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Sunday, July 17, 2016

Its a Long Way Home


 

It’s a long way home

Through the woods and greens

And the sparkling blue.

It’s a long way

through the yellow fields, and wind

like  cotton flowers over the sky

it’s a long way home

to the west end,

across the bridge, and

into the clouds.

 

When you walk alone,

Through the roads like pythons at rest,

you learn to dance

Your hands, your robes

fly like seagulls over the infinite sea

 

A long way,

Through the years

marked over your tree of life

as faces, dates and moments.

Through the loves you buried

And others you died of.

 

A long way before the rain

And through the flood

 

A long way, a long way,

of purple skies and red earths

Through the strings of guitar

And the music of the mountains

Through the forest and

moods of life in its variety

A long, long way,

Such a long way,

for the final turn

that would take you home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tuesday, May 17, 2016

The Hour Before You Commit Suicide


The hour before you commit suicide
Think of, red flowers.
Buddhist monks.
Magic seeds, like rain on your face.
Flags, revolutions, flying high.
Dancers in red.
Autumn.
Think of, the setting sky
and the red sea.
Fallen roses.
Lips dried up, like parched land.
The red of your veins,
like a river, dead
with no rivulets.
And, the red planet
like another time.
You see,
the sindhoor bath
of the goddess, in gold.
The red flowing out
from a million cuts.
The red earth,
holding the female red
as if a baby sacrificed at the altar.
And now, you realize,
The red leaving the borders
like the words you left unsaid.
You hang
Swaying in the breeze
like a bridal wear left to dry.

Wednesday, March 23, 2016

Love in the Time of Morality


At times, love takes the guise of fake morality

Preaching, the candle light path ways,

While, loving you passionately

like a deep blue night.

 

He paints his canvas, summer

Like fire on his veins

And pass like wind

Unaware of the spring, mounting

at the edges of his vision.

 

Just pause and turn back

To see gulmohar fluttering

beats of you and me

over April sky

Like butterflies on a flight

 

I am no sculptor

to chisel a language

out of your inexpressive eyes

and sudden flashy smiles.

 

Why don’t you flow to me?

Like an ocean after a quake.

 

Sunday, March 20, 2016

Love


There is a point of time in life

When, the word love overflows

the four walled strokes of language

To touch the most subtle corner

of human imagination.

 

It’s a journey to your Bodhi

From the most personal,

of your fantasy.

 

You open your eyes to the world, for the first time

And feel the pulse of the red earth

On your empty wrist.

 

You no more crave for the body, he.

Or meditations of eternal love.

But some handy ones, occasionally

For the vibes in you,

Just in case.

 

And now, the world expands

Far beyond your finite backyards

To show the sea coming to you,

the sky falling down in smoke.

And to brood over silences of

Guilt, land, memories and other stories.

 

You see love crossing your courtyard  

And dissolving into,

the streets of hunger and the abandon

As ships into the Mediterranean.

Leaving no signs of the pride, that was.

 

Learn to love the mornings

That remind you of streets left to the rain.

And pathways extended, like a woman.

 

You will love the seeds you carry in your palm

And the northern skies with its lessons of infinity.

 

Love a baby bear, for the love it cuddles

And serpents for the deep blue sea.

 

Love your sleeplessness, for it talks of pain

And thus, the many joys you left to rot.

 

Learn to unlearn love,

that comes to you and

ends with you. For

you are the gypsy, within you

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I Wait


 

 
I wait for time
Like pollen wait for wind.
I wait for the night
Like night waits for the sound of cricket.
I wait for the next train
Like rails waiting to meet.
I wait for your smile
Like a baby waiting for its mother.
I wait for the sun
Like rays waiting` summer.
I wait for the dawn
Like birds waiting for the flight.
I wait for your shadow
Like dusk over the sea.
I wait for the holy mass
Like sins awaiting penance.
I wait for the wind
Like a desert wanting green.
I wait for your fingers
Like spring waits after the snow.
I wait for your lullaby
Like the sky waiting murmuration.
I wait for the pole star
Like wedding bells in fairy tales.
I wait for a nation, open ended
Like clouds and the endless sky.

 
I wait for my city
To come by night
I wait for the past
To repeat.
I wait for democracy
To dissent.

 
I wait in waiting rooms
For distances uncovered.
I wait at the festival ground
For people to turn up.
I wait at the foot of northern hills.
For the snow to melt.
I wait near the river
To be the debris of a distant quake.
I wait at the steps of the temple
For my goddess, coming down.
I wait over lunch
For the unpacked meal
I wait at the sea shore
To count the canoes back home.
I wait outside your senses
For a quick love.
I wait at the garden
To show you butterfly shades.
I wait near the contents
For the author to take me in
I wait at your finger tips                                     
To rain a Gazal.
I wait through the day
As rhythms of tropical dust.
I wait while I write
For metaphors and more.
I wait near the screen
To play a different me.

 
I wait
I wait for life
I wait for life to leave
I wait for life to leave while I wait
I wait for life to leave while I wait for you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Revolutions, like Destinies


 

You don’t write for a long time

When birds have flown west

and valleys turned brown,

from the gold of the fall.

Those evenings you sense your breath

in your body, rhythmic

like the sea at night. Deep blue,

over the silver of the night.

And, you wait for your myth

to sprout, like baby Jesus.

When midnight announces

Revolutions, like destinies.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A WOMAN, @40


By the time you near forty,
You begin to enjoy your own company.
You find a seasonal garden within yourself
and roam leisurely, among
birds and insects,    
or look at the lone sky
and breathe in
the vastness it contains.

 
You realize,
men are mere havoc
in the life of a woman, glorious
in her own terms.

 
The blurredness
of distance
and her clarity of vision.
The peace she makes
with herself.
The long distance gaze
of summer noons.
Her moonlit sandbanks, amidst
overcrowded everyday.

 
At forty, she awaits love
Mild, sedimentary
and distanced. Like
a child counting
twinkles at night.