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.