
Her eyes
perceiving.

August 2011.

A Spinster Look

A cold, hard, critical look -
then calculating my feelings
and in what exact quantity
to reveal them.

Certain eyes are human
and cold,
even dead
like cut glass.

The woman stays housebound
with duty
and the expectation
of tradition
being fulfilled.
The man is all but an act
of grace,
a gift,
a favour
huge
like a plastic bag
to stuff your love in.

Spinsters must have figured
this out early on.
Single girls
need to follow suit,

looking ahead towards
cold, hard winters
of peace and solitude.

November, 2013

Newly married Solitary Female

The main road is right ahead,
even though the sounds barely reach me.
I press myself, close to the pane of glass, 
palms exploding outward, into other apartments.
Toes at attention, body leaning precarious,
10th floor sky- dense, mushrooming 
with silence.

The cars pass, like time,
the billboard changes, without warning, inflicting 
the strange gaze of the new model.
I remain wary of new relationships,
the dynamics refuse to fold
into the creases of my skin.
Everyone an expecting stranger,
one faux pas and I'm dead meat.

Arriving on the wings of shock
and out-of-favour,
I allow my persona to overwhelm me
from falling into pieces.
Unconvinced with my own performance
I notice (the cracks in my head)
my glass of a head
bobbing merrily, conversing, at sea,
making statements (that)
I think are mistakes.

The main road is right ahead.