When you enter, close the door,
Return a call or when you walk
Past me, or watch me sit, the way you measure
Your molecules, indicates that you think there is
Something that I think there ain’t: that I’m in love
And am fascinated, burnt
Half like a cashew by you —
Which is not true — which is not lies —
And I sometimes thank almighty God I was made of glue,
When, sometimes, you meet me with your eyes.
That you think there is
Something that I think there ain’t: and
We’re equals in this game; and at times
When the world is absent (with their tuned ears)
We confide in each other our most intimate fears.
We never say that you think that I am
Unnerved by you; nor do I say that I ain’t.
We talk of Garfunkel, of Johann Sebastian Bach.
We talk of ourselves and we answer each other well
And go our ways with small farewells before it goes dark.
They said that you were stuck up,
But that was not good enough for me,
As I waited for you by a half covered drain
— With the ill-prospect of unprovoked rain –,
While they were walking towards me, past me,
Desultorily — you, I kept an eye for,
Sweating underneath my clothes, in that heat.
It was January, then,
And ten years later,
We agree that of you a verse I must write.
But, we are strangers now — like voters in a polling booth —
Though your angel-like image is yet half dissolved to blot.
My feelings have long crumpled, as I felt for you back then,
Only scattered souvenirs of your youth remain.
But, I remember, how you mattered to me,
How there was about it an innocence
In that love with which I thought your mere breath I held.
It was a matter of mattering that would only happen
Back then, when you are spirited and lost to your own;
When that moment’s fragrance will stay on and would linger
Long long after that touch you’d scorn.
12 lines I had written, even paced,
I, confused, dismayed, on a certain night
Recover by the flicker of a candle light
And I wonder whet
Lives end, begin
In the same less, effortless moment. Within,
Unheard, something stirs, some unrepresented
Stammer of a wordless thing. In your arms you hold me
Without a word to remember
That the world, where it spins, will
Kill me to mend her. On a powder keg
At the foot of a stairway we stand,
Balancing in a kiss the notion of passion,
Powerful explosion. On a powder keg we stand
In metaphor relating to conflict which
Caused the census many lives; lives lost
Without consensus and the luck which fate deprives
The unlucky. This world is mine, say, this world is mine,
When the world collapses into me without gravity.
It is rain outside, where I write this, the window
Shows me blurring reality that blur away from sight.
Thunder claps on hills far away and a mist veils-unveils the
Lamp light from searching eyes. You’re a truth to me
Where life truth denies
I find a note book in which I have sketched a verse,
12 lines out of love at a time
Where I had not even yet begun to love you. They rhyme
Of pre-historic ripples, anxiously put to time and place.
I love you yet, anyways. In another country from this love; embrace.
In the wrong halt, dead in an October night,
Along an unfamiliar route, the
Bus drops me off saying that that was the place.
Took me a second to realize, and in the conductor’s eyes, too, he saw
He had just erred. The bus, all the same, through the dark disappeared.
Two bags hanging on either shoulder
Facing an alien chill I stand like Mulder.
Much much later, stumbling into some
Through-the-night, long distance bus,
I pop out with a sigh near the familiar school sign.
20 past 11, half unlit front drawing room of an almost done night
You part a quip and a jeer about my clumsiness.
I’m given some rice from somewhere,
I insist that I don’t want and I am hungry like I’m mad.
A newly laid bed amid all rotting woodwork.
“Put me up at 5 – 5.30?”. You ask me why so early:
I’m on my way to Galle; “But, I’d return tomorrow itself”.
You switch off the lights on your way off
And I’m thinking of the journey that lies ahead, the next morn.
From here to Panadura, from there to Galle, from Galle to business
And, then, the way back. Phone blinks. “Put the net. Don’t be smart”.
As if mosquitoes ever bit me. Mosquitoes never bit me.
Just that Dantes, in Monte Christo, believed in the tunnel he with the priest was digging.
Like a boxer in the ring: a half-unconscious,
Sweated ceaseless around-and-around going thing.
Moves from square to square, premeditated mime:
Now, in an interrupted vision, life momentarily lost
To the lost beat of time.
Break the guilt of
Having to sleep alone;
Of being a fornicator with the
Past; to which you’re holding on.
Cement walls, damp, off white, without paper
Plain, staring back at your vacant eyes
Reflecting in its bareness the unaccompanied song
That you hum. That you hum in your hum
To carry through the moment that redefines
This lost unloved moment in you.
Look around you, walls; Look high above you:
Walls thin out facing thinning out walls.
There’s no room about where you lie,
Just a tunnel in search of daylight
Breaking out into the middle of the night.
That I’m sad inside, that I met you True Love
That you’re holding me into you somehow.
In this space we share gaps, spaces loom
And against despair our love will bloom.
When you’re aged my Love you won’t stories tell
How in love I at your feet did fell
Only we will know where our world will go
Love me against the world, therefore.
Nor the damned world will come to realize
What I see as it well your sparkling eyes.
That beyond hope a dream doesn’t stretch its bent
In its longing for sweet fulfilment.
We were left today the sundry world without,
As I read your lips, I heard without a doubt,
That it’s worth the prices I will to pay,
Though you may leave me the same way.