Honored by Usha Ma'am & Rukhiya


>> Jun 8, 2010

That night some rain conspired
and stole clouds from your sky
to pour down on me.

Love is what turns a why to a how.
So you never questioned.
I drenched, wondered, wandered.

Window is an escapade for poetry.
And my decor is un-weak.
So in our world there are only rooms.
Doors can be latched,
Unlike your memories and my emotions.
I haven't let them yet.

We can cook up love, is it?
Moments are kept in spice jars.
Never mix them while they are there.
It may smell.
I will bring you fire.

Let us go deep.
Here is the bed where
A platonic you meets a real me.
Chiffon hesitance may rest,
We will only whisper tonight.

Beneath this, there is a grave
which lies as a witness to many a sobs.
Never visit there with naked feet.
You will at once know its our dark
that I have still preserved.

Ask me why.
An irrelevant me will answer,
Even our saddest moments were too special
to let go by.

Do not plant a kiss yet.
We have no doors.




>> Jun 5, 2010

Is there a tunnelway to poetry
Where mine meet yours?
Two poets can not live together.
Verses make a world of their own
when they are asleep.
I have heard words whisper with each other,
make love, maybe.
We are insignificantly coupled.

I know not how
often have I fed a poetry.
Are you grateful that they come?
Redemption is dangerous.
They come as punctuations
and can unsettle you, unexpected.

Beneath the poetic soul,
there is another who is a labour,
who constantly bears the load of words,
carefully places, sweats and still does.
We are too lost in the hemisphere.

Lonely words -
Vagrant, vagabond, orphaned
ride the bridge of other words
and console each other
when the complacent is asleep.

That is why
You keep a rose inside them,
You will see it died of salinity.



The Hungry Tide

Inspirations Continue...

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