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.

1 comment:

Amiya chatterjee said...

One thing stands out in your poem : You Give PASSION the highest priority just the way a sufi poet does ,Almost all Jelalluddin Rumis poems have this Passion without which I think poetry is morbid .Rimbaud is famous for Passion in his poems . I love it. I shall come back in your Blog later.