Friday, January 21, 2011

Life Shall Not Rhyme-

Now
He just lives
In a black and white jungle
In the hinterland

Amidst dry winters and sticky sun

Where men are God-less
And worship
Rice
And in front of a father
A son dies

A poor man’s wife
Is just an upper caste whore
Two and two are yet not four

Where
Death wishes
Are the only prayer
And at a blank white paper and dark blue pen
He stares

And you ask why he isn’t penning love poems now?
He now knows life shall not rhyme
He now knows life shall not rhyme

Green Leaves Painted Death-

Paper weight love, Ash tray romances
Sunday morning news paper, Saturday night TV
Sex

And through all this she smiles
Botox smiles, Cosmetic hearts

He bought her for hundred dollars a month
And a ring of gold
For life

He spews love
She is still a greenhorn
Official whore

Yeah and every night
She paints the dead leaves
Green
As if they’ll breathe again
And relive

All Me

There’s a lake or a river, am not quite sure. It has its acquaintance with just one shore. The other side touches the sky afar. And on full moon nights it kisses the stars. While in love with stars it swims joyously. But the one shore river shall never meet the sea. The river is me.
It is all me.

Stealing Poems-

I steal poems, like goods
And then I live in them
For a while
Happily
Like a non paying tenant
...…
One of these days
I shall call you
To my new rainbow abode
Let me color home iridescent now

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

Life, Death and That Something else

On some nights, I dream poetry
Of winter greens, White lilacs and perfect “C” smiles
On other nights I live vegetable
Breathing in and out, Ink-less
And on still other nights, I die
Like a forgotten footnote in the desert of dense chronology.

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

His Best Stories

As they say
It rained on that windy day
Cold winds and a colder heart
They took their vows of never being apart.
At the old cathedral across the meadow
Underneath an unknown writer's phantasmal shadow

And in distance he sat
Short, round, bespectacled and fat
Looking at the woman the would be wife
The answer to all the pain
Of his spectral souls strife
Ans all the love of his failed life

On the night with the winds knocking on his door
He wrote a story of a wedding on a sunny shore
Where a woman kissed a man monocle
And since they lived happily ever after
-He called the story
"The same wall a little mend"
His stories unlike him
Always had a happy end

Saturday, January 8, 2011

Circa 79,

Protruding nose sideways
and a wrung smile
Bejeweled in yellow frames.
I can still smell you all over me
mogra and all her friends of the night.
Well formed salt pepper lips.
And cheeks none too large
so as to seem intruders
but like well loved neighbors.
Small eyes like poetry written all to quickly
though which came out too well
for the writer to be surprised.

And then she comes
puffed eyes,
over dressed,
Nineteen going on Thirty.

As if to convince me
of her promiscuity
pointing at you in the wall
- Am I her?
Can I be?

And I Sigh,
on moments my dear
on moments.

Thursday, January 6, 2011

Mere AfterwordS-

Tanima lives happily with Adam somewhere in Milan.
We shall not go to exact location, a privacy thing.
But somewhere is information enough.
Adam writes poetry almost with the same vigor which made her like him.
He writes more romance now.
She lives less romance now, perhaps.

Sayantan has only read one poem throughout his life.
And that one was the puffed eyed girl called Tanima.
And he still re-reads her in his mind at times.

Tanima thinks about that almost love that she had with Sayantan, at times.
With closed eyes and tight fists.
For Adam, Sayantan is perhaps some demi-god in Hindu pantheon to whom Tanima talks to at night.
Tanima does not know that she sleep talks.

She and Adam make love every alternate night as Adam stays busy these days.
On other nights she cuddles up Sayantan in her mind and talks.
Closed eyes, tight fists.
For sayantan life must be a lot more than a PhD from NYU.
And that lot more is just the five feet tiny palms-Tanima.
He has met a few girls with those looks and the same tastes but they are mere caricatures for her.
He has insomnia.

Adam is working on a new book called Love and Paraphernalia’s.
Tanima is still that cute brown skinned girl that makes him truly international.
He loves her though, he thinks.
She loves him though, she knows.
Closed eyes tight fists.

Tanima still maintains that year with Sayantan was just a ‘rebound thing’.
She says this with tight fists and closed eyes.
For Sayantan things stopped that night in Bombay Airport.
For Sayantan there is no afterword.