entangling

slowly you raise both your hands to
my head gently pulling at the pins
your fingers rub into my scalp
raven black silken tresses spill over
hiding both of us from the world
you untangle from it, entangling
me tightly with my own hair
wrapping it around me like your love
I can't move yet I move closer to you
to hide myself from you, in you
if my hair could gossip, believe me
it would have so much to convey

"I know, you know, my disguise is you"

what does one call it?

her emotions clash with rationality
of you which analyses each of
her changing expressions

she spurns your slow seduction
turns away hiding herself
from your discerning mind

yet you strip her to her core
observing her brain map
dissolve into your thoughts

when she heats up to you
you step back leaving behind
a debris that is not her any more

why should you even care your
voyeurism into her- took a toll



Lately I have been writing most of my poetry without any punctuation. I don't know if it works or not. Nonetheless, with rawness of emotions, I consider those redundant. The purists might not agree with me. But then, how do you define creative expression? Does it is have to be restrained and constrained? As with stripped bare emotions, nothing is, at least for me.

I catch the words haphazardly

the sultry heat gets to me
trickling down my back
the moon stares starkly at the stars
with an unusual dour face

out of nowhere poetry comes to me
I catch the words haphazardly
making no sense yet there
out in the open for me

this particular night is conducive
for darkest of depression
I can write the saddest lines tonight
and still I desist from that

your image stands between me
and this windless hot night
tears and sweat fight to take over
I resist, giving in to none

"why do I need to write saddest lines tonight?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I can write the saddest lines tonight has been taken From – Twenty Poems of Love by Pablo Neruda.

paring it all down to the basics

I have taken Dave's skeletal work and worked around it. The italicized words are my own. I added a couple of sentences to make sense. For me, this makes a lot of sense. Does it work for you too?


I was dealt a hard blow ,
and startled to do away
with the inevitability of it,
clinging at a day’s approach.
I sawed a lot of the branches
which had blocked out my vision.
just below this tree I have pulled
the eye tooth of a tiger,
round and round,
and I find it somewhat
like glue stuck in my mind,
that does a trick of coins
and that too in ceramic bowls
that never quite broke.

plunging in the tunneled abyss

thinking of neither past nor future
I give in, disregarding my sane voice
only a feeling, nothing else to hold on to
I can't measure the highs, I don't wish
to think of the lows. each one of us has
tried to define it, a few being successful,
most have failed. nevertheless, that has
not acted as a deterrent. we go right in,
plunging in the tunneled abyss, unmindful
of everything, least of all, the consequences;
giving in to the ecstatic moment of it.

"should we not ponder over, why is it called
falling in love, when it takes us beyond the sky?"

deeply in love with dracula’s daughter

I know it is not a ballad but it does have a story!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

strolling in the graveyard
with roses in my hand,
along with the fog rolling in
for her tryst with sin;
a banshee screams,
in my nightmarish dream.

deeply in love with dracula’s daughter

creatures of darkness
what music they make.
life in the night, most don't know;
lives in the shadows, which light throws.
terror runs deep where murkiness falls,
thirst never quenched from hunger’s call.

deeply in love with dracula's daughter

never could fathom
in my wildest dreams.
life has its own course, it now seems
it follows only its own whims.
I cannot but help whom I love;
I cannot help that she thrives on blood.

deeply in love with dracula’s daughter

unmindful of what others think,
I trudge along towards my queen,
our nuptials to be held on halloween.
I look forward to good times ahead
but vampires in love with her, are sad
as I would be calling dracula, dad.

deeply in love with dracula's daughter

the very thought of her
love-bites after twilight;
her scratching nails all through the night
her bloody kisses just before dawn,
her writhing body against my own,
just stop short of driving me wild.

deeply in love with dracula's daughter

out of nowhere

Photo credits: Rick Mobbs
















looking overhead at the sky
you jauntily trudge along the lane
joy spilling over unable to be contained
you just live in the moment
basking in the shade of sun-kissed trees

in that madness of happiness
you start thinking you have now taken
control of your life, to live it the way
you always wished it and wanted it
although never verbalized it

out of nowhere spectre of your past
catches up with you
dashing your desires into ground
and you are left with nothing
not even hope, to hold on to

"simply rest your head on the cold earth
and let it take you wherever it wants to"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I am back with this. My words are not dead. Problem is too much of those. Sometimes we cannot verbalize what is really happening. When we do we reveal so much of ourselves. I don't wish for that. I thank my friends for standing by me, encouraging me. I needed your love. I truly did. Does it matter that I never met you? Is it any wonder that I love my blogger friends?!

I will write. I can't stay away from it for long. It is like breathing.

building balconies inside your head

out of nowhere you find things in your head
unable to fathom how they fit in
mind although colourless contains
all those shades you never thought possible
tangled with unexplained material
what can only be called myth of the matter
permeating your whole being
layers and layers of it
akin to building balconies inside your head
without cement yet holding on steadfast

out of nowhere you find things in your head
unable to fathom how they fit in
but knowing that somehow they do

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

#Update@14/07/08: My muse is dead. I can't offer anything new today. I wrote this a few days back. I can't even take my own advise and keep writing.

piece of charcoal split into splinters

nucleus stared me in the eyes
almost imploding on my face
I sat up with a start
turned left, instinctively

piece of charcoal split into splinters
burning ones did cartwheels
bellowing curtains caught fire

when lights came back
I had been sketched into the walls
permanently etched there
my nudity staring at you obscenely

"don't you think death becomes me?"


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I needed to get back to this kind of dark poetry. This what I feel comfortable to write. I think I will give love poetry a rest for sometime to come. And posting without editing works best for me.

from the palms of my hand, you stand tall

the hassle concentrates the imminent famine
tree
hotel
rant
narrative boils down in pointless clue
opposite a hypothesis runs his cryptic column
can a poison strain
can the alliance dance
overtone
inherited odd
degraded urgency
false mythology
those seldom work in alliance
from the palms of my hand, you stand tall

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I took those random words and sentences from any where I could find those and arranged them. I did add and delete a few words. The last two lines are my own. Does it make sense? I think I am no good at writing surrealistic poetry.

she hoards trash

And also come ride the Monday Poetry Train...


"those mud smeared boots,
expired medications;
chipped spectacles;
some loose change;
that tattered journal
a much thumbed photo album,
you know what, she hoards trash."

these words, I overheard
for being spoken about me, to my mom.
without confrontation,
I heard my mother defending me,

"she seldom hoards the bitter words;
your somewhat sarcastic smile;
your cutting remarks,
your hurtful ways.
she forgives and forgets,
moving on forward,
always being affectionate to you."

Pausing she went on,

"so why do you grudge her holding a bit of trash?
all these are stuff which belonged to her dad."

rot

..................and
I feel oppressive pressure
of your unblinking stare
your foul breath is enough
to make me cringe
still i am unable to look aside
as your eyes pull me into
a vortex of what I know not
I wish deeply for your
aging wrinkled body to
distintegrate to nothing
right in front of my eyes
I can't take the rot that
is your blackened soul

I watch you
wishing you dead with all my heart

running away with it----Read Write Poem/Monday Poetry Train

And also come ride the Monday Poetry Train...

pulsating, so ripe it throbs
suddenly developing wings
it flies away, disappearing
totally out of sight.

my tongue hanging out,
I look at the deep hole
where it ought to be
my hands feel the depth

tentacles form out of nowhere
roots fill the hole
sprouting leaves and buds
next thing I see flowers

blossoming. sweet fragrance reach
out to my nose and I do not miss
my fly away heart any more

"when I do find it floating on water
I kick it away, not wanting it"

stoicism----Read Write Poetry/Monday Poetry Train

And come ride the Monday Poetry Train...

that child as still as a unmoved rock,
with a stoic befitting a saint-
sat on the temple steps.
in the shadows of the night
he could be taken for a stone God
taken out of the sanctum
left there by some thief
in his haste to run.

only his eyes moved rapidly
like blinking lights-
when hunger pangs danced
wild in his belly-
he howled like a distressed dog,
waking the whole neighbourhood
from its lazy stupor.
pademonium broke loose

whose child was he?
he had been left on the temple steps
by his mother, and told to be quiet
so he had sat there for the past two days
as still as a unmoved rock
with a stoic befitting a saint,
until hunger pangs corroded his guts.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lately I have been thinking of homeless children. I can't get them out of my mind. Hence my last few posts are somewhat about those children.

a child to love?------Read Write Poem/Monday Poetry Train

And come ride the Monday Poetry Train...

you got that child into your home
after much misgivings by well-wishers;
a girl with cherubic smile
looking at you with longing and hope.
abandoned by her birth parents
found by the authorities,
brought up in an orpanage,
she had seen more of life and its travails
then anyone can even imagine.
for three days, she followed you around
with love in her eyes, joy in her heart-
not wanting to let you out of her sight.
whatever happened in between
that you changed your mind,
leaving her back at the orphanage?
thinking of adoption is but noble-
actually going through it, is a big task,
not all women are capable of it.

"a child left to her devices yet again"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

What I posted here, is a true account. I don't have any kind of sympathy for the people who thought of adoption but couldn't go through it. However, I can't stop thinking of that 4-year old girl, who did not deserve any of it. I can only hope and pray that she got real great parents, who love and cherish her forever. Would you like to pray for her too?

clawing crawlies----Read Write Poem/Monday Poetry Train

And come ride the Poetry Train


blighted lights blinked bright
slighting my intelligence.
cooped in the room for so long
eyes to the dashboard
i was trying to decipher signals
never seen before
unknown to earthlinks
large torsoed,
small headed creatures
of outer spaces,
visible through glasses
of the windows in that strange disc
some might call an UFO
those crawly legs, cringed me
clawing at my dry throat
more than elation,
I felt abhorance
no way I was interested
to meet aliens
I prayed for hallucinations

"sometimes spiders have that kind of effect on me"

ctrl/alt/del-----Read Write Poem/Monday Poetry Train

And come ride the Poetry Train

I key in and expunge
words that gush unreservedly
from my earnest reflections

too revealing in their
raw passion
and honest fervor

sliding down my mind
decoded into letters
but exterminated by backspace.

sweetly soured-----Read Write Poem/Monday Poetry Train

And come ride the Poetry Train...

melting chocolate sinfully tastes like heaven
does it matter, I can't taste proper food
attainment of nirvana was never far behind
my teeth are broken and brittle
is it not bliss like spoonful of natural honey?
my stomach is upset, mostly bloated
mouth waters by those mere thoughts
tongue always craves for something sweet
butterscotch coated with caramelised sugar
stuck in the crevices, creating cavities
still crunchy taste makes me swoon

ignomorous ignominy-----Read Write Poem/Monday poetry train

And come ride the Poetry Train...

pleasure was all yours, pain is now mine;
you walked away, leaving me to die.
is it my fault, I came into being?
I didn’t have a choice, but you had one.
why was I than abandoned by you?

if this ignominy is existence for me-
death I would have welcomed
wholeheartedly, within your womb

"no one has ever given me a voice"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I wrote this in Sept 2006 after reading about a newly born girl who was left in the bin to die. She survived but not everyone is so lucky. In India, this happens with children who are born out of wedlock. I edited it a bit and reposted it here. Nothing has changed in this part of the world in the 18 months when I first wrote this.

wicked witch-----Read Write Poem/Monday Poetry Train

"aunts are ever so old who love you and pet you"

hearing my nephew say that I saw red
old? Was I old?
indulgent?
a favourite aunt of five kids

wish I was a wicked aunt
who could turn you back into those
small wee kids
lovable and loving

but, I wouldn't change a thing
not you, not me
I can still feel the thrill
of being an aunt for the first time

love is too mild a word
to explain away my feelings
for all of you, my sweet nieces
my lanky nephews

blessed I was five times
go ahead and say it over again and again-
"aunts are ever so old who love you and pet you-
I bet, you don't feel that way about me"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Come ride the Poetry Train...