Honored by Usha Ma'am & Rukhiya

...Of Modern times and a vagabond

>> Nov 26, 2010

How much can you trace back
in one moment?
May be a mile.
Memories are not measured by units.

Today there are no more sad lines.
We will talk about the wine that is
buried in your backyard.
We will talk about the graffiti
that I am yet to construct.
These days art has a new name - photoshop.
You can buy yours with a quick few clicks.

I am half drunk.
The other half is life.
With that I lie in a dark room
and listen to a music that is soft
but deafening.
Most relations are, the same.

Pretension has its perimeters.
They are weak when you are.
On one such moment,
you do things that you never regret.
People change, so do leaves.
You wait.

Give me a hundred good dreams.
I will sleep deep, then.




>> Nov 17, 2010

What you call a black paper,
Is the one that awaits a white chalk,
I hold.
The thread between us is
like those small red crabs on
sea sands -
Quick feet, unsure,
still beautiful.

The scent in you is perpetual.
I peel the skin at nights.
Yours are like snakes' in winters.
They glow when I dip myself, into.

Somedays I burn.
I am like phosphorus(P).
And porous(:).
I try and contain you,
the whole of you in me.
You slid through as grains.
Helplessly, I emit at night.
There is no fire, you say.

I am incandescent.

I cry.
In happy and sad times,
my eyes fill up with saline water
that reflects moon, sharply.
You say, its childish,
We are role-reversed.
A man shouldn't cry that much.

Then, monthly expenditure of salt is mathed.
We agree that,
I will never write on a wet paper.

I break my promises,
far too often.



Life Etcetera

There is a little rain in all of us.
There should be.
There are winters too.
Seasons cycle for humans,
or vice-versa?
There is a lot of vice if you think.

My poetry is as good as the moment.
They dissolve and laugh and cry.
If I am lucky, I am loved.
And luck? that is a respite for loss.

Today I wish to talk about important things,
may be that red bag.
It has travelled a lot, with me.
To cities, to seas.
It has carried a lot, of me.
To buses, to boats.
Now it stays, stoic, and the metallic chains rust
with a lot of me, inside, as air, as vacuum.

I have burned myself like wax.
Melting has its own charm,
As has sacrifice.
One is never the same before,
and after.

If you Compare loss to mutual funds,
you will understand there is more to shares
than money. There always were.

And laugh as you may like,
the world that lets you lead a life,
is actually getting slow, to die.

The day it stops,




Through the distant stars
I recall the nights
that had our names,
as two oval halves of a sandclock.
Complimenting each other
quietly we would mix.

My love for you is like
the coloured windchime.
Tune is its forte, still
on a rainy day you prefer sparkles.

Remember? You gifted me a magnet.
Poles reconciled.
Opposites attract.
We were quite the same, still.
Physics is so merely physics, at times.

A quota in my life is for me, little.
Rest is yours.
A quota in my poetry is you, a lot.
Rest is a mundane stanza.

A note I had had for you.
Delivered but escaping a thousand
waves of your white saree.

Still living with the scent,
I have changed a line or two,

"All the roses in this world were white.
Until love came and dipped them in red."




Lonely is the poet.
If you can't find another expression,
You worry not.
We all live with a little of
physics, chemistry and mathematics in life,
but poetry.

On a chilling night,
when kith and kinship is established in real world,
The poet wraps himself up with the snow
and the blanket that is as porous as a metaphor.
He heads South.

Words? No he is too full of that.
Souls? He is still to.

On a rainy day,
when people are either sheltered or making love,
The poet visits his old school street;
He finds new joy in waiting for someone, again.
Knowing she will not come, she has sent rain.

Care? No he is too full of that.
Life? He is still to.

The poet dies ordinarily one day.
When people were either happy or sad,
The poet leaves, just.
It was not winter so there was no metaphor
in his death.
Beside him was his book, his poems.

Poems? No he had written too many.
Blanks? He still had to.



The Hungry Tide

Inspirations Continue...

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