Thalassian

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At the slightest fall of the rain
She comes out running
The jingling of her anklets
Carefully fastened around her gracile feet
tame the roaring silver bolt of lightening
Her dupatta flying high like a victory flag
Declaring a win over the
Wrestling icy wind
The pearly drops of water
Dripping down her wet hair
Resemble the great Ganga tributaries
Birds taking shelter
on a distant mahogany look at her in awe
The redolence of petrichor
Overpowered by the smell of her breath
Unaware of the poets that she inspires
She dances her heart out
quakling her feet on the wet floor of her balcony.

-

Happy poems are difficult to write.
The chilly fingers of a winter morning,
barge into the snowy courtyard
and promise to sojourn till sundown,
The whiff of the left over cake
put in the refrigerator
fill my lungs with tiny bursts of vanilla
Is this a new morning?
Is this the first of many such new mornings?
This gaity December day where
Everything is pretty, everything is crisp
This soft sun coloring the patterns on
the window panes of my study
The icy trail of thoughts and
the gleaming ink stains on this paper
that read
"Happy poems are difficult to write"

-

Streams that create valleys
often flow alone
City lights that go off one after the other
paying obeisance to the approaching dawn,
often burn oil an entire night
Waves that subside eventually
on the long road to the moon,
rise only to their highest
Balloons that you let go of
to put colours to the blue,
often burst in isolation
Grips of the goodbye hugs
loosening because of the slipping tears,
Often put worlds asunder.

-

.......

-

Of guilt~anger issues~ low self esteem


(A letter in the caption)

-

Step into the stream,
onto the slippery rocks underneath,
with me.
Hold my hands and stop me from slithering down.
Let the mynahs at the distant tree
interpret our cooing and shy away
Interupt me with your dumb jokes
And hear me laugh out my lungs.
Let the playful sun behind the clouds
And the leaves, weave patterns of shadow
On your arresting face.
Hold my books
While I throw water on your face
Propel some water with your foot
On my feet, allowing my rolled up pants to unroll slowly.
Allow my cold feet to try clutching on
the slimy rocks.
Removing the specs from your face,
Rub it dry on my shirt.
When a thread from my shirt gets stuck to the temple of your glasses,
Refuse to remove it saying, it's a badge!
Badge of honor! Badge of love!
Let me get lost in this stream,
In its cold depths,
confusing the rock edges to be the bank,
let me return to you all over again.

-

The peace after a war.
Unsettling, aching.
The much awaited calmness
that you have no one to celebrate with.
Everything when has fallen into place
the fissures still pierce into the toes.
The gulf that is not trespassed
anymore is still wide.
New reigns have been built
over the bodies that were boxed alive.
Civilizations have grown with time and
the renunciation has been forgotten.
Mornings that were spent counting days,
Are only counting days now.
What happens when
another war breaks out?
And a new house is burnt?
Where all of them die and only you live?
Are these sacrifices or forfeitures?
And who bridges these gulfs?
Do they keep haunting our minds,
Or do they perish underneath our prayers?

-

A senescent love
which has made itself
comfortable on an old bed,
now squeaks on switching sides.
It wriggles inside a faded orange veil,
that gently falls on its puckered reality.
It's no longer a make believe commotion,
It is a faith, that has stayed.
It will probably stay a bit longer.
A senescent love
breathes under the same sky
that roofs a juvenile intimacy,
It will probably breathe a bit longer.

-

Death will come to me
like streams come to the ocean
Silent, slow, easy
I'll let go of this life
like the dust that flies off
the bamboo rice sieve
my face will relax the wrinkles
that are a count of betrayals
I've received and I've given.
My fist will release the clutch
freeing all the relationships
obliged to me.
My stoned body will sink into
the floor I'll lie on
And my existence will
walk out of continuance for one last time.
My ears will not listen to
the cries of people behind me,
but to the absolute silence
Silence, that will embrace me
like my mom did when
I fell asleep on her lap.
Death will come to me
like the chairs mounted
over each other in a stack
congruent, calibrate, coronated.

-