my first haiku

temple bells...
morning dreams clang
with one another

Screech

go dumb, i plead
but my mouth screeches on

to his obvious
shock

cracking his ego
chip by chip-

now sticky eggshells
lie all over
the sink

my voice so new
sinks into a gulp

and births a squeal
like the one you hear at
slaughterhouses

he questions my discipline
and decorum too
searching, i find them

gone with my
long-wed silence

Fossilized Fear

My fear confounds

the living into death walls

and remains unpeeled long after

the mask is put to rest.

Unknown faces scorch holes in memories,

thawing cells that are now fossilized for eternity.

My eyes droop, aware of body-chilling

icicles that pierce out through toe-nails.

Known masks, like paroxysm,

asphyxiate, fusing my breath into

a sulfurous void.

A leach upon my life or a stalking lover,

it gnaws at my flesh as I succumb slowly,

hoping,  palpitating for a wisp of air,

as I breathe in more fear. 

a tanka

the sky jilts
pink hues for the blue...
a chameleon
blurs into the bushes
sensing my displeasure

a micropoem

the sky 
surprises me each day 
with a gift – 
today, it's a poem

Erasure Poem made from 'Lady Lazarus'

Made from Kamala Das' 'The Looking Glass'

 Made from Kamala Das' 'The Looking Glass'

Black Out poem: traitor

My first Black Out poem. Thanks to Shloka for introducing me to the form. :)

From: A Tale of Two Cities

I'm No Toy for Meat-Eating Men

You are ashamed to
See my limbs?
Those long trunks
Chiseled to
Sinful perfection
Caressed stealthily
On trysts and nights
But sin in daylight.
"Clothe! Cover!"

Cover up your eyes,
those meat-eaters
Pluck them out
You vegetarian men!
Gnarling at my body
No land of your's
Like dogs
Over a piece of meat.
Eyes,
Meat-eating
vegetarian dogs
Are you also ashamed
Your voyeuristic words don't sting
My womanish honeyed ears?
Or is it the
Looming failure
I see in your eyes?
Or is it rage
Of the soon to-be-carcass?
You taught me shame
And it burns
My heart to
Kick you in your face
with the butt of
A revolver licking blood.
And tell your
Meat-eating eyes
"Don't teach me shame
I am never ashamed."

Monkey in a Blue Hat

Vultures vilify,
hissing venom
prying on monkeys and fur.

Tongues wag, tails wag
they go on 
and on, until
they could.
Tongues and tails,
tails and tongues
on and on.

A monkey in a blue hat.
Oh! that's bad
that's bad
monkey's don't wear hats
and no, not blue!

so vultures cry
tongues do pry
and so,
and just so
the monkey in a blue hat
shuns the hat

and thinks 
that gratifies vultures.

The Coming

You come

You always come

When I shampoo my head

Waters streaming down

The drain…

You come

You take me unarmed

When I sit on the garden wall

Gazing gaping at

Colluding squirrels on

Coconut trees.

You come

Trying to catch those

Bushy tails

And prance right

Under my eyes

Sly fox! Coy lover,

Muse, you come,

You always do.

Ah! you know when

I am unarmed.

Hidden behind those lilac

Curtains,

The space your living

A mirage,

You come.

If only windows

Had tongues!

Your evasive elusive

Tiptoes feed my mind,

My eyes, and

I gaze more and more

And more wide

And you still come

You always come

As you do

On rainy nights

Those pearl drops clinging

Sliding down electric wires

You gurgle at them

Cooing, counting,

You come in drops-tasting.

You come. 

Note: I address Poetry/Words in this poem. It is all about how poetry entices me.

Touch

Touch
and bloody thy hands, or
go non-perceived
the words, me,
unspoken,
only ripped off
by force or silence.
Or sometimes love.
It is pain enough
to utter-
to deliberate and
yet pace
the breathed,
nurtured, tasted
and gulped 

words.

Gluttony

A life of insouciance
like a fat moth
sits, pries on
daily chores.

Wobbly legged fat bellied
Abundance cringes in disgust
at poverty.

A hunger where
more is less, less is none
gobbles up brains
gnawing on finger nails and
even toes.

Heavy now, the moth
settles in for the day
Minds too can be
guilty of gluttony.

Tears I have no answer for

Tear me apart

if I know the reason

the reason why

like menstrual blood oozing out

in anger and pain,

my raw eyes

send out

these vain tears

in gushes,

and waits to be

wiped!

Wiped out of grief and agony

like one possible.

Ah! dumb dreamy eyes,

lacking logic.

I envy you waters

of those filled eyes,

brimming with reason

of pain or destiny or love.

But pity not

these tears,

tearing themselves apart

ever in search for a reason

like a nameless child.

As they, like wanton saplings

break my crumbling walls

and flow down in deeps

in search of a reason:

a reason for their birth,

in these deep cups

ever brimming

with waters of life,

lacking reason!

And flowing down,

dry and ebb away

on the uncared for,

plain cheeks.

Lying on the side lower berth,

I head towards…

Vast brown fields

With browner trees, tall sandy shrubs,

And leaves thickly plastered with dry mud,

making them doubly heavy.

A lone electric pole- the only companion

to an empty bench.

A deserted Maranjhiri

Except for a khaki man with a stick.

A dull red clads the dull green folliage.

The Maker has used the same brush in all His laziness!

She is bright.

And loves bright colours.

She may not like this place.

Yet how I wish she were here!

I should get her a yellow dress.

I will.

Ah! How I miss her!

Many poles run

In the red mud-clad land.

Dry and desolate.

A poet would have written a great poem.

Or a painter would have done a masterpiece,

picturing also the two little boys.

The train enters a dark tunnel.

Shouts and laughters

Light again.

Oh! Gone now!

My life?

Ha ha! May be.

Alone,

As I’ve always wished

On a long train journey

Just the setting sun and music for company,

Makes me remember her,

long for her.

Pale orangish, lemony yellow

Does the sun scatter on me.

Grateful to the long window,

I never ask my eyes from it.

Silent and peaceful inside,

away from home I go.

Yet I carry not regret,

nor pain.

I am rather at bliss.

I have chosen this loneliness…

“Chaaai?” No, not now.

My eyes still swallowing the fiery dry vastness,

is hot.

The sand would have pricked my eyes

if I had travelled in sleeper class.

The train slows down…

Comes to a halt.

Have I reached?

No, not yet. Not yet.

I have a long way to go…

A long travel.

A lot many poles to be passed.

A lot many trees to be crossed.

And a really long way to go…

(first published in Cornucopia, a college magazine)

Trail the mind

Trail the mind as it goes dry,
a trickle & nothing more
so soon, soon swoons

Time a beggar
and I the tricked
Walk parched brown lands
Counting cracks 

Of lost steps & wishful 
thinking. An urge and
a rightful anger.

Photo Courtesy: Nandha Kishore

alone one afternoon

Sometimes, the pangs come to my unfurnished mind pricking, poking, nagging, imploring and what-not on sunny afternoons wanting a better cover, a mask to thrive behind, to dwell, and to consume slowly like sipping tea, the mind first, the heart, soul and even my body later. Every pang brings with it a soft thud that does ripple to the heart and then the veins till I could feel it in the tips of my fingers and toes and see the silhouette of my soul move with the gushing blood; all of a sudden, I am lighter, I fly and flow, and in love my body and heart skips about in sheer ecstasy in a jocund world of endless dreams and star-dusted skies as I dance and dance and dance swaying and swirling in a trance, until the dying but still sly prudence, gasping at some distant nook of my numb brain sends desperate calls to a bunch of dreamily conscious cells of my body which wakes me up from the blissfully dazed and intense slumber into painted paradise to a hot noon and a smelly cup of not-so-hot mess tea. And I frown.

Can words explain?
What the heart reeks of...
Splitting the silence,
breaking walls and minds

Cues in red

Fling my body
Against a wall
And let it
Drop dead
The wretchedness, the memory
In cues of red
Like a mosquito-patch
left after hit
on the wall.
The many walls,
Blank spaces,
Waiting to be filled,
Hoping, waiting,
Thoughts yearning
To become, spoken.
Still waiting in
Void darkness
Hiding at margins
Lingering vain,
Only materialize
When flung
At walls,
Leaving cues,
Cues in red.

My Corpse

The heart burns inside

my body which is aflame,

eyes trickle down to hot tears.

I’m dead long before,

But why do I burn now?

Alive with hell fire.

Love or hate?

You seducer!

Brought my white dead heart

aflame with your kiss.

Today it is burning pyre

Licking my ribs,

swallowing my breath.

It is craving like a fiend

to quench it’s thirst,

which you have generously given.

Waiting for life or death?

Answer not!

It is death when you don’t live.

I am dead.

Where are you

O hot-blooded fiend?

O heartless seducer

take my corpse in thy hands,

show me life as you have always done...

(first published in writetoscribble.wordpress.com)

an evening's fragment untainted

Walking to my room terribly weighed down by the heavy mess bill in my hand, I muttered to myself to put it on my table and forget it till further notice. But then I was roused from my not-so-conscious state when I felt a momentary stir on the table, like a speck of dust flying from amidst my books towards my coffee mug. Only that it was not flying but crawling fast, so conspicuous on my pink table cloth. An inch long dark devil. An involuntary shriek escaped my mouth and I swiftly armed myself into defense mode. And by what followed, I knew that we both shared a common emotion- Fear. Battle ensued. It first jumped onto my MLA Handbook coveting a hideout and soon realizing its uselessness, traversed from Faulkner to Peter Barry to Miller and Hemingway, all standing tall and unmoved. By then I was armed with my ruler and a broom (both utterly pointless) only to find it snuggled between the ever-treacherous bulk that is History of English Literature and Fantasies of Femininity! We played cat and rat for some more time except that the roles were reversed and it kept dodging all my moves, visibly enjoying my pitiable state. Maybe it was my imploring eyes, or my desperate religious chants or more realistically the sword in my hand that made magic. It jumped onto the window sill from the battle ground, leaving for outer territory. And now, like an outcast gives me sly glances lurking behind the wooden midriff of the window waiting for a slack in my attention to regain its regality.

a micropoem

clouded by tears,
the night wears 
a black moon.

the vile truth

Truth,

are you there

in the next bend of the road?

or beyond my reach?

or in the behinds of the door?

I walk in with held breath

to encounter you,

to bare you to shame,

and to imbibe slowly

thy oozing venom-

the wine of ages,

intoxicating my soul.

No! You live in the dingy damp cellars,

cloaking into disguise.

A sweet grape

held within thy womb,

nurtured with poison and darkness

dubious ever of sinful grace

behold never sparkling rays

but Night’s shadows

of blackened veils and

Kohl-lined eyes

smeared with Satan’s blood

kissed into life by asp’s fangs.

It grows and grows

into uncanny shape

eating minds raw and ripe

alike, until nothing to quench

but itself, the monster

gnaws it all,

devouring the dark by dark

the venom by venom,

until the remains

are mere bones, dried,

tear-blood soaked hair,

nails streaked red,

and a strange broken

frame of a skeleton.

The raw bones speak

truth, the truth

through every pore

when the war is done,

when the air is stiff of

dried stinking stained blood,

when no soul cares to hear

the reeking truth

thundering amidst bones

as it rises, puffs in the misty air

and vanishes omnipresent,

yet intangible!

Photo Courtesy: Nandha Kishore

Hypnotised

The hypnotizing torch of

the pale night sky

heals me with her scars

and washes my sins

in white…

Bleeds through my window

Her graceful intrusion

as I lay naked knowing

Sinful clouds shroud even

Her grace! 

(first published in writetoscribble.wordpress.com)
Photo Courtesy: Nandha Kishore