temporal

For sometime now, I have not been able to write poetry. Have your ever thought of words chasing in your mind and you are unable to catch any of those? That's what is happening. Maybe my inner conflict prevents me from writing. Previously words gave me relief by pouring out. Now those very words refuse to come out by hiding, I do not know where. Believe me, I keep searching for those. I can't write anything better than this.

fleeting moments
as yet uncaptured
chased by what?

written request

veiled from prying eyes,
I try to code my words
in a hidden message
extending it only to those
who like to review life
through novels,
poetry, short stories
being but only a part of it
reading between the lines
you can reach the comfy room
explore my books
and sit down for a chat
long and short of it being
where we share
coffee or tea
whichever your choice be

"won't you accept this invitation
to solemnly visit another aspect of me?"

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

Of course, as you know, here I invite you to visit my book blog, Reading Room. This is not one of my best poetry works but I can write bad ones, once in a while, can't I?! Even Keats wrote bad ones!

making inroads into I know not what

orbs of your eyes suck me into it
I follow that unknown path
in a zombie like state
making inroads into I know not what
if I could write words on the sky
I would at least try that once
but this untread road is one way street.

"believe me, I don't wish to get out of it"

galloping with the wind

brushing the wind, they gallop
leaving everything behind
even whirlwinds can't compete
so fast that they pass in a moment
you can only touch them fleetingly
their massive size can beat you down
if only you let yourself lead by them

"with your calm exterior, you can win
over thoughts which gallop like horses
in your mind, tightly reining them in"

yellowed piece of paper

This I wrote for my mom. A very rough draft.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
yellowed and tattered
that piece of paper holds her heart
not a single days passes
without her taking it out
almost devouring it
her name, only a few words in the middle
and his signed name at the end
she knows the words
yet can't resist taking it out every morning
dull purple behind her eyes
can't take away the love only she can see
her first and last love letter from him
he never wrote another
in the forty five years they spent together
they never even said they loved each other

transcending time and space,
love can be never be a folly
he is gone but lives forever for her

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.

tears trickle slowly

tears trickle slowly
down the cheeks
when I raise my fingers
to wipe those away
I find not a single drop

clogging the throat
all the more potent
for being unshed

least they could do
to fall in torrents
cleansing the debris
washing away
my inner torment







Photo: Rick Mobbs

writings on the wall------Writers Island

gleefully I move slowly
inside the ruined castle
I pause to look over a broken statue
behind one of the colossal pillars
I run my hands over it
loving the feel of it on my palms
going deeper I find many more
forgetting the time. only when
the silhouettes on the walls
come alive in the middle
of the dark moonless night
I become aware of my surroundings

I feel icy cold in midst of summer
tripping on something I fall
misted glass twist my mind
wiping it clean

waking up, I find the sky above me
along with the sun warming me up.
Looking down, I find I am still holding
a small broken stone statue

gutted

finest piece he had ever carved
he looked it over
feeling pride swell in his chest

isn't labour of love
one good motivation?
giving it a final polish

drying it out
he carefully hid it
tears of joy spilling over

next few days
he waited for the right time
trying to seek out her,

his own flesh and blood
a convenient playmate
for his master's daughter

life took an unexpected turn
for no misdemeanour of hers
his daughter was sold to settle a bet

he threw the carving
smashing it on the wall
his heart broken to pieces

"dry tears of sorrow spilled nowhere"

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

To know where it came from, read my review of Roots by Alex Haley and my subsequent poem, slaves to whom? after reading it.

focussed on death--3WW

sitting on the edge of the tracks
he waited for the train
to end all his travails
when he cut his wrists,
his dad saved him;
when he consumed poison,
mom made him drink salt water.
jumping from a building,
he landed on unseen tarpaulin.
hanging from the fan,
the rope couldn't take his weight.

this time around,
his focus was totally on dying.
tired- he fell asleep
only to wake up to find himself alive.
first delayed and then cancelled train
had yet again saved his life.
getting up he kicked at the tracks,
walked back home to fill his empty belly.

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.

lost to taxes------3WW

balancing the receiver in the crook of his neck,
he went on scribbling something on his notepad;
apparently the phonecall did not hold attention.

in his line of work, he got ten such calls in average
on any given day. good manners made him listen
and grunt his responses, doodling all the while.

one such day, he was found in the same postion
but with a massive heart attack claiming his life;
without a will all his wealth was lost to various taxes.

"same desk, same chair, now his wife had taken over
rebuilding the lost company right from the scratch"

packing my bags--3WW

one of these days I need to pack my bags
putting all that I have needed over the years
that photo album, I don't remember since when
old penny given by my dad when I was twelve
walkman my brother gifted to me at fourteen
silk scarf, my mom presented to me at seventeen
tattered journal, coming apart at the seams
patch of air, damp yet essential
my broken thoughts, belonging only to me
maybe it is human nature to be cautious
and not let go of our comfort zones

"I need to collect all those before I toss them out of my life"

pinpricks------One Single Impression

combing out with fine teeth-
love; she brushed aside
with deliberate moves,
ignoring shards of feeling.
deserted by her;
his depth of love plunged
from soaring sky to deep sea.
pain ceased to matter after a while-
pinpricks still cause trouble,
intestines tied up into knots-
slowly bleeding away both their guts.

"torture by her conscience is what she deserves"

dog and (wo)man------Writers Island

that pug nose tugged at my heart
soulful eyes stared into mine
front paws straightened, he lay down
putting his head sideways on the ground
both with a state of nirvana
we sat on the floor, contendedly
contemplating nothing
dog and human, not so much different
yet our identities separated by species and genus
I softly stroked his ears
a much loved stray, now a part of my life
getting up, he limped to fetch my book

looking at him now who would have thought
he had saved my life by killing my molester
loosing one of his hind leg in the process

eating away at the guts----Totally Optional Prompts

lodging in the crevices
deeply embedded
multiplied by leaps and bounds
virus engulfs the body-
thriving by depleting
it of its strength.
when weakness hits hard,
it is already too late
to get rid of the parasites
which take their own sweet time
to eat away at the guts
before attacking another victim.

"that's their job, I suppose"

Update(May 2, 2008): I have not been attacked by any virus. I am HALE and Hearty!

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.

kaleidoscope----One Single Impression

dark foreboding clouds
give rise to goosebumps
flashing lights behind the eyes
chills the heart
blackness surrounds the mind
shaking up the very grounds
under our feet

"is it not strange we see a kaleidoscope
when we know fear has no colour?"

children's day out---Writers Island

bottles filled with ice-cold water
hampers packed with fresh food
towels, sheets all neatly folded
waiting to be picked up, raring
to go, for that much needed picnic
in the ruined forts in theoutskirts
of the city, to escape for only a day
from the hustle-bustle of daily life

kids were boisterous, filled with joy
each one was up well before dawn
happy to carry all the stuff to the car
squabbling for that all favorite seat
she locked up the doors, soon on the way
despite the noise, listening to songs.
rare moments indeed to have a whole day

with herself, spending time with kids
work has this habit of percolating
everywhere, unwanted, unavoidable
but for today, she left it behind, vowing
to give all to the children and herslf
with no worries of daily drugery
in the morning, no was was up and about
driving was hassle-free, in the empty roads

humming to herself, she kept to her lane
not anticipating the crash of metals,
screams before calm. out of nowhere
a truck without headlights had hit head-on
leaving broken limbs, scattered hampers
souls already on a flight to the unknown.

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

Most accidents in India happen in the early mornings and trucks are involved. This somewhat depicts one such incident.

shapely ghosts---Sunday Scribblings

tumbling one after the other,
the ghosts are spiralling out of control.
although they take various shapes,
I see mostly octahedrons-
maybe the mathematician in me
cannot escape geometry.
cooling blood heats up in no time
as concrete shapes takes the place of everchanging ones.
what is there to fear?
the self, I think, but only for a moment.
my toes curl, and uncurl
as I let go of the geometrical ghosts-
out of sight, sending them hurtling to far away land.

"turning my back, I go back to cooking, slicing onions"