Its New Year and I generalised

Slipping,
slipping away,
the fingers' hold loosening,
another year spent,
another rope loosened.
More suns,
and an equal number of moons.
Be sensible,
there is nothing new,
(pragmatically),
in the new year.
Its always the same
as Murakami puts it
"In the world we live in, what we

 know and what we don’t know are

 like Siamese twins, inseparable, 

existing in a state of confusion."

Everybody is a parasite,

feeding of this confusion.

Yes, I know,

I've done the crime,

I generalised.

But still, 

let me do this at least,

while you all,

drink and dance.

It rained in some far off land

The words aren't
floating in the
air tonight.
Somewhere's rain
has stolen them.
The thunder
in some far off
land's sky-
its not delayed-
it reaches me,
instantaneously,
through you.
I wish,
it was raining
tonight, here outside
my window
and I'd have gone
barefoot in the balcony,
feeling the coldness,
rising up through my feet.
But,its better,
it didn't rain here.
I want the
thunder reaching
me through you.

I miss Delhi...

And a story drifts on the streets of Delhi,

that when somebody asked Ghalib his address
Ghalib simply said
Delhi would be enough.

I miss the mornings
when winter pours on the streets.
I miss the
endless cups of morning tea.

The fog, the serpentine shapes
emitted from my mouth.
The miles of books
on the streets of Daryaganj

and the shopkeeper peeping
with his sublime eyes,
unfathomable layers of wool
covering the rest of his body.

I miss the very breath of Delhi.
The fine courtly Urdu lost in the
whirlwind of time, lost in the
generations of Old Delhi karigars.

What I miss, is the churlish, rough
Urdu, sharp on the tongues of
Jama Masjid's kebab seller,
sharp on the tongue of Chandni Chowk's sweetmeat seller.

And what else,
do I need to write?
I know it,you know it,
even Delhi's mystical air knows it.

That I miss being with you,
I miss, what would have been
long walks in hazy evenings.
When the moon refuses to come out of mist.

Cain

Licentious,
the dew drops fall through.
Promiscuously,
it impinges on the bare skin.
And a few clouds drift apart,
the golden hued Sun oversees through.
Gone are the dew drops,
gleams the skin, like the Harvest's corn.
And, forgotten, is the afternoon,
what remains,
is the wine of the evening,
on a riverside dinner table.
A slow flame of candle,
the eroding wax,
the slight roll of the waves,
the quivering of the forests.
A few more years,
and erased will be everything,
but the smell of the wet pines,
near the Gates of Paradise.

P.S. The poem is in essence dedicated to the Biblical character, Cain who was destined by God to wander forever. And, somewhere, in the middle of his wanderings, he met a beautiful and charming woman, Lilith. I, personally, wrote this after reading the book 'Cain' by Jose Saramago.

3rd floor Apartment window

"Oh, its so still, the velvety silence.
Shhh, did you hear it?"
"Yes, I did,
in the echoes of your heartbeat"

Now, suddenly out of a dream,
the dark corridors have closed their doors.
Your heart's echoes buried in my heart,
my insomnia will now outlast my sleep.

Uncovering my blanket,
I walk up to the window.
The few cars on the street,
make sure the city is always insomniac.

My nerves tingle for caffeine.
I make a cup of black coffee.
Oh, how it slides down my throat,
striking out all that was left of sleep.

I put a Kate Bush record.
And if I only could,
I'd make a deal with God,
And I'd get him to swap our places.

From my 3rd floor apartment,
I take the stairs.
Take a walk in the nightly rustles of the city,
I find myself at crossroads

Big digital screens blinking,
occasional taxi wheezing past.
And endless small, blinking lights.
I'd make a deal with God.

Yawps and Howls

There is a sluice gate onto my heart;
jets of blood and poems are arrested by it.
And when the wolfish poet inside me howls,
the bolts of the sluice gate are tested for their strength.
Who is to blame for the raucous yawps?
Nobody, but you.
Yes, you, the half hidden shadow standing beside a tree.
Aren't you the shadow from that evening,
chasing me ever since.
Come on,
insinuate yourself for the words dripping from my tongue.
You won't do it, isn't it?
Come out of your shell.
Here take it, take the silver bowl.
Collect what drips from my mouth,
my marrow and sinews were waiting forever,
to spout when you're no longer a shadow.
My tracks are bloody,
your half hidden stare from the tree
has been stabbing me.
Through the day, it burns,
you burn me.
and through the night, you stab.
Silence, I need your attention.
Do you hear that?
The sound of my blood gushing,
escaping between the gravels.
Someday, when some other mortal passes that path
through the woods,
he will see the blood stains,
hear the poetic echoes caged by the trees.

The chronicled Depths

In its depths, in the search of bottom,
there is nothing.
A free fall,
something is calling out from even depths greater.
Let me fall,
I've chosen it; no, not chosen it,
the fall has chosen me.
Why light the fire again,
when time had doused the red cinders,
only black plumes had remained.
What rekindles it now.
Its a note long lost in the song,
through its third chorus,
approaching the requiem,
the note strikes like an iron rod,
piercing the mud covered by grass.

Ears & Voice

My ears, forever refusing
to sleep alongside my eyes.
Restless,
they long for a voice.

An eternally sweet voice,
seasoned by Mediterranean's golden sun,
borne from Delphi's prophecy,
bursting forth ever since.

In the veins of spring's grass,
in the autumnal dew,
in the wintry fog,
in the tree trunks

its there biding its time
to meet my ears.
The air can't carry,
for it lacks the art.

Maybe I hear it,
I hear it all the time,
in orotund baritones,
in your honeysuckle voice.

Random VII

Now, when you are walking down
a dark alley,
suddenly, stars flood your way.
The light suffuses you and the darkness.

It burns through your flesh,
turns your bones into ashes.
Swept away by the wind,
your remains are washed away.

For, you'll combine again
when you want,
when the alley's darkness
no longer remains to haunt you,
to hurt you.

Random VI

Broken glasses, empty seashells.
They have swallowed the echoes.

Standing on the shore,
the eternal desolation of waves seeps in me.

The sand is insistent,
it denies the overwhelming by water.

Here, in the empty desolation,
today is tomorrow and tomorrow is today.

Maybe, a ship will come, carry the desolate
or itself become desolate like the broken glasses, seashells.

Random V

Lean from the starboard
of your ship.
The sea is rolling, calmly
each moment, defined,predestined, identical
The full moon makes it a mirror,
an icy blue mirror.
Don't look down, at the sea
the tendrils of your hair
might cleave it,
might break the mirror.
Just look ahead,
reflect the icy realms
of Atlantic in your eyes.

One day

One day, when the soaked raindrops

will ascend to the sky,

and the petrichor of the March of 873 B.C.

will be released from the soil

and the Sun would be new

and the moon would not have born

and the Everest would be a tectonic fault

and all the rivers would be sea

and all the glaciers would be ice again

and all I have done,

would still have to be done.

And then, maybe, I would

do it all over again,

inch by inch, second by second,

breath by breath,

till I find myself again

writing, waiting once again,

for reversals.

. 

Where do you work?

Walking along, the wind whispers in my ears.
The trees warm the songbirds in its womb.
Its a cold chilly winter night,
an old copy of Pushkin's poetry in my hand.
By the moonlight, I try to decipher Pushkin,
some old friend had asked me yesterday
"Where do you work?"
I had simply stared, turned away,
clutching Pushkin tightly.
I work, Neitzsche lights my fireplace.
Being jobless and studying,
a strange and difficult art.
My hunger douses my fireplace.
My thirst slows my pen.
I work at the godown,
I am a carpenter of ideas,
old and new-give me any thought-
I'll fashion it to your time.
I am an amateur thought artist,
infantile brushstrokes cover my notebooks.

Random IV

Across the road,

beyond the glass panes, 

there is nothing,

nobody waiting.

Wake up, wash your face,

look in the mirror.

Search for the remains of dream,

crusted on your eyelashes.

Swim up, swim up

come to the surface of water.

Lungs may not hold up a second more.

Its sunshine, bask in it.

Across the road,

beyond the glass panes, 

music plays, coffee is brewing.

You're not alone. 

Random III

The crimson sky,

swords of sunlight,

fall through the glass panes of my window.

The swords trace 

patterns on my empty notebook.

Its pages white, bright shiny.

My hand in mid air,

pen clung between middle and index finger,

making unintelligible shapes.

White page, shiny, bright,

crimson swords on it,

cut through my conscience.

Long and wasted years

spent, burnt away.

Faces, years, friends, foes, nobodies 

rush past.

Crimson fades, slowly

to light orange.

The swords losing the edge,

the steel melting,

the pores of conscience closing.

Memories turned about,

present restored again.

Light orange, suddenly

drops into darkness.

I light a candle,

near the notebook.

Its pages, white, shiny, bright again.

November,a little bit more smile

November is there again,
its left foot stuck out,
inside the threshold of time.
November, strangely,
does not fall in any season.
Its neither chilly nor hot.
Its sweet, contemplative.
introspecting, light, slightly windy.
The accelerated breezes
just reach a little bit deeper
into the bones,
form a litle bit frost
on the veins.
The hair on the arms,
a little bit more sensitive to November.
Right now,
its a little bit early in November.
A little bit on the wee side of November,
and then,
afternoons will start flowing into evenings.
November,
a little bit more mysterious,
a little bit less light.

P.S. : November owes a little bit sunshine to Thomas Hood and L.M. Montgomery .

Black, Green and White

And, maybe what you see is not the truth at all.

And, maybe, all of it is a stage play.

Maybe, life is a treatise on theater.

You play multiple characters.

Change morals and principles,

according to character's psychology

-each passing second-

change costumes.

Go into green room,

apply glycerine,

apply paints,

chalk a new character.

Umbrella

Outside the window,

snow falls.

White on green grass.

Green encrusted with white.

It falls,

soft cotton like plumage.

Covers the tarmac,

the wooden rooftops.

Beyond the pine covered mountains,

stands a chapel.

A bell

chimes.

Echoing

through the valley.

Snow thickening,

Standing,

leaning against the

window,

without  batting an

eyelash

she

is silent,

listening to the changing notes of chimes,

seeing the ballet of snow

and pine leaves.

Its twilight,

forever twilight here,

like in a Grimm tale.

A glass of wine in her left hand,

twilight,

snow,

bells.

A knock on her door,

snowfall is hailstorm,

the pine trees come rushing

like an avalanche.

She doesn't turn,

wine turns from red to magenta,

the glass tilts,

coloring the snow below the window.

The avalanche nears,

twilight

turns to

dawn.

She wakes up

in an London hospital,

a patient,

hope had long left.

Lou's gone

It ends where it all began-

Sunday Morning-

Lou Reed passes away,

like a single chord guitar sound.

The poet from

New York Central.

The Velvet Underground's Revolver,

Warhol found him sometime in 1967.

Listening to Walk on the wild side,

gives a peek to Warhol's factory.

Drugs, sex, rock & roll-

key ingridients of a simple Lou Reed single.

With all the imperfections,

he still managed to make us see a perfect day.

Some 50 odd years after

the release of Transformer,

I don't know,

if his poetic allusions

required moral justification.

Lou was always the progenitor.

Title yet to come

The rain comes with
all elements of silence
and music,
intact.

After the downpour,
a frog snores
somewhere in the distance,
a lone sound in the silence.

These are strange hours.
But still, there is a thread.
between the rains and sun,
between mornings and evenings.

between dusks and dawns.
I hang by it.
It tries to slip away,
I still hang by it.

Someone lights a candle
in the hut, far away from here.
Its flame blinds me,
in the darkness.

I still hang by it.
The thread has made
deep impressions in my skin.
I still hang by it.

Untitled

What is it?

Its so smooth,flowable at times;

then trivial, ever esoteric.

The pretensions, they haze

what is real.

There are thoughts akin;

There are things to be said;

There are dams to be broken.

And then, 

I expect a surge,

a blissful one

bearing all the sweet fragrances.

Autumn is giving way to winter

outside my window.

The yellowed leaves, 

no longer falling,

no longer visible.

A layer of soil 

now graves them.

The sweet chill in the air,

its not reminiscent of anything.

All this is new.

The moon,

still hangs by the old tree's branch,

now only, I hear its conversation 

with the night.

Here, I dream when awake.

I barely sleep, with my mind empty.

There is beauty

in everything.

There is a bliss

in every second.

The Alchemy of poetry

How does one write a poem?
The alchemy.
Emotions aren't manufactured.
They come out,
oozing,
bubbling,
haphazard.

Its their streamlining,
its the shoring and streaming,
and a poem is made,thus.
Everything, but poetry
is contrived.
Its got no concoction.
Its the pattern out of incoherence.

Kafkaesque

All these faces,
the sets of caricatures,
swimming around.
I, impassive, invisible.

Every hour and moment;
every strand of space and time,
every breath that I take,
it is a riddle.

Everything is pointing,
directing to something.
The final clue,
rests in my self insinuation.

The clue will die,
float up to the surface.
Long after,
the riddle has lost, what it prized.

Ghazal

If the sun refused to shine,
I'd still be loving you.

If the rivers run dry,
I'd still be loving you.

If the mountains crumble down to pebbles,
I'd still be loving you.

If the oceans turn shallow and overturn their mysteries,
I'd still be loving you.

If 'ifs' mark my way beyond,
I'd still be loving you.

If this verse be too short or lame,
I'd still be loving you.

If, I someday, run out of words for you,
You'd still be loving me and I'd still be living you.

P.S. : I'd so have liked the first and third couplets to be my creation. Led Zeppelin's 'Thank You' owes a thanks and is the genesis behind this ghazal.

Cezanne's immortals

Eyes downcast.

After the day's toil.

a country looking cigar

in their mouth.

Decrepit tavern,

a brownish tablecloth,

some unknown country drink

sits on the table.

Or

it must be wine.

It's France, after all.

Orchards are replaced by vineyards here.

Both of them,

mill workers or ironsmiths or carpenters

or peasants,

their eyes intent,

on the game below.

They will not lift their gaze,

they will not take another sip of wine,

they will not part the cigar from their lips

until the game is over.

Cezanne ceased the game, forever.

The game, the peasants,wine,tavern,cigar

and Cezanne himself,Immortalised.

I see the painting.

They're unknown figures.

They'll remain unknown and

immortal.

P.S. : Needless to say, the above masterpiece is Paul Cezanne's The Card Players.

Random

Why else do you think,

I write?

What is me,

is the poem.

Things reflected.

Emotions pellucid.

Eyes can't see through my poem,

your heart can see through it.

*

Hand in hand,

mountains behind,

oceans waiting

to be tread.

The sky turns

empty.

The clouds

hide themselves.

*

Wait.

Wait for it.

It'll come.

It should.

Its due,

forever.

It should come,

wrapped up, ribboned.

P.S. : Random verses, thanks to the * .

       

Letters

A closed envelope
sits in my mailbox.
Yesterday, early morning,
when I was still warm, sleeping

between my quilt and bed sheet,
a postman had come,
his creaky bicycle, rattling
on the winding,

leading to my house.
He dropped it,
in my mailbox.
Who is it?

Who has written to me?
Whose fragrance does the closed envelope carry?
Whose handwriting adorns the letter?
Whose hands have touched this letter?

Which town is escaped in it?
Who has written to me?
The answers sit in my mailbox.
My curiosity is peeked.

I undo the glued envelope.
The letter doesn't bear the sender's address.
The letter has only one line.
I read it and re read it.

I can't understand,
what it says.
It says
"I couldn't simplify myself".

Whitamn's America and Ghalib's Delhi

For Whitman,
America seemed interminable.
For me,
even Delhi is interminable.

When Whitman
sang songs of America,
what was it
but the blooming youth of a nation.

Here, in the ruins of Qutab
and in the imbecile Tughlaq's
incomplete stone palaces,
its the afternoon of time.

It strikes me,
as a poetic fact,
for Whitman and Ghalib lived
so many miles apart

oblivious of each other's
existence,
once muse burning with
a flame to lighten the world.

while the other's
dying,
burnt to ashes,
its phoenix alluding it.

I see translated America
and I see Delhi.
I read translated Ghalib
and I read Whitman.

Poetry,
poles apart.
One of winy grief
and the other of golden hopes.

Translations
conceal the congenital.
They are hiding something,
I can't put my finger on.

The Artist : Part II

There are some places that become the trademark of a city. Champ Elysees was one of those places that took the name and face of Paris to the remotest corners of the world, often through postcards and tales of foreign lands.

Paul and Dr. Dupont had decided to meet at 7:00 pm in a cafe standing halfway through the street. Paul left his home a little early, as he wanted to take a stroll on the street; soaking in the faces, noises, aromas; all of from which he had been isolating himself in his salon and house, located in the southern Paris suburbs. He had bought the house at the height of his career. The house had belonged to a cousin of Cardinal Richilieu, the astute sixteenth century prime minister in the court of Louis XIII. Paul had bought it with all the furnishings intact. Life size portraits commissioned by Richileu hung in each of the rooms. The butler had later informed him  that all these were by Phillipe de Champagne. Paul had settled himself in the master bedroom and established his salon in the living room. The master bedroom overlooked a lake, which was part of the villa. A painting of the lake in the room which showed the ducks sauntering in the lake. He often made it a point to tell the butler about having some ducks in the lake, at least during the summers, but it always slipped in the rush of nothing, in that empty and lonely villa of his.

The sky bore a reddish tinge as the twilight was slowly melting into dusk.The gas lights had just been put on and snow was slowly falling on the streets. These gas lights had been in Paris for a long time now, the first of its kind in any city. " How would this street have looked devoid of these beautiful yellow lights. It was the soul. But then, something always kept its charm." Paul thought. The little droplets caressed his face. A shock ran through his whole body as the snow touched his pale skin. He suddenly remembered his childhood, largely spent in the English countryside where snow always meant the closing of schools and the time for Christmas. His father worked in the Royal Navy. He was an admiral. People in the town often talked about his father with respect. Even the Bishop of the local church, spoke of him with utmost respect. But, it was only on Christmas, for a period of three months, that Paul met his father. He went to places all over the Atlantic, Pacific; taking the Imperial mission to those dark places of Africa and Asia that Paul studied about in school.
"What is the Imperial flag's mission?"Paul often asked his father.
"To civilise those who didn't have the fortune to become civilised"his father replied, looking straight, deep into his eyes.
" And what is to be civilized?"
" Being civilised is when you treat your fellow human being with all the respect, that you yourself as an intellectually prudent creature expect".
His father often bought artifacts from faraway shores and lands. One Christmas, when he was  seven and had just started to show inclination towards arts, his father turned up with the Japanese woodblock  prints. This was not the conventional art form of which he was aware of; this was not even the straight forward canvass painting. But, something about the the wise old monarch printed on that block got his attention. The monarch was looking ahead, while his head was sideways to the viewer. There was a calmness in his eyes. It was as if at that moment, Paul had decided what was to be his ultimate aim in life. All he wanted was to achieve that calmness and peace in his art, although, he was unaware of it at that time. There were several other smaller woodblocks, each showing small intricate designs , brightly colored, but it was the old man's piece that was to survive with him for the rest of his life.

There was a slight chill in the air but Paul was comfortably wrapped up in his tweed jacket, a travelling coat, woolen hat and muffler around his neck. As he was passing, he stopped near an artisan, whose entire salon seemed to take just two feet of the pavement. The artisan had a peasant look about him, covered in ragged baggy pants and jacket. His boots were soiled and he was covering himself in a piece of linen. He had clear blue crystal eyes. He was painting something on his canvas; his eyes tracing every moment of his brush with a calm fervor as if he knew where and when he will put each stroke. Paul was standing facing the back of the canvas. He didn't know the theme of his painting.
"Who are you?" Paul asked him abruptly.
Lifting his gaze, the artisan met Paul's empty eyes with a welcome smile.
" Good Evening monsieur. What shall I paint for you?"
There was a roughness in his tone which suggested  his recent migration to Paris. He was trying to get acquainted in the accent used for addressing the elite class of Paris.
" Nothing. I was just interested in the movements of your hands during those brush strokes."
"Oh. That's my pleasure monsieur. But, would you not like some of my amateur pieces?"
"I shall see them, maybe afterwards. You go on painting, what you were painting. I shall stand here and watch, if its not a problem to you."
"Why would it be? Why would it be, monsieur? The honor would it be all mine".
It was only when the clock struck seven that he finally moved from the spot. He paid 200 liras to the artisan and moved from the spot, without saying another word or turning to look at any of his works.

Walking along, further, he reached the cafe, which was just a couple of yards from the artisan, located on the other side of the road. Entering through the turnstyle, which was a new addition to Parisian hotels, he found himself an empty table, overlooking the road. The in house musical group was playing Etudes by Chopin. Chopin and Beethoven were only the few composers to whom he listened and hence recognised the piece instantly. About half a dozen couples were waltzing in the dancing area, languidly buried in each other's arms, shifting ever so slightly with each note. The pianist was giving a wonderful rendition of the difficult piece, each stroke was exact in time and place. Paul had closed his eyes, looking rather conspicuous with his eyes closed, sitting alone, without a coffee. Suddenly, there was sharp tap on his shoulder. Opening his eyes, he turned his faced and faced a young woman in her mid twenties, elegantly dressed in a green ball gown, her eyes shining with the gleam of recognition. She was Irene, he remembered  with a jolt.
"Hey, how are you? Its been like forever."
" Yeah. I've been...actually, I haven't been in the best of my health. I was taking a break. How about you?"
"I am more than good. Got married this Easter to Monsieur Baudin, the manager of Hotel Ritz in Paris" she said pointing to a short and sturdy gentleman deep in conversation with another gentleman, with a glass of wine in his left hand.
"Ah! Good for you."
By this time, she had helped herself, and seated herself in the chair opposite to him.
" I am sorry. But, I have heard some very discouraging news about you. The piece in Paris Art monthly was so biting that I was very worried"
"What was there in that article, Irene?"
"Oh, so you don't know?" she said, looking surprised.
"No, I haven't been reading newspapers."
She drew a deep breath and said " This was published three months back about the time of my wedding, around Easter. The reporter was skeptical of your whole hibernation thing. She suspected how you might be a spent force in art and that you had nothing new to offer and all your works are cliched. She even went on to doubt your artistic authenticity. I guess, your inaccessibility  furthered her bitter remarks. I am glad you didn't read it. It was whole lot of bullshit".
A silence ensued after this, Paul looking outside the window, towards the road, where night was now thickening.
" You know, the reporter was right after all. I am a spent force, its time I admit it."
"No, not at all. You shouldn't be influenced by all these vile and mean remarks by those mean people out there. One good exhibition and all these people will turn the pen other ways for you. You are beyond their pieces. Take your time. Rediscover what you've lost." she said softly, clutching his hands with hers.
"Yes, I understand." he said, in a reflective tone, a faint hint of smile on his lips.
Taking his smile and reassuring remark as a sign to leave, Irene said" I shall take your leave now, Paul. Take care of yourself. We shall keep in touch" and turned away swiftly, her gown sweeping the Marakkesh carpet covered floor of the cafe.
" Irene." he said, a little too loudly, such that a few heads including that of her husband turned towards him.
"Yes?"she asked.
" Thanks" he simply replied.

Just then, Dr. Dupont made his way towards Paul's table. Sitting on the chair and unbuttoning his coat's buttons, he said" Sorry, I was late because of some university work."
"Doesn't matter."
" Yeah, I know you had company. I saw the lady in the green as I was making my way through the doors. Who that beautiful lady is, might I ask?" said Dr. Dupont, a teasing smile on his lips.
" She is an old friend, with whom, at one point of time, I was in a stormy relationship. She is married now. Her name is Irene. She was just checking on my rare presence in such social places." Paul said impassively.
"Oh! I see, this relationship was before I came back to Paris, is it the case?"
" Yes"
" Dupont, there is nothing to discuss really. I have decided, I am going to America. Arrange the tickets for me on the cruiser."
"Very well. I shall. In fact, the cruiser leaves tomorrow. I shall book you on that. Is it fine with you?"
"Yes."
"Ok, then lets order something. I am ordering lamb steaks with red wine. What will you have"?
"I'll have veal."
They ate the rest of the meal in silence. Dupont, happy with his friend's decision arranged the tickets that evening only.

Not so grotesque

I sit at my desk;
My life is not at all grotesque.
Its good,
in a momentarily sense.

Window pane next to my elbow;
thanks to the assiduous window cleaner,
its stark clean, glassy, clear blue.
Yellow sticky notes,

stick out of files
and thick volumes.
Coffee is getting cold,
its last vapors

forming a hazy pattern
on the glass pane.
An ashtray,
I don't use it.

A dogeared notepad;
a deranged pen,
full of ink.
I write on it.

I sit at my desk;
My life is not so grotesque.

P.S.: Thanks Mr. Brodsky

Every time we say goodbye

Phone blinks,
vibrates.
From what all, 
can I write poetry.

What?
No!
Am I so devoid of muses?
Can't write poetry on my phone.

Let my head move.
Dostoyevsky is killing me.
The green bookmark,
marks my snail pace reading.

What do I want?
Something, Someone.
My heart yearns for John Coltrane.
Every time we say goodbye.

Water Music for sleep

The needle,
the consort of vinyl,
the constant contact,
its point- the touch of reality.

Tracking its concentric circles,
it plays suite no.1 of Handel's water music-
somewhere in Hanover,
King George I smiles in his tomb,

eyes closed , remembering,
the evening on river Thames in 1717;
needle assuming a bigger circle,
suite no 2 starts filling up the room.

The middle of the musical piece,
George I caught up,
in the spell weaved by Handel's music,
the breeze bringing the river's smell,

mixed with the second suite.
Suddenly,
needle overruns vinyl;
Time for B side,


Cover says,
it is musical for royal fireworks-
London bridge illuminated
stars shower down into Thames in 1717

Here,
in my room, sometime in 2013,
needle runs out vinyl again,
light dimmed, I sleep soundly.

Solitude in coffee shops (Philip Larkin stylz)

I
and my solitude,
meet in this coffee shop.
The silent hum of the air conditioner;
soft Brahms piano sonata on the stereo;
Irish flavored coffee,
peppered with an Indian air-
all of these, condiments of my evening;
When I hold conversations with my solitude,
over cups of coffee.

8 lines

Love-
lost count
of the number of times Beatles
used it.

Lyrics turning spurious,
everything burning to ashes,
the ignition after the collusion
searching for allusions.

The lone light source

On a far away mountain peak,
overlooking my hotel room's aluminium framed windows,
shines a yellow pointed light.
The bright red end of my friend's

cigarette clung between his fingers
gives out fumes, tracing serpentine shapes
in the clear night.
"What is that lone light on the mountain?"

asks a friend. I remain silent,
dissolved; my mind far away,
in the search for the light source, leaping
from peak to peak, at times slipping

on the dew drenched grass,
falling in the depths of anonymity .
A cluster of clouds float near my knee,
gives my mind the flight again,

to the lone light source's mountain peak.
In my room here, the question has receded
in the joyous din of the television blaring
out the cricket match.

Rendering me inconspicuous; my body
sans mind, which wanders on the
cloud, conspicuous to peaks and moon;
perched on that peak.

Finally, it has found the
lone light source. The owner
of the light, made a deal with my mind,
not to reveal its secret buried in the mountains.

Falling asleep in a Taxi

Neon lights: taxi-
lights fluoroscent outside-
my eyes fixed on them,
gazing out of my slid down window.

VACCANT-
a motel cries out.
FULL-
cries out another.

Beethoven playing on the radio,
I start melting
into my sleep,
slumped deeper into the taxi's cushy backseat.

A silence,
like the slit on the depths of oceans,
starts depositing,
at my feet.

It muffles,
the swishing of the trucks
and SUVS.
The window pane slides up.

Raindrops start pattering
on the aluminium roof.
Silence reaches my waist,
my driver changes the station,
Lifehouse starts playing You and Me.
It reaches my neck,
No, it does't stifle.
Only lifehouse recedes into a fainting rhythm.
The sound of the rushing engines
start dying out.
Fluroscent is engulfed by darkness.

I,
have melted,
vaporised,
escaped into my dreams.

The curse of the yellow cup

The nerves were smoothed.

The blood didn't rush to the head;

it flowed languidly,

caressing the walls of blood vessels.

The three day old yellow cup

of lipton tea rolled 

on the table-

to and fro, to and fro-

like a pendulum,

cursed for a lifetime.

Its oscillation,

synchronized with the fan

and the breeze.

The leaves outside hummed

a tune, a strange ancient tune.

The breeze,

of course was the artist.

Suddenly,

a leaf flew from the open window,

invaded the sacred space.

The leaf escaped inside the yellow cup.

The cup's curse lifted.

It's oscillation stopped.

Maybe, the leaf was licking

the three day old dried remains of tea.

Was it the breeze or the leaf,

which lifted the curse,

the question

reigned the dreams that night.

Autumn's Symphony

The afternoon sun of September
was flirting with the remains
of the monsoon clouds.

The ashes of the clouds were weak.
Their cinders couldn't reignite.

The last rains,
as September draws to a close-
they are like Schubert's symphony no.9.

They can't listen
to their own music.
They turn deaf,
shining brightest before dying
just like a dying flame.

They do get to see the applause.
After all, yellowed leaves
fall in appreciation.
But, their deafness fills them with anger.
Their composition on their own ears
falls with silence.
They see the notes clung on the staff.
They know each moment
when the movement changes.

The trees are laughing.
They're enjoying the concert;
Who knows
if they will survive the winter,
and the spring and summer,
to hear again autumn's symphony.

Why would he have lived, if not for the memories.

"Ok, so, you want to go, right?"
and she turned away.
"No, not really.
My wishes go with your wishes, you know".

And, now,
remembering those conversations.
Why would he have lived,
if not for the memories.

"What is the difference between existence and living?"
He says,
"I am living right now,
I don't ever want to end up being an existence".

There are slight imperfections
in Schubert's piano sonata in D Major.
Its plain,flat, too easy
not to put your own little strokes.

There are certain memories.
They are not permanent.
They are hypnotizing.
They require triggers.

Schubert's piano sonata
was his trigger.
It was a switch
he hadn't and didn't want to turn off.

Why would he have lived,
if not for the memories.

Dylan and Dylan

When she left him,
Dylan wrote Blood on Tracks.
He sang about loneliness, Lily and Rosemary.
Nobody gave him shelter from the storm.
Ravaged, on the street,
blood covered his tracks.

And here, I am,
on a crisp Friday mid morning,
after two cups of coffee,
listening to Desire.
Dylan sings of Mozambique.
He sings of Isis.
He sings of Black Diamond bay.
He sings of one more cup of coffee.
I think, somewhere in 1976,
Dylan fell in love again.
The blood on the tracks was never washed away,
flowers just covered them.

I was reading a Japanese author,
when Dylan interfered and
snatched my concentration
away from the book
towards

the 100 watt speakers.


I don't complain
because
here, I am,
typing of Dylan.
And, few people
make you type.

The Artist: Part 1

It had not been like this from the beginning. He barely encountered people who smiled, looking at him, in recognition. He felt that the more he was closer to the people, the crowd, culture and the civilization, the more he receded from himself, the more he declined to understand himself, his inner emotions and demons.

Sitting on  a rocking chair, he gazed into the never ending landmass of  Peterhof. Peterhof was a village just a few miles of St. Petersburg. The icy chilly winter of rural Russia had forced him to make a shell around him. He just sat on the chair, reflecting; thinking about those lost years on the streets of Europe.

Food in Peterhof was in plenty. His landlord, Mr. Bulgakov,  who lived in St. Petersburg had provided him with a butler and all the basic neccessities were included in his rent. He woke up in the morning and the coffee and bread were waiting on the bed stand. Since Mr. Bulgakov's house was one of those few homes where electricity was available, hence Paul could enjoy a hot bath in the large Russian style bathroom located at the far end of the hall. The hall boasted of excellent 16th century furniture and a portrait of Ivan-the terrible hung above the opulent sofas.

After his breakfast and shower in the morning, Paul made it a point not to have newspapers in the house and spent the noon in Mr. Bulgakov's excellent library located on the second floor
The large windows extended from the low windowsills to the ceiling. A generous amount of winter light slanted into the library through these windows. It was near one of these windows, between the two bookshelves of Medieval Russian literature and Modern French poetry that he found his secluded island of rocking chair. These days, all he read was the history of the czars. Their blood thirst and abhorrence of all human principles didn't effect him. And, moreover, to his surprise, he even could find justification in the heinous actions of the czars and that is what made him discover this new numbness about him. He was amazed at how unresponsive he had become.

But, he barely read a page, when his eyes strayed outside the windows, onto the barren fields of winter. The expanse of his view ran unpunctuated. No mountain, stream or river obstructed the land encrusted with the snow. The soft light of the afternoon and the electric heater warmed him on the chair. He didn't even remember for how long he had not been into his saloon. He thought that Dimitri, the ever invisible and omnipresent butler, must have cleaned the saloon and taken good care of his incomplete works.

His years in the cafes and saloons of Paris were the most productive ones. He had met and trained under some of the greatest names of the time. His work had received much appreciation at exhibitions in Vienna and Paris. Some people even compared him to Camille Pissario. He had earned a good amount of money in those early years of century when art was thriving in Paris and the financial security encouraged him to explore new avenues in his art form. He had always been from his youth, inclined toward impressionism and the outdoors always inspired him in his art. But , lately, he was experiencing a strong disenchantment from everything related to nature or beauty based on primary views. There was a strong sense, pervading his thoughts, of the things that lay beneath it. He was interested in the actions and emotions of humans, how and why they acted like this and the utter disparity he saw in the industrial area of London seemed to question his very basis of art. He wanted to express, what he saw as the reality, through his brush strokes. But, the moment he tried to reflect the reality on the canvas, his hands froze.

He lived with this artistic block for a year until it became too difficult to face himself. He lay awoke at nights for weeks, thinking about the empty canvasses. He barely ate. His only, friend in Paris, Dr. Dupont often came visiting him due to his deteriorating condition. One evening, as Paul was serving a drink to Dr. Dupont, the doctor could see how he had aged in the bygone year. He had lost a lot of weight. The clothes hung loosely on his shoulders, barely giving away the contours. His eyes and cheeks had sunk. Dr.Dupont, who himself was a psychologist, had been giving him medication and observing him closely.
The doctor said " Paul, I think you should leave Paris for some time.It'll help in your health."
"But its here that I have got all my success" Paul replied.
"I know about it. But the past year, you've been struggling to paint. Your health has been deteriorating.Moreover, being aware of the happenings of the art world will even affect you further."
"Dupont, you're not getting me. My problem is different. I don't have any psychological or a peer problem. Its more of a creative one."
"Then, living in Paris will hardly benefit you because if it had, then you'd not have been in this condition".
Sipping his whisky, Paul seemed to reflect for a moment and then said " If you insist, I'll try that too. But, where shall I go?"
"Go to America. Everybody is going there these days. They say its the new cradle of art.Democracy, equality and every modern principle is being put to test there. If you want, I can arrange a cabin for you on the cruiser?"
"No, wait, Let me think about it. Lets meet tomorrow at the Champ Elysees. I haven't been there for an year".

A city's dirge

After midnight falls,
silence pours in
on the thoroughfares
of an unknown city.

Empty benches wait
for tomorrow's couples.
And, the cigarette stubs of today
are decomposed by the night.

The shops and cafes are sleeping.
Their rolled down shutters,
their cold colors conceal
the warmth inside.

When the dawn breaks
and morning comes
shutters will unroll
and coffee jugs will be filled.

Sandwiches will be served
with french sauce
Newspapers will fly
to the empty balconies.

All shall happen,
but for what?
For the city shall
have long died.

(P.S. The above painting is David Casper Friedrich's Wanderer above the sea of fog (1818).)

The Search

Search of themes,
Characters,
stories.

A bottle of mineral water,
cities crossed in a single bottle.
He threw away the map last night
from a bridge, into that black river.

The smoothed corners of the map,
jeered him.
His search ran against
the map's life.

Tonight, he will throw his watch.
Their hands have enslaved him.
Why should he watch the round dial?
He will break one more bond tonight.

His search,
a series of venegance.

Maybe, a day will come
when he, himself,
will impediment
the search.

And, maybe,
he will overcome himself.
He will break the bond,
one more, in his search.

He will end his life.
The search, incomplete.

What was she to him, anyways?

What was she to him,anyways?
Anyways, but life.
She, who
thawed the ice of solitude.

There was a flow of time,
like Archimedes' moments.
Every league,
marked by her subtleties.

He never charted
the depths of the monologues,
which breached
his solitude's quietness.

Now, when his eyelids meet-
a world of vapours unwraps-
those silvery moments
ceased in the grey vapours.

What was she to him, anyways?
But life.
What is she to him, anyways?
But memory.
What will he be to her, anyways?
But decadence.

A couple of dogs

She stands,
on a lonely stretch of road.
An unmapped creek
flows beside.

The road not taken,
she knows the lines by heart.

She has not come here,
due to a promise or a meeting.
She comes to this road,
everyday, to meet nobody.

A couple of dogs
always walk up to her,
through the oaks-
their paws always bloody.

They don't bark.
They just communicate,
in the doric columns of moonlight.
She treats them,
applies antiseptic and bandage.

And, they cross the creek.
Swim across it,
with just their head
floating above the water.

But, today
a wolf will come.
She knows it.
With clean and sparkling teeth.

And when the wolf
crosses the creek,
the clear water
will be smeared with red.

She waits for the wolf.
She has forgotten the watch.
She waits for the nobody.

A brief ode to Silence

If there was so much silence,
an eerie quietness.

If there was an unforced silence.
Not like-They make a desolation and call it a peace.

Then, I would immerse in this silence,
let myself be steered by its currents.

I would say, all I have to say to you,
in the sips of my coffee.

I would listen, all I have to listen to,
in the changing pitches of your breath.

I would understand, all I have to understand,
in the furtive movements of your eyes.

Such would be the silence,
and such would be our conversation.

The Absurd Ghazal

No, not another verse
on existentialism.
Enough of it.
These days, what I write
hardly counts as verse.
I feel an utter randomness
hazing the pattern-
the pattern-
that always reassured me.
On this 10th line,
I don't know
how this verse will end?

229 seconds,
I am still stuck on
this 15th line.

And then Thom Yorke
pierces my heart
with his icicle like voice.
I am lost
in the bends,
no green clearing
all is a confusing mix
of black, brown, maroon.

The rain,
it has taken its flight
for England again.
Everything-
me, the rain, and IC engines-
all is absurd.
And it nauseates.
It places a spark plug
in the dormant brain,
blasts off
all that was phony,
pretentious-
and a white layer
of absurd remains.

Artaurd's defiance
in the theater of cruelty-
the cries ring in my ears-
clearly.
Reality,
purity displayed as putrid.
There was a honesty
in the cries.
There was
nothing absurd.

No reason at all,
no consequence,
no phony emotions.
What you call filth
is beneath the beauty.
Its the filth
that I want to see.

Beauty is absurd.

Midnight Brain Damage

The lunatic is on the grass.
The lunatic is on the grass.

A cool breeze wafts
through the open doors,
standing ajar,
welcoming breezes and insects.

I slip, slip deeper
in my chair
weaved out
of the bamboo sticks.

The lunatic is in the hall.
The lunatics are in my hall.

Oh!,bamboo
A green covered paperback,
swimming before
my closed eyelids.
It was the Hungry Tide.
Sunderbans, tides, mangroves, crocodiles
Houses and boats built of bamboo,
Wait! Concentrate.
A storm,
my chair shredded to pieces.

And if the dam breaks open many years too soon
And if there is no room upon the hill

No, I don't fall.
where is the hard ground of my room?
My eyelids still closed. No, stuck.
I hear the roar.
The river's roar
coupled with a tiger's.

And if your head explodes with dark forebodings too
I'll see you on the dark side of the moon.

On Goddard's Breathless

Jean Luc Goddard's movie À bout de souffle ( Breathless) was never in the mainstream cinema. And, neither ever, it will be. The movie was genre defying for its times. Goddard's fearless direction proved to be pivotal in making the film a classic.

Back in 1960s, Goddard and his contemporaries often discussed in the French cinematic circles about their search of something new. Their desire and passion to carve out a separate identity for French cinema led to what we know today as French New wave. 

Goddard never liked the idea of a novel-adapted cinematic culture.He was absolutely averse to it. The director, in his views, was more central to a film rather than a writer. The script need not be a thriller or intense love story to make a good movie. Goddard with his excellent direction could make seemingly everyday stories involving. This was a clear cut rebellion against a system where Alfred Hitchcock movies were striking gold at the box office.This was a quest for modernism in cinema, akin to what had happened with literature four decades back.

Breathless starts off with the character of Michel- a petty criminal who steals a car- murdering a policeman who is on his trail. Helpless and penniless, he turns for help to his American girlfriend Patricia. Patricia is a young girl, studying journalism at university. Her character defines the modern American woman in Paris; one , who is easily absorbed in the quiet and comfortable hustle of the city. Her ideas about sex and relationships seem to be heavily influenced by the feminist writers of France. Sleeping with random men doesn't in the least of ways shapes her moral personality. At one point of the film, she says "It's sad to fall asleep. It separates people. Even when you're sleeping together, you're all alone."

 Michel is very much aware of this fusion of French-Americanism and is very vocal to her about how he enjoys sleeping with her and while on the run, he accosts her in the middle of Champs Elysees and offers sleeping with her that night. At another point in the movie, he goes to her hotel room and declares his love for her. She thinks over it. Their conversation on the hotel bed has some of the most extraordinary dialogues of all time. When she asks for sometime for thinking , Michel says "Women will never do in eight seconds what they would gladly agree to in eight days." There are many cultural allusions that are used in the movie.Michel is generally unaware of these references. 

This is seen when Patricia asks him "Do you know William Faulkner?"

"No. Who's he? Have you slept with him?"

Patricia starts sleeping with him, granting him asylum. She knows he has stolen a car but she is unaware of the killing. In no time, Michel's face is all over the newspapers.The police starts trailing him and also questions Patricia about his whereabouts. She denies accquaintance. But , when finally, Michel finds a hiding place through a mafia friend of his, Patricia faces a dilemma. Before sleeping there, she hints him about her tenuous and subjective idea of love and 'sleeping together' " Don't count on me. I sleep with a lot of men". In a sudden of chain events, she informs the police about him while buying the milk next morning. She very coolly tells him about this and asks him to escape. He escapes, and is shot on the street. 

Dying he says " That's really disgusting". 

To this, Patricia asks the detective "What did he say?"

Detective replies" He said"you really are a bitch.""

The movie finishes right on the street scene. There is no climax. Goddard in his portrayal of the city life brilliantly showcases the monologues and conversations. There is a minimalism in the direction and story. The post production work is perfunctory. Goddard never aimed for the smoothness in his cinema. He had his flaws and that is what made his cinema real, everyday. The dialogues mattered the most for him. He worked on them like a carpenter perfecting each exchange.

Its more than half a century from its release. During the movie, Patricia once asks Michel "What is your greatest ambition in life?"

"To become immortal... and then die."

I feel there was a shadow of Goddard in Michel's reply.

Reading Dickens in 21st Century

It always intrigues me as to, why Charles Dickens, to many seems to be the ultimate paragon of the art of novel writing. Any bookshop’s segregation devotes at least a shelf to Mr. Charles Dickens novels. All these works, that have enjoyed the epithet of classic, for over a century now, are hefty for the eye and hand. Every reader is handed down Dickens at some point or the other in life.

Dickens was one of the greatest, reigning and holding sway over the European literary world, when European arts and culture were at the cusp of modernism. What was to come in a few years was completely different to the Victorian style of prose employed by Dickens. The range of characters, settings and highly descriptive prose of Dickens have become his trademark.

One of Dickens’ most reputed works, A Tale of two cities, which, contrary to all relationship models between bestsellers and literary substance, is listed by Wikipedia to be the bestseller of all time. In A Tale of two cities, Dickens dealt with the theme of duality. He just not used it but staged it on the grandest scale possible in his depiction of Paris and London, separated and joined , by the English Chanel. The very first line, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times”, shifts the prose from a singular form to a dual one, as if , there were two planks on which the reader is standing and steered forward  by a fine and delicate balance. The French revolution, where the entire set of characters molded by Dickens is thrown in, was both a strong and highly universal background at that time. French Revolution, with the peasentry and lower strata of society revolting against the age old injustices done to them by the aristocrats, was the first of its kind of social upheaval anywhere in the world. The perseverance of people had reached the limit and the angst with the system led them to ask questions both from themselves and their fellow beings. This growing resentment is very much palpable in the Book I of A Tale of Two Cities .

However, it was the storming of the Bastille -that Dickens uses with much precision- that was symbolic of the revolution. Dickens very deftly shows the post revolutionary period. The lack of government, public trials, widespread apathy of any kind of institutions and class become the guiding principles of the French society. The fact that the book was published in 1859, 70 years after the French revolution, was in itself a stroke of brilliance by Dickens. At a time when the younger generation was growing disenchanted with paying obeisance to the upper class, Dickens tapped into the undertones of the society. The book was very topical and pertinent in its content, ideas and at the same time, maintaining the virtues of a pleasant read.

But, what is it, that makes the book enjoyable even now, in the third century of its publication? The times have changed; most of the countries are not plagued with the same  social prejudices, even the revolutions that we are seeing (in the Middle East) are of a different character.

We live at a time in history, when class and categorization are starker than ever before, even though few of us acknowledge it. The rich are becoming  richer and the  poor poorer. The disparity and gap is humongous. The divide, whether on social or economic background, is something innate to any society. Dickens explored the fact on a social scale while we find ourselves facing this on a far reaching and wider panorama.

The Tale of two cities, is and always will be the perfect novel. Charles Dickens wrote at a time when authors often came from the upper class genteel society. Dickens on the other hand had spent his childhood in dark and dingy slums and not in lavish English gardens. Hence, he always had an inherent duality in him- something every author aspires of.

On Sartre's Nausea

Jean Paul Sartre's Nausea stands out as the best work of philosophical fiction, as I would like to put it, in the entire 20th century. The book, released in 1938, came at a time and place, when philosophical duels were happening with so much fervor and passion, as had not happened from the time of Socrates in the western world.

Nausea, by Sartre's own admission, is a work based on the philosophy of existentialism. The book centers around a character called Antoine Roquentin, a troubled writer and lonely man residing in the French town of Bouville. It falls in the nouveau roman(new novel) category or fictionalized fiction wherein the protagonist is trying to write a great work of literature and his struggle of writing this book in turn becomes the novel.

Roquentin is a lonely man. His life is very much routined. There are no adventures as such. He is trying to write a book on the life of Marquis de Robellon, a 18th century diplomat. He goes for walks in parks, sits for hours in libraries and takes his meals at Cafe Maleby. At the library, he meets a man, whom he calls Autodidact.Autodidact is a humanist whose sole aim seems to be reading all the books in the library; his reading goes on alphabetically according to the name of authors. Roquentin has some intermittent conversations with the Autodidact. In these conversations, Roquentin mentions how he has travelled the whole world from Asia to the Africas but there is no evidence of this and all this might be happening due to his mental state.

But Roquentin can't write the book with the pace as he would have liked to. Often, in cafes or in the street he is struck by an acute ailment which he calls nausea. This ailment isn't physical, there is something philosophical behind this. Roquentin is in a fight with the whole city. He is irritated by the bourgeois of the city; their superfluous nature. When, on a Sunday, he walks on the streets, he is struck by the crowd of people, their actions and habits that don't ever change. In these periods of nausea, he asks why does he exist? What is existence? He can't help it when every object around him-tree, chair, bird- starts peeling off the layer and shows what's beneath it.  He is driven to think that there is no reason for existence at all. He has attained freedom and might as well end his life and hence the existence. He sees the trees as carrying off their existence as a sign of their weakness, the roots and branches do what they have to do out of their functionality. He says that the trees go on with their existence because they can't end it. He finds everything superfluous and says that the seat on which he is sitting might as well be a dead donkey. He sees people in the cafe and thinks that one of them belongs to the same group as himself. Often he writes about his ex girlfriend Amy , who suddenly sends him a letter to meet her after five years. During their conversation he discovers that he and she think very much alike. Hence, chances are that both the Autodidact and Amy are echoes of his own personality. Roquentin abandons the idea of writing his book and says" He can't write about the existence of past when his own existence is superfluous".

Sartre uses the idea of contingency or randaomness through the fictional character. Roquentin, when under one of the attacks of nausea,  says that under everything that has got a name or which exists, there is a superfluidity. We call the 'tree' a 'tree' because we can't call it a cat or dog. There is a randomness in his own life " I am going out because there is no reason of my not going out ". It ridicules him to see everything in this world carrying its miserable existence, their name; while he can see the absurdity of all this. When he abandons writing his book, he feels there is no reason for him to carry on with his life. He feels a freedom like he had never known before. He sees this randomness as the absence of making choice. He has relapsed into a nothingness. He has found the absurdity of his life.

Sartre ends the novel, when Roquentin decides to leave for Paris but misses his train when he passes out in a hotel of Bouville listening to jazz. He thinks that he has to write a great book, something which goes beyond the mundane existence.

Nausea isn't just a book on existence. It's a book which rekindled the flame of philosophical debates that had been dormant for years now.

How shall i recognise you?

When you do come,
after crossing the oceans,
how shall I greet you?

How shall I recognise you?
On the airport,
among the myriad faces,
the cafes, the hustle,
the glint of greeting somewhere,
the frantic search somewhere else?

(Dear reader,
you are wrong to think that.)
Because this is 17 September,1974.
No mobile phones, no emails.

Just some letters,
hastily written,
the pen bearing your brunt.

No telephone calls either
for I never had a home
nor telephone.

Just some letters
how shall I feel your presence?

I know,
America has changed your handwriting.

But, I shall wait,
till the Boeing slides in the hangar
Till another Boeing
comes from London,
I shall wait, even if,
America has
changed your face.

Unknown Titles 2

I see,
you have become old,
not grown old;
Just become.
Your face is what
but a lump
of crinkles, cracks, crevices.
Something leaks out of it.
Something slimy, clammy, yellowish, demonic.

My eyeballs are stretched
to the limit.
Your torso is visible in the yellow pool.
Does your lower half still possess legs?
Or are you a centaur?
Is this a metamorphosis,
liken to Gregor Samsa?

The liquid reaches my toes
It climbs up my legs.
It has already tinged
me with yellow.
It gains my bodily altitude fiercely
as if my heart houses a magnet
for the liquid.

Your eyes flutter
for an instant.
Something you want to say
but the quick flutter subdued by forces unknown.

Now the cracks have opened wide.
Streams of yellow shored by you.
There is a mirror behind you,
visible through the widening streams and creeks.
I see myself in it,
but not me, not me.
Not yellow,
but red, blood red.
Not cracks,
but holes, widening diameters.

Unknown titles

People, things,
trees, bushes, tentements,
catchments,
Those misshapen mountain
Matted by verdure,
incomplete masterpieces of God.
They lay arrayed on the arid canvas.
The canvas, still present,
waiting for redemption,
in near future
from past's abandonment.

The canvas is strewn
with images
It tests my vision's expanse
Too much to behold,
as I rattle by
Click, click, click, click,
A rhythm beneath my foot
Or wait, listen tactfully
Is it the symphony
purely synthetic,
borne out of iron, diesel and slightly poetic?

Now, descending from heart of this verse,
you have reached its knee
on which it stands, staidly.
What is that tapering serpent in the sky?
Maybe, the iron monk
is breathing out.
The monk pierces the air,
slithers over water, slowly
on its iron mates.

The time, at which its written
is three ceturies
past industrial revolution.
Why now? It's highly unsuitable.
Maybe, I am pastoral
Now that idylls have become soul less
Synthesizers have replaced clarinets
Somethings always return, neverthless.