I Heard a Woman Sing

I heard a woman sing-
voice precariously balanced on strings,
plucked by fingers, timed by feet,
clad in saffron robes, but still
able to think. In the distance
silence blooms, like a mango orchard
in a university. A bearded man follows, 
barefeet. His ancient dwellings not haunted by 
but preserving such music, such poetry, 
the banyan trees live and breathe, 
sounds made by feet that are bare and solitary. 
A eucalyptus clearing filled
with voices and dancing feet, sunset colours 
matching their clothes, the songs they sing 
about meeting ancient spirits in the midst 
of winter trees, and in your heart
you are singing.

December 2017.

October

"The history of firearms in India";
"Single biggest cause" for use of guns
ascribed to "mass production" and "easy availability";
memories from Kolkata Police Museum. 
Files on Subhash Bose's 'terror' activities,
on Communists in the British colonies.
Samuel Colt, Mikhail Kalashnikov - their blown-up images.

I played a game called Zarya 1 -
means Dawn One in Ruskie tongue.

Eighteen thousand Adelie baby-penguins
starved to death, the papers 
are a source of misery, not information.

It is Diwali. My dog's restlessness reminds me 
to keep her safe from harm. In this country 
we do not die as much from guns. 
We smother our children with celebration; 
festivals that make captive imaginations. 
Tiny fingers itching to burst 
what other tiny fingers have made.

You accuse me of negativity. I plead guilty.
My dark cynicism pollutes minds,
as do festivities. You seem to justify 
hope and change. The first black president

was followed by a whiteness that did not 
illuminate. A festival that looked like 
a gun-barrel - pointed at 
penguins and children.

"And the trees are stripped bare/ of all they wear/ What do I care" - Paul David Hewson

Dragon-Eggs

So, your tongue craved those rounded shapes
smashed by the man's (or woman's) fingers
a globe that - lost its north pole to 
the invasion of mashed potatoes and spices.

Zest filled up the centre, transparent
mound of fossilized shell, warts and all
in place. Then came the water,
tasting of lime and sour things.

Your mouth sloshed with
sharp edges and soft potato mash,
your tongue drenched in water,
oh! the right taste, the exact taste.

You savoured
the spice and the pain,
the roof of your mouth caved in 
to cravings. 
Your tongue on fire, 
with Dragon-Eggs - a perfect name 
for Bengali girl's (and boy's) 
Phuchka-beloved.

United State

We fitted, like jigsaw pieces,
locked in shape like continents
before they drifted apart.

Oceans and ships came between us.
The atmosphere heated up
our differences, our tastes.
The people who inhabited
our shores, our forests,
wanted to invade, not understand
how we fitted our imperfect ridges
into a more perfect union
of gender, of colour, of skin,
of values of humanities, and the marvels of engineering,
red blood in blue veins flowing
when we touched -

still touch through water 
that connects our coasts, 
carrying news via sea cables to shores,
pebbles and sands awash with messages 
in bottles, across that disconnect.

We fit, like continents,
your clavicle supporting my head,
my hair blown by your breath,
your heart beating under my hand,
we lie, an uninhabited island.

Story

History lies stretched out before me.
The suburban horizon dotted with tall 
trees towers, the buildings rise like ghosts of 
mountains, this land will never see.

Only the trees are to be trusted,
the trees are to be believed,
with stories you and I will think of,
and write down and bury
under a sheaf of bills and spreadsheets.

Stories like magic,
where buildings become canopies and grow leaves, 
where you and I meet, under cover of green,
nakedness and bare feet,
fall over fallen flowers, and the smell rises 
from our moist bodies.
This would be our creation story,
written with and all over our bodies.

The story of bodies,
the story of trees,
stretched out like history,
as we are cut or burned or buried.

Patient

This place lies between
carbon dioxide and oxygen.
The tubes, the needles,
violate the skin, 
enable breathing.

Hospitals underline
the peculiarity of 
living. Supported by
instruments that can 
kill, we live.

Intention is everything.
Weapons can become
medicine. Somebody's
indifference fuels
your desire for being.

The State of Disunion

Abstraction and fantasy
preferred
over real
encounters, unusual attractions. 

The desire to come
never arrives
on time, at destinations
preferred

over strangers. Familiarity is
sexy, only when 
it is regular and not 
endangered.

Otherwise,
desire becomes
abstraction, and connection
fantasy.

The White Alien

little green alien

turns black and brown

big orange commander

sniffs pure white gunpowder  

here in yemen
whiteness stains
easily

here in mosul

whiteness is

bright red

here in syria

whiteness is bright
orange light in the sky
erupting overhead

fifty great stars

that don't throw away their spears

fifty fears fathered, this white eden
flooded with lead-water

white man,
your heart of darkness
is a war crime

here you are
in the middle east, 

big scary monster

here you are
only a bomb, only a gun

here you are
illegal alien

here you are

April-May 2017

Indecent Proposal

So I guess
without much luck
there isn't a chance
to see a world
where I could discreetly
ask you out.

A man could do it, in a heartbeat.

Unless I guess
with much luck
your parents still disapprove.

What are the chances,
the legal options,
of me becoming a man
or me coming out as a woman
who asks out other women?

Is there a lesbian in me, in you?
If you had the chance,
would you fancy me too?