Raindrops

I cup my hands to collect raindrops, my lord, 

variously on my fledgeling palm, 

all outstretched and flimsily beseeching

in school-girl cloths on monsoon day, 

to come to an asking palm,

over well-fed earth, in alms. 

Some raindrops, lord, 

do.    

They gently trickle down

and affect my skin so, 

tickled to triumph,  

my baffled sense may know. 

and they trust me as basket, 

lord, 

and I do my best, 

to hold them there, 

until they find the cracks where my fingers are.

Often, I do wish I had no fingers.

They were trusting enough to reach me, 

choosing to land on one loving palm,

over pattering to  muddy ground.

I shall honor that.

I’ll hold them and regard them as beautiful

as they shimmer before me, 

I see in them plainness and reflections, imaginations and 

maybe, inverted images

of futures

and I shall see them there and hear them, 

glowering in art of their making.

Dancing to wonder.  

and when they inevitable trickle down to the cracks between the fingers, my lord, 

when they slip me, even if they never meant to, 

on terrifying fall to gravity's calling, 

not to worry, my lord, 

I will send a tear with them as well, 

for company.

like a great love’s purest souvenir. 

tossed

Over the hedges that framed,

Sweet glassy visions

That had met the earth and

Tasted her nativity,

You tossed,

A fondness so green.

Like the slim cresent

Of a chickoo that mother chopped,

Were those saccharine sugars,

Passing silence in the halls,

You tossed,

Frivolously.

Frisking a summer air,

And some showers in Port Blair,

Atlases and prim laundered cloths,

You travelled and tossed,

In sleep.

Fine lines and brush strokes,

That defined the costline,

On your parched paper,

Couldn’t secure delusion.

For you had tossed,

Her.

Sidestep

Fragments of conversation,

In cluttered heart so old,

Sidestepping those thoughts that glow,

A memory made, kept, sown.

Identify the constellations,

That crowd out flaccid hope,

Braiding the nervousness,

Brevity of soul.

You could become the middle of the song,

A pithy Stanza, frameworks of preciseness,

Trepid eyes in reflections,

A vanishing tempo, safeguarded.

Like tiger strips of summer growth,

Past a lawn into the spilling wilderness,

Livid to untimely interventions,

Love---has grown.

At the edge of your telling lips.

Unusually.

Gāndhārī

Time waves collide on blindfolded eyes,

And the eras, like bees, sweep at heady perfumes,

On a flowering bough, thrilling in bloom,

In palace gardens, cascading hourglass dunes.

The shying lavenders scent the vaulted routes,

Of history and splendor, pillared and true,

Classic fable, and all that she sees,

Beneath blindfolded eyes, they’ll always be.

She knew of times that were as young as she was old,

Days that blushed to daubs of patterned gold,

Kingfishers dived to sagittate pride to treasures that float,

Just beneath agitated waters, in feisty beak to hold!

And now in blindness she only feels,

Her husband’s love, for all things green,

Dritharashtra, she calls, and Sanskrit seems,

To not grasp enough of him, fondness to feel.

Dritharashtra, she calls, in blinded light,

In blinded love, inept in sight,

Husband, I give you a lifetime, she cries,

Legacies leak in tearing eyes.

A love like fire, like sacrifice;

A love like fire, like sacrifice.

Begging day

The tongue to be smothered by heavy phonetics,

The palate to be tapped, a plea of merciful composure,

Shaky with the begging, in principle, understood;

Beneath these asbestos roofs, to be pitiable.

The name-calling, dwindling,

As their summer frivolry speeds through village roads,

Leaving me with package,

Like the begging rewarded, like surprises in gunny bags.

Maybe a dosa, half-eaten,

Maybe exotic food that spoiled,

Hopefully whipped with warm ghee,

That cashews litter.

I greedily clutch, unbending.

The veins spitting the excitement,

In a steady drone that surrounds, I see,

that far away there are coconuts; I could kneel for kernel….

To quench a thirst, to scavenge,

I clutch, still, anticipating somewhat.

Blue-veined and old, walking away.

Into the streets, to beg another day.

My survival, under these asbestos roofs.

With only the trampled sands to sing my song.

Carry me Away

The constellations have been burning,
In their own secretive qualms,
A distant twinkle of quarrels they witnessed,
And maidens stand charmed.
Carry me away.

The mundane black of cables,
Droop in pessimism,
Crows gather by the murder,
Picture-perfect sobriety.
Carry me away.

The creative minds scribble,
A poem, an article in proud papers,
A nomination today, Pulitzers,
A teenager closes a masterpiece of a diary.
Carry me away.

There is a factory worker, hemming overtime,
For export factories in Dhaka,
You buy cloth wipes, clean a counter.
Swipe off grease on embroidered tulips,
Carry me away.

Until

I know of a place where the bees do hum
where patience learns to paint with sun,
the rivers, in their paths to churn,
round and round at every turn.

I know of a place where busy men run,
To and fro, seldom with fun,
Waiting upon, and new things to learn,
And regressing again, in incompletion.

I know of places with honking horns,
saturated sights, grief and woes,
fruitful and faithless, and all things greater,
like love lost and recovered.

And yet, they stay not the same,
for when they lack the essential,
every beautiful nook and goddamn heaven remains,
solitary.
until he comes this way.

Tenacious

I seek you in the wind,

that gallop through mud and sad,

And ride upon the weary souls,

that frequent my hinterlands.



I seek you in the rustle,

that makes touch-me-nots curl,

That waltz across the still waters

of coy delight, in many a ripple.



I feel you whimsical upon the hair,

In rattle of the windowsill,

I seek for the sound of drought,

Through crumbling walls, a struggle.



I seek for you to fly me home,

On your freedom’s back, in contentment

to hear the silence these winds have blown,

Eroding turpitude and plowing slow.




3:53 p.m.

In all quiet

Mount me not on squalid streets,

A monument of stone and praise,

Where the crows find perch and

Stranger’s gaze,

Upon copper or bronze,

Not human, this.

Burn me not for chastisement,

To bathe my ashes to holy thirst,

Upon the banks of the great river released,

In fluid time, to be carried in.

Pat me not into the earth’s midst,

Where insects crawl on unworthy decay,

Mocking and dismissive,

As below the stone I lay.

The eyes that see, that saw, that said,

Will belong as immortal, somewhere else,

Living forever, remnant,

In cursed lightlessness, blind, never again.

Make me relic of the school,

On medicine’s table, proudly spread,

As they cut and peel not on death,

--On everything that I have left.

Study and marvel how they worked,

How pure was that, the blood that flowed,

The heart that skipped and how it roared,

To youthful fancy, see me as more.

Hold me in awe, as you work,

As you learn from thought, intellect earned,

As aged doctor, you one day become,

Thank the soulful cadaver.

So enrobe me in this, not in sadness,

When cherubic skin the time has aged,

Talking of stories, those my own,

Humbled in life of gallant endeavors.

This post from a medical student inspired this.

Starless is the sky

Paper mails that were confined,

To closet that was stashed high

with a hesitant hope that you berated,

Starless is the sky.

Jobs, Stock Market and cleverness,

You thought you knew and all was said

Undaunted in love, regardless

And starless is the sky.

Home’s too away and coffee too black,

The paper mails keep coming back,

The job is gone, the one you never enjoyed,

And starless is the sky.

She heard that day from high prestige,

A place of dreams, grand university!

Paper mails then came to me,

But in darkness, my stars sparkle spectacularly.

For heart, happy-go-lucky,

There was cancer in the family,

Hospitals, flowers and recovery,

It isn't starless, my sky, said he.

Stretching through slick emerald trees,

All the way to Tennessee,

And beyond to the wildest prairie,

There are stars, everywhere you see!

So when with love, hope, joy and pain,

You’re sequestered and everything’s in vain,

Revisit your lonely balcony,

And then, there will be.

Stars in your sky, stars in your sky, stars in your sky,

Promising Eternity.

Believe me.

My affection is a wayward thing

My affection is a wayward thing,

Flying here and there, far reaching,

Trifle tumultuous, violating,

for absolute freedom, aspiring.

My affection is a wayward thing,

like a child in all innocence, weeping

Clingy, emotional, solvating,

in entire streams--consciously recurring.

My affection is a wayward thing,

Shelter in you, seeking,

And when all the shade moves away,

terror rips the soul, it frayed!

My affection is a wayward thing,

an easy timidity to win over,

a little heart, sweet to melt with supple kindness,

An ice-cream, a bear hug and a compliment today,

My affection is a wayward thing.

The Flute

Into my flute now, if I could breathe,

I would breathe slow, in gratitude,

As ageless voices echo deep,

They rebound back, in a dance of music.

Into my flute now, if I could breathe,

I would whisper a song of gratitude,

Not of love and gain, or loss and pain,

But of unbound simplicity, unexpressed.

I’d tell my instrument of a listless night,

Of long years and shadows, now gone by,

A transient discord of horror, and then again,

A bursting melody, not in vain.

I’d tell him of this special soul,

The one who creates music in expertise,

Drumming this vibrancy, unparalleled,

I’d tell him of the minstrel of a far off grove.

I’d breath to my flute, a harmony, a soul,

A voice unheard---unheard before,

And I’d like to tell him, that although,

I cannot tame the winds into a waiting fist,

I can call the music my own!

The flute is eternally mine,

But sometimes, a lungful of winds do visit.

As I breathe in and out,

They echo back, unceasingly, never to leave, never in relapse.

The surging waves never damping---the laws of nature, to impudently defy.

It unwinds, tangles, like a tiresome stray,

But the stubborn music, familiar to flute, my child, has come to stay, has come to stay.

The songbird spoke at 2:49 P.M., for the favorite musician of the far off grove.

More fortunate than I?

The fair has come to town today,

And the mud roads I trample,

In earnesty, to kick up the dust with trinket-bound feet,

And a traveler’s stories to hear.

The tramps are all huddled and still,

The travelers bicker and joke,

The accomplished smile through fish teeth,

And showcase treasures galore.

We endured the far off lands,

And these are our trophies, they say,

Trudging through the desert sands,

Foreign mountains and orange sun in may.

To win and fight for all that’s sought,

We plundered fearlessly, and sacrificed,

And this is the fruit of sweat and blood,

The sweet riches that in pockets jingle.

It means we’re brave, and there’s no cause for treason,

It robbed us of our youth and age,

And yet, we are the kings of our lands and reason,

Reasoned the old man today.

He felt himself a fortunate creature,

And I was glad that he couldn’t see,

The veil that hid the coal-black eyes,

Brimming with genuine pity.

I left the tramps to gape at glimmering treasures,

Founded and unfounded,

For they might win a thousand more,

And never as I, be fortunate.

In my heart, I know love,

And to be loved back, ardently,

With all I hold dear to me.

That, more than he!

For he was but foolhardy,

To travel the many lands and fight,

Historic wars and fatigue,

To collect for himself a few coins

Pitiable!

And for I might be just a somebody,

Who’s little and doesn’t matter much,

But in my heart I am satisfied,

That I am fortunate, more than that shallow soul gone awry.

And hence, I walked away, more prosperous than everybody.

For the richest fortunes are intangible, you see.

Everywhere to be

In her garden, beneath the flailing skies,

Fertile soil in frightful quiet lay,

Waiting upon the right winds to blow,

In her faithful humus, happy seeds to sow.

And seeded they were, not one but numerous,

Spreading their roots and suckling on her wealth,

Grabbing nutrition, with their greedy tendrils,

Growing burdens, and weeds, aplenty.

And then one day, the benevolent winds planted,

Gently, a good elm in her midst,

So as her fluid arms flowed in and around,

She embraced him, completely.

For she was water, a tricky aquamarine,

Quenching, needed and yet cruel at sea,

But that special tree you see,

Was nourished, for it wasn’t just another weed.

Oh how he grew, splendid and tall,

And oh, how he spoke of grandeur in fall,

Oh, that poetry in silent calls,

They were much more than she’ll ever recall.

And when to the winds he bowed and thrilled,

Through her, ripples he sent, multiple,

Developing, constant and unfazed,

Nurtured, caressed and gone away?

Oh what language they shared—a coexistence,

What laughter trickled through his veins,

What disregard in innocent games

A disposition, frankly pleasant.

She gurgled, she smiled, she basked,

In her lovely brook by her tree,

Beneath his scattered shelter she played,

Meandering coyly but then again….

There is sun, who paints the heavens,

And science wrote, in the back of its heart,

That she should embark,

On fateful journeys, painfully endless.

And so, a cruel transpiration tugged,

Her droplets from the tallest branches,

She left with “this is survival love,”

You should transpire, and I shall fly.

Was it goodbye? He seemed to ask,

You nourish me, and I wish to last,

Stay here, will you, please?

From the sun and vicious cycles, can water beg release?

And she left to reach the burning sun,

Who pulled with allure, natural

It might have seemed so feral,

wrong, weird.

But understand this, love, with heed she always returns,

Through the many miles, and countless turns

As dew every morning, to see the loving elm….

as dew every morning to see the loving elm!!!

Before evanescing to rightful brilliance.

And she wishes only but this,

To belong with the skies, and the trees.

To journey along, mindfully,

To heal all hearts, and everywhere to be.

She'll live as memory if in your heart you keep….

A weathering rock she is

They beat the dirt
Out of soiled cloths,
On enduring cement,
Slapped hard on rugged stone.

They beat the dirt,
Off scrappy jeans,
That was bought home
By playful Jimmy.

They beat dirt,
Like pulsing to secret rhythm,
Like an crude Sonata,
A symphony, maybe.

The cloths are less soiled,
The kids, less spoilt,
But who ever considered
The battered, enduring stone?

She’ll one day chip,
Surely crack or slip,
As you beat off the dirt on her,
Will weathering rock take it?


She’s tired.
Carve her, quick.
If you have to excavate her excruciatingly,
You could sculpt a masterpiece.
For else she will weather,
A weathering rock she is.
A weathering rock she is.
A weathering rock she is.

For one day when you are done washing,
And wipe the sweat off your brow,
You'll see a jagged edge or two,
Unconquered by the brutes.

And you'll howl upon the stone that was,
Suspicious of murderous intent,
And throw the stone amongst the dirt,
Or wail to immediately discard,
to keep your kids safe.

Or wash it all away.

A weathering rock she is.
A weathering rock she is.
A weathering rock she is....

The Ginkgo

A pretense of azure,
Happy summer skies,
The somber clouds do part an inch,
To allow for mischief.


They’re tremulous today,
Bent and acquiescing,
Succumbing in dignified solemnity,
But do I catch that one quivering for release?


Or this one, in crowded space,
Chocking in the emerald, thronged,
Why, the guilt, I now wonder,
Can I find me in there, somewhere?


Oh look, a ginkgo leaf hesitating like one charmed,
No webs, no venation,
Just plain and simple.
A marvel.


At last I found the leaf that was me,
Upon the sidewalk, stalling,
Like one in young love, chasing pretentious sunshine,
Into scattered shadows, and then back again.

Oh Hedwig!

When into amber eyes I looked,
Gone was I, led astray,
The world rocked and shook,
Pronouncing joyous accolades.

Lost by not pitifully so,
For I still knew my way,
Held loose, but very close,
And then, wandering there.

Oh Hedwig, oh Hedwig, I called
To that snowy owl of mine,
Myths, on wings, so alive,
To love and life, I used to cry.

For the sun shone when it was no more day,
For the letters, come what may,
Oh Hedwig, I called, take them to the happy place,
The thousand letters preciously encased.

For there is no more gloom, when here she be,
No more room for tragedy,
No more hurt, no more pain,
For this she could be, just simply an everything.

The three good mares

The front yard housed the three good mares,
Neighing, prancing and frolicking there,
Bestowed with warmth, love and care,
They lived free, the three good mares.

The three good mares, she looked upon,
And as months rolled, and pansies sprung,
To keep them strong, healthy and young,
She served them, and spotted returning affection in all.

The first one from the south did come,
A battered but playful soul,
She knew of the horse from once before,
A forgotten song, forgiveness and more.

The other one, had grown with her to this day,
Helping her through, always being there,
She hugged the lovely animal, the color of clay,
Relishing the warmth in her one true friend.

The last was new to the shed,
But sincere, still, all the same,
So much rapturous strength,
And a lingering earnestness.

But then she feared, that they would ask,
To choose one over the other,
But then she silently prayed in her head,
That no matter what, there’d be no change.

For the front yard was a happy place,
Where all she respected and all she loved,
Stayed intact, and then preserved,
But that day, she finally chanced upon.

One hinted, one asked and the other didn’t say,
All trying to go the very same way,
But alas, it was so unfortunate,
That they had to carve their paths as separate.

What would she speak, what could she tell?
Whom did she value, above all else?
All were spirits, so delicate, all lovable,
All justifiably true to her, all more than friends.

How could she lie, how could she say,
That for each one of them, she didn’t care,
How could she be selfish, how could she play?
With their emotions, and turn some away?

And so, she didn’t know where to go,
Which path to tread, or how this would end,
Because the truth was this, there was one she loved,
Above all others, and repeatedly told, so much.

That didn’t mean this, I’ll say,
That for others she held no affection, she could swear,
By the heavens, and tell you today,
They mattered the world to her, the other mares.

But they turned upon each other and she witnessed,
Bloody battles, and with much distress,
They blamed her then, once again,
For when they turned selfish in love, they didn’t understand her hurt.

One blamed her of ignorance,
And the other of tyranny,
A little bit of distrust, unrealistic,
But she was no devil, not many secrets did she keep.

To all heads held high, imperial,
She bowed meek, with anguish, pure,
Weedy grew the front-yard,
She walked away.

The mares she cherished stood tall,
Bold, wonderful, magnificent,
If there was any truth to love, she thought,
That one would then turn back.

She wished to see who would follow,
As she trotted a reedy road,
But her wishes, she slowly swallowed,
Hobbling, burdened with her own load.

By twilight, she found her weeping willow,
A favorite from childhood, waiting for her there,
And in his branches, she was mortal no more,
Not knowing if a single mare had realized and followed….

Sun

When to augustine skies I stare,
Mine eyes are willingly led astray,
When so constant stays the burning blaze,
How can I behold him in single gaze?

In little pools, in and around,
Are strewn sprightly blooms, and some do crowd,
Pansies nurtured and then caressed,
Bursting to a selfless touch.

Yonder upon the seven seas,
He sprinkles a shimmer I cannot see,
But I can close mine eyes and feel,
Little trinkets upon my palm he leaves.

The sun, of mysterious alchemy,
Spilling forth rubies of twilight charm,
Painted yellow at other times,
So many palettes, yet so much warmth.

When the world he does illuminate,
The febrile nights of shadow and horror find and end,
In patience, the mortals await,
To then be rewarded.

The magnitude of his influence, I cannot clasp,
And claim for mine ,nay, it shan’t be so,
For he rests in the calm of a heavenly abode,
And would burn me, if I stepped too close.


A thousand eras does he span,
Providing for thousands more, a thousand lives,
But even as equal, every one of them he regards,
The fancy trinkets glimmer now; nabbed in single fist, he may belong...


3 am. 9th of August.

Heedless

On bare boughs, sparse leaves among,
Barren winds ran amok,
Many a tuneless ballad was sung,
As on moved a heedless heart.

Familiar like the place of birth,
Which the old nostalgically recollect,
Splendid moments, the times of yore,
Hemmed together on weather beaten paths.

The damp grandeur of monsoon calling forth
An exuberant cherub in consciousness encased,
Simple dreams and a simple lore,
Of a simpler love, even more.

Wasted scores weary violins play,
Starry nights, overshadowed,
Oppressed as in the unappreciable heat of May,
Useless as glorious souvenirs, showcased.

Aha, but wondrous opportunities does a derived wisdom profess,
Happiness in the hinterlands,
Surviving blooms on virginal snow,
Sanity to the confounded.

On reviving nectar, a greedy infant feeds,
On radiant a face lingers smile, puerile,
Skipping past to the sweeter childhood days, cradled
By the ones she holds dear but heedless, otherwise.

Here be joy, here be contentment,
Spring from wintry boughs do sprout,
Daffodils of liquid gold on rolling pastures spread,
Stolen peace exultantly does pervade,
Sinister cobwebs wisped away by sunshine, light-hearted
Merry innocence romps ahead,
Heedless now and unaware.

3:48 am, 31st of July.