Saturday, December 29, 2012

gospel

i listen
i listen
to my words
for you


no
do not mistake these 
words
and no
do not dismiss
them as words
of flesh
they aren't

they aren't merely

words 
of the flesh
they are 
words
made by flesh
given body through flesh
and fed on blood
coloured 
in the colours of rainbow
and every imaginable 
unseen hue


my words
knocking on your door
to become your words
and your words becoming
my veins
carrying
life
to my heart



and i listen
i listen
to my smiles for you
my smiles waiting at the turn of the corner
waiting for you to appear
so that they can become
your smiles

and no

do not mistake these
smiles
do not think of them
as a lullaby 
masking something sinister 
something deceitful
decorated with marquee lights
burning bright
and killing moths and butterflies
alike

your smiles

becoming
my arteries
carrying
the meaning of life
from my heart
to the rest of my
body

my limbs
glistening
after listening
to the combined gospels
of your words and smiles
the gospels
according to
St. You

Friday, December 28, 2012

letter in smoke

i write letters
in smoke
standing by my window
against the black parchment 
of the night
i write in white
can you read them
do they reach you

each curve of the letter
an offspring of a fire stoked
coaxed and cajoled
i run my fingers 
through these smokey alphabets
to make sure they are perfect
and are spelled perfectly
the shape of the letters
is the state i am in
is what i wish to convey
these letters are a compilation of
all the things i wish to say
but never could
for since early on
this knowledge i did gather
some letters i will write and
them i will send
some letters i will commit on paper
but never send
some letters 
the ones that will matter
the most
when the day ends
i will never be able to write
or send
but will 
still
be able to recite from memory
this letter that i write
in smoke
standing by my window 
is one such letter
and there is a reason
i write it with smoke
one reason is it flows
with movements so fluid
unrestricted
unbound it soars
is another
taking the shape of the air around it
the shape of air within me
from which i created it
one blow
at a time
much like how you
take the space
instead of the air
that surrounds me
and just like you
take the shape
of my thoughts
starting from the bottom of my belly
to the shape of the tip of my tongue
and a pear shaped teardrop
shapeshifter
you
inside me
rearranging me
inside out
and quite similar to that
is what i try to do
as i stand by my window
and write these letters 
in smoke
and i ask
can you read them
do they reach you
because when they do
i wish you'd inhale them
and through these letters
i'd enter you
and try and see
if i have what it takes
to rearrange a bit of you
just the way
you
so effortlessly manage to do
so i stand
and i write
this letter in smoke
a long five paged letter
of which page one
has all the things i want to say
and the remaining four are mere repetition
but about that i shall not care
not too much
for the night too
is long
and the smokey ink
endless
and so is my need
to stand by my window
and write
against the black parchment
of the night
in white
a thick dense smokey white

Friday, December 21, 2012

wholesome

wrinkles

wrinkles 
and
stretch marks
and love handles

i handle with love
the handles
and even the remaining two 
above

i see me differently as i
realise
that i am capable of seeing you
differently
that i see these differently
that your imperfections
don't exit
not for me

and just to use that word
is a thought crime
so this i will do
scratch it out
tear it out
burn it out
out of our dictionary
and every other 
because really
moans
and rasps
and licks
and feels
and my hands running 
through the meadows
of your body
your body
in its entireness
can never be that

it is different
i know that you can tell
i know you know how
different
different from how others may see you
or not see you
at all

but
then again
there isn't room enough 
for others
there is just room
for the two of us

on those wrinkles
and stretch marks
and love handles
and those birthmarks
and moles
and cuts and bruises
and scars
which have found a permanent
home
on your skin

i curl around their length
i espouse their breadth 
i move in circles
with a mild sense of ecstasy
building up
rapidly
and a full-blown sense of
a conclusion
foregone
around their circumference

with shaky
want-filled fingers
oozing desire
at the fingertips
i count them
these wrinkles
and stretch marks
and make constellations
joining one mole
to that scar
hoping
at least one 
would spell my name

like a man blinded with love
only that i'm not
i read them in braille
that i see these
i see these differently
clearly
endearingly
with wide open eyes
i search for our stories
and time spent together
which bloomed into
countless memories
and i only ask you to turn around
and lie on your stomach
because i wish to read
i wish to read more of it
all of it
uninterrupted

and i shall make 
ivory boats out of 
your birthmarks
and set us aboard them
and set us to sail
far away
deeper 
into 
us

birthmarks

and love handles
and those stretch marks
and moles
and cuts and bruises
and scars
and wrinkles

wrinkles

bookmarks
of our time together
folded
heedfully
in satin sheets
of our combined flesh
i shall keep

Wednesday, December 19, 2012

playing chequer with the sky


The clear blue sky lies still, unmoving. In a constant stare down contest, unblinking, it looks down upon us, us below, as we look up to it, with silent prayers, hissed curses, adamant indifference and a fleeting hopefulness.

The sky was still that day, like most days in May; the sky was sullen that day, as it is in most days in January; the sky was unrelenting that day, as it is in most days in September, perhaps marked with a few clouds, but still just as unflinching, taking upon the countenance of an old soul with furry brows, and weak, watery eyes, but still seeing things more clearly than most, still unblinking. That is understandable. Once you have seen most part of life, you are increasingly less likely to come across something that can look back straight into your eyes and force you into submission, force you to look away. That is the nature of the sky, regardless of the colour of the velvety robe it adorns. That is the character of man too, in some way, as we impotently trade a smooth robe for an old, wrinkly one.

The sky was still that day. He felt it deserved a few clouds. He lazily leaned back into his chair, took a deep drag on his cigarette, the cigarette he held in his right hand, like one holds a pen, the left arm behind his head, and his right leg crossed over his left one, which was stretched, like that distant relative every family has, or most, one who is not concerned with the going-ons of the family, but feels the uncontrollable urge to make his or her presence felt every once in a while, mostly in matters of little or no weight.

He exhaled a few heavy, cotton ball like smoke clouds, against the backdrop of the perennial sky. “There you go,  your allowance of clouds for the day.” He said and sniggered, a wheezy snigger.

Just then, he saw two pigeons glide across the sky, in perfect harmony, such synchronized movements, like ice skaters. The grace, the timing, the comfort they shared with each other and the willingness to share the sky. Sublime beauty. And then he saw the sky again. Unblinking, still.

“Does a sight like this not touch you in some way? Does it not make you warm up and turn a loving pink or some such shade?” 

And then the sky spoke. “They glide with such ease that it hardly seems that they are moving. They become a part of me, as still as me. What reason can I possibly think of, to thank them for? If anything, I am stiller than they are.”

Just then, the pair of pigeons flapped their wings together. Movement! The sky finally had some movement. And with that movement, dawned the knowledge that a course was being covered, that a journey was being undertaken, that some distance was being cut. The sky which a few moments ago, seemed gigantic and undefeatable due to its sheer unending stretch, now seemed like any other road, lane, by-lane, which has a point A and a point B. The sky was made small by that dancing pair of pigeons.

“You blinked.” He said and smiled a satisfied smile. “There, now you have your reason to show some gratitude.” He completed his sentence. Closed his eyes, his left leg, still playing the perfect distant relative and the sky, at that moment, was gifted a few more clouds by him. 

Wednesday, December 12, 2012

have you seen death singin'?


out of a whorl, into a rainbow

a little something inside
starts to whorl 
every time
that little girl 
standing
facing the sea
stops smiling

i stand at a distance
and watch her
it could be me
or the sea
either one
or both
who
shrink a little

and then i look
at the back of her hand
with which she 
wipes the smile off her face
and whisks the tears away 
from her cheeks

and i am filled 
with this inquiry
so magnanimous
magnanimous enough
even for the sea

that tiny little part of her
the back of her hand
holds so much
together
her smile and her tears

and i stand at a distance
and watch her
and this non-believer
of everything divine
or anything great 
and lordly
or heavenly
me
cannot help but feel weak
and i summon my most effective words
and conjure the most 
magnificent images
to the best of my ability
these words and images
my efficacious replacements
for a believer's prayers
i whisper a wish
a wish which i wish
is roaringly loud
and heard
heard by the
Scales
the one true entity
that can claim superiority
the balance of the nature
which pampers
and spiflicates
all things
while still cuddling them
in her lap
and maintains the randomness
of this universe
sometimes a gift
sometimes a curse

this is my wish
and you cannot but manifest it
this little girl
weeping
smiling
standing
facing the sea
do you see her
like i see her
and do you see the 
back of her hand
the domicile 
an uneasy unified and a harmonious one
of her tears and her smile

see it
i demand
with a clear eye
under a clear sky
in witness of the clear waters
make a rainbow for her
make a rainbow for her
every time her smiles and tears
meet
and mate
at the back of her hand
this isn't asking much
she deserves
this much
and this is how rainbows 
usually work
don't they
a single white light
pierces a single drop
like a lover does
meet his lover
and becomes a part of her
and then splits her
into different colourful shades of her
a colourful band
which was hidden 
somewhere deep inside her
you have the light
her smile
you have that drop
her tears
make a rainbow for her
i demand you must

and till this wish is heard
i pledge before myself
and her
in spite of the fact
that invisible is how she sees me
that i shall stand
watch her
never leave 

i shall watch
till the sea shrinks to the size of her tear
and i shrink to
nothing
but i shall not move
before that
and i won't be able to 
move
after i see the rainbow
made for her

till that happens
she is
i am
the sea is
and the back of her hand

Tuesday, December 11, 2012

resile


























bloom

can i bring you to bloom
can i say the things that would make you
can i be your spring
can you be that one singular tree
in the midst of my vast landscape
and still not feel solitary
because you would want me
because you would have me
your spring
waiting to be
engulfing you
every petal 
that is you
your neck
the delicate stem
and fingers
the leaves
would you
play this
me
surrounding you
when the wind blows
with your gentle 
fingers
waving in the wind
play me like your piano
or a flute
play our tune
would you

why 
wouldn't you?

what do i want
do i want 
something 
that is so much
that it cannot 
find a place inside you
somewhere
even if just a little corner
inside you
is fine 
because i intend to
take that small corner
and build a home
and be the spring
surrounding that home
and you'd live inside that home
wouldn't you
it would be like
you living inside me
as i live inside you
and layers of us surrounding us
when the sun rises and when it sets
and when it sets 
the layers
come closer to each other
wrapped warm and tight
and assuringly
looking at us
telling us
it is us
and that they need to
entwine around us
asking us to let them
and i would
would you

why 
wouldn't you?

and a star
a morning star
a beautiful dawn
a divine morning
you are
you already are
but would you let me 
be
something more
something bigger 
than i am
something like
your fragrant spring
you the morning
and me your early spring dew
resting on your petals
and leaves
and stem
and
fill you 
with rapture
why wouldn't you
when you already are
so much
why wouldn't you 
let me
be
even this much
let me 
be
please
do this much
let me be your spring
that makes you bloom
would you

why 
wouldn't you?