Commencement

In a foggy morning of January,
As she walks on the white snow, 
a trail of 
cold 
red 
beauty spots marks the path she took for the first time.
She knows not why her stomach hurts every full moon
Nor why she is frequently asked to halt at every station.
She
 is kept in isolation,


secluded from the rest of her family,
like in an island in ‘Cast Away’.
Her mind is clogged with doubts since the time she’s been barred from the courtyard.
But the little girl dare not sit still for a few seconds to wonder,
Not even once in a blue moon.
 

Eventuality

I was like a man split into half; a chopped onion, ready to be fried.
My head spun and my back ached while I lay in my bed all day.
Every morning, I was greeted by Miss Hope who got castrated recently.

Now the torment has been blown away by an erratic wind and 
I walk around wearing a pair of yellow and red slippers in the monsoon rain.







 

The man with the woman in a sari

We see a man 
waving at the couple who sits opposite to us,
as the train starts drifting from the platform.

The man’s hair has turned all white;
the woman still has some strands left.
She has a red round bindi stuck between her eyebrows,
a few red bangles stuck between two yellow bangles.
She rests her elbow on the window sill,
forgetting about her weakening body,
dreaming about meeting her daughter in the next 24 hours.

A few droplets streaming down the window glass, hang on the edge,
swinging and swaying with the rhythm of the train,
ready to fall any moment, bless the rain!

We sit silently,
Listening to Beady Eye’s ‘blue moon’, PJ’s ‘yellow ledbetter’, 
Radiohead’s ‘house of cards’, ‘no surprises’ one after another.
One after another, the songs creep into my left ear and his right ear,
while I muse, staring outside the window,
thinking about writing a new poem about this couple.
We shall reach their age years from now eventually.

The big rocks remain fixed beside the ponds outside.
The green and smoky weather feeds us all.
But the fresh foul smell of the city’s sewage still lingers inside the train.

Bee Dance

Being stirred inside out,

shattered in a blow,

my tiny brain floated among the thunderous dark clouds.

You zoomed in on the screen,

 in the mist of Shillong

and colored the studio green.

The iron pieces cling onto you;

every single piece that has sunk into the loo.

You attract me like a magnet,

a moth brimming with mirth. 

I am the bee

submerged and soaked in honey,

saturated with passion and romance.

You were waiting for me,

like a withered leaf,

holding the lantern

so that I can see you beam;

The beam that enchants me

in a loop.

Your scent dissolves in the air,

dispersed around me

like the hari champa in our backyard.

Along the ripples of that fragrance,

I paint my life.




http://www.bangalorereview.com/2013/12/bee-dance/

The sweet scent of the bosom

The tiny trivial tales

tinkle like gales

tangled with the myth.

                                        His voice cracks

in the other end of the cable.

and I could hear her

melodious silent words wandering in the background.

We giggled and chuckled

choked with charms

from the same plate.

                                    Chaoba dreams in her hostel in China.

Amo breathes nine ranges of hills away from home.

                                    Echal lies at the bosom decorated with lonesome.

I look to my right,

Turn to the left.

But I see them none.

Only books in tons.

                           

                                    

A haiku - 3 in 1

Tie me not autumn leaves,
The monsoon rain has washed me clean.
The seasons have lost their mind.

Inconsequential moments
Crafting significant reminiscences.
A snowy summer awaits.

The lines in my head
Escaped my hands,
Turning into concrete words.

A big fat ass lie.

I do not need remorse to write poetry

nor i need sorrow to make a story.

I only need tranquility.

So, please stop imagining 

that you are nourishing

me in becoming a great poet.