Tuesday, January 19, 2010

Kafka and We-An Unspoken Love

His Love

"Kafka may be was an existentialist after all."
And It was your 'May be' which aroused the ire in me.
May be what may be?he was an existentialist.
And you just laughed looking into my eyes and then my hands
as you always said "you say more through your hands flopsy"

You passed me a note in class the next day
"That may be was just to irk you
and see you go red flopsy you know".
And I laughed
was thrown out of the damn class.
But was happy,happier than I've ever been
apart from that day
when you held my hand crying into my shoulders,
I know your dad had an attack
but It still felt nice to be a part of your world.

And I think you caught me quite a few times
looking at you during classes
but you refused to acknowledge or just didn't bother.
I don't know,
I was always amazed by your ability to crack a joke
and then look as inanimate and studious
as ever and It was always me
who was thrown out of the class.

That day remember
when we had just ran
from the canteen not paying the Chai wallah.
I was about to say what I wanted
but you like all of your antics announced
I am going to the States to my sister's and will study there.
it was then I realized,
I would always be a beggared
and you'll always be the Rich mans daughter
that I silenced myself
and you kept on looking into my eyes
as if you knew
but you didn't.
and I paid the chai wallah after you went.

you know
"That may be was just to irk you
and see you go red flopsy you know"
I still have that page with me.



Her Love


"Kafka may be was an existentialist after all."
And It was my 'May be' which aroused the ire in you.
May be what may be?he was an existentialist.
And I had to laugh
and whenever I laughed I loved to look myself into your eyes
And then at your hands to see what they said,your hands somehow always said You loved me.
and I said "you say more through your hands flopsy"

I passed you a note in class the next day
"That may be was just to irk you
and see you go red flopsy you know".
And you laughed
and I was laughing too looking into you
but you could never see could you
and you were thrown out of the damn class.
But I was happy,I had made you laugh.You know.

I found you looking at me many times during class
and that always made me unsure of myself
and I became passive
you had that effect on me
but somehow I could never discern
the way you looked at me with what you felt for me.
And whenever I wanted to laugh at something you said
I always dreamt of you holding my hands
and caressing me
that drew me into a different world
I always forgot what I had to laugh at.

That day remember
when we had just ran
from the canteen not paying the Chai wallah.
I said "I am going to the States to my sister's and will study there."
I really didn't want to go but I said that so that you'll stop me and you looked at me as if I've hurt you
I just couldn't understand you then
and I paid the chai wallah after you went.

And even after so many years
My room has a portrait of Franz Kafka looking at me alone.

My Love-Books

Of all the faces I hath been privy too
thy was that I discerned true,
thee were the light among all the forlorn dark,
and finding thee gave my life cerebral spark.

And I know when times were rough
path to redemption tough,
thee held me through all tide
ah How can I thank thou my guide.

Heavens knows for sure I say
That how many men would have been here lay
lest thee took cares
and made them pure paved them heavens stairs

Thy haven,folioic sanctuary,
Thy shadow ,wordy glory,
Book oh book its thee who makes the world as it should
your paeans must be sung in every home,nook and wood.

Sunday, January 17, 2010

Guerrillero Heroico

Rosario,On a dog day
with Sun Gods smiling buoyantly
saw first my travail.
of the Americas
and of the worlds.
sun always shone
a little meanly at times.
to me prevail,
But such were those times,ah times.

A physician,a thinker
and above all a man among un men
untamed among tamed.
In life I wanted to smile
like the rest
But t'was death made me blest
a smile made of
truth and comity.
A dream seen of equality
and a struggle against majority.

Guemillero heroico,not quite
I stood for all
with lesser might.
And I cried with them
And inside.
A quaint cohort of
wounds and words
my guide.

For all the bravery
I wasn't one.
it was all we had
weren't we equal
under the sun.
Some but felt more
and some thought it
their right
never had they thought of
the meek's plight.

Struggle ah struggle
was not the motto
it was what had been gifted
after all who could see
close contact with
hunger,disease and poverty
stupefaction provoked
by the continual punishment
that leads a father to accept
the loss of a son
as an unimportant accident.

And I fought,
fought till the breaths gave in,
Knowing that I was not immortal
and life had just begun.
quickly with its full run
A November cloud saw
holding head high.
A man looking death
into the eye.

And they shot
just nine times
to ensure that all was set right
but little did they knew
they killed,
they killed but a man.
I was set low but the thought,
the mind and sun
would always echo,
Ernesto.

Saturday, January 16, 2010

And When They Wake Up

Asleep they lie but O! lord
it , not would be for long
that they wake and belie
whatever ,have we been doing them wrong.

They sleep but now sun is on the horizon
to begin its voyage and with sun
will they rise and ask for
what is theirs , we must have none

What will we say o! lord what will we riposte
that we took it away when ours was nothing
but while they slept ,we stealthily crept
and theft them of the things had they cling

O! so dear to them
that they prayed it,their nature
sung and dance round it they called God
and now its no more,their treasure

O! lord their will be blood
I see a lot of red hue
on grounds and everywhere
on your feet too

As we fight
with your name
but perfidiously though.

When they wake up o! lord
shall we ask them to leave of the place
they breath on and were born
and would they concur o! lord with grace

And then their would be blood
on sand,soil and mud

My people have theft them and behave as if its theirs
and when they would belie we would call them nomad
and would fight them and some would die
more from them, death is the cloth will they clad

O! lord what fate
awaits them
when they would rise
for their lives.

Friday, January 15, 2010

Blood ( Dark Poem)

I can still see
the blood dripping,
drop by drop,
a ghastly red,
I touch it
and see it
more closely
a chill runs
through my spine,
and its still warm
it was
in the vessels
a few moments ago
flowing,perpetrating life
and then
it had to change
its path.

A soft glow
of red
into my hands.
As the blood dries
it leaves behind
a stench a smell
so powerful
that it can make u
scream,scream your
guts out,
out of paranoia.

But I swallow
and gulp it
within me
little saliva
remains into
the corners of my mouth,
licking it,
I smell blood again.

And I smile,
Smirk rather.
fourth in a month
but still all blood
have a definite
distinct smell
and I like them all.
Warm gut wrenching smell
it gives me a high,
as I lick my knife
one last time I release
a sigh.
Death and life
are tastefully nigh.

To Writers 2

The depravity of poor
or the smile of a child
I pen when antsy
or even when wild

My words are drugs
and they are my anguish too
I write for all humans
I write for I, I write for you

When emotions abandon me
the word still stays,
the paper whales out,
A human song lays.

I write not when in want of love
or even when depressed in sigh
I write when I bleed out scathe
with each letter I die.

Thursday, January 14, 2010

To Writers

He weaves his words and winds of them on a paper,
the letters are scattered as if waiting to be twitched into
something which can be embraced,
Alas! they are not all the time.

He sings to the morning sun and talks to the stars,
at times he smiles at the breeze and then
peeps quietly into nothingness.His ways are eldritched
but his zeal is like an infant.

The words are his soul,his pain and even his wine.
He immerses his self to them .
The plunge replenishes his life unto him
And his vigour is renewed.


Strange he is but he still longs to be loved.
He loves human and he loathes them too.

But when he weaves his words,he is anew.

Wednesday, January 13, 2010

Her

A half read novel
and an unwritten page of a diary
look on from across the table
as she is sleeping
but awake
into some dream.
Her eyelids move
like an infants fingers
and you know
she is all into it,
the dream.

A hand above
her head
and another cuddling a pillow
and you know
she'll hold onto things until
she herself lets them go.

The breeze comes
uninvited,
she always leaves
a window open
for her friends
the early morning sun,
the breeze
and the moon-star pair
of the nox.
The breeze nudges her
and instead
its her hairs
who respond
talking to the breeze,
letting her sleep.

A coffee mug
on the table
has its imprints left
like the imprints of
the few who have come and gone
and criss-crossed her way through life.
A family picture
besides the bed stand
talks of love and promises.

And her eyes closed
speaks of dreams seen
and a road still to walk
hopes still to conquer
and love still to be attained.

A Song For someday

Someday we'll know,..I know.
that why hope was crushed
and desires demolished
why silence was married
to emotions.

Someday I know,someday
The day is not far off.
When things will run their full course,
when lives will live
to their entirety
and songs would not be of lament
but felicity.

We will live to know,I know
why certain lives
were worthier than others
and why the strength to live
was couped by the power of death.
How the needs of the feebled,
the wants of mighty trampled.

But Someday..oh wishfully Someday
by some innocuous holy way,It'll change
Its true It can be felt,
On a quite sunny day
if I close my eyes
I can almost touch it.

A new day is being bred
a new love would be carved out
from the trees of tears
by a God who is readying himself to help us
face our fears.

A day when
success would not be
a possession of few,
when the pain would abate
and truth shall see
the light of day
and someday
daisies would bloom and last till may.

Monday, January 11, 2010

Passions

I like
looking at numberless faces
passing by a busy street,
quietly ,smilingly,
a few without any pangs of expressing,
walking paces
filling in faces.

And you,
you are just one of them
and still not
a discard of street you are,
a man who is not moving,
a recluse renegade,
you and they across a barricade.

It is as if
all of them
belong to you,
every face their stories,
their expressions or the lack of it,
is a gift to your eyes.
Time is moving for them
not you
as if time is an ally ,
ally of a moment you are.

For those moments,
those private precious moments,
their are those people
and GOD.
In between the two
is your momentary abode.