Gets in a friend from five-to-ten years ago,
With hanging stuff, and a new thick golden ring.
An obliging streak makes part her hair glow
And with the barest of minimum space there could be,
Next to where I am standing, in this — the rarest of moments — she,
Half covered by her man: a preoccupied crashland.
Yes — It’s got to be her, I mentally think,
And as, with their backs to me, there
As they speak where they stand,
I hold on to the bar straight-lined with the roof
And with my shoulder shield my head, so I’d leave no proof
Even if she is to turn my way. Prevention above cure is here to stay.
The incessant talk tells me my guess
Is spot on; and as a glance I steal
I see that her toes are as hers to be real:
Save me, then Lord Below, from having small talk to make
To the possessor of flashy hair and flocks
Of fussy admirers of yore: a phenomenon. A friend. A fake.
To leave, let go
So that noone will know
What I am, where I’m headed
Or the list of names that dreaded
Me from first, tried to hold me at bay
And tell me, “Look, you’re cute
You can speak”, but your say
Can be had, but in its way
It has to be slanted so it may
Sound like what I have in mind.
Oh, how kind, little democrat, oh, how kind
You let me speak. Cos, the expression even by a word
Is a sidekick for the weak.
I wanna go, walk out in strides
That not your feeble law abides
Anymore — “Anymore” is what you say
When you cannot produce no more.
To be rattled by your ruffles,
To be muffled by your hooting.
To pretend that it ain’t rubber studs
You discharge when you’re shooting.
In Aleppo, where the Moor
Caught by the beard and smote a Jew
I went and I saw no fresh blood smeared
But, the stale blood of me; of you.
And as blood dries in our vibrant veins
As your orders sink in now, we are restless,
Yes we are — cos we, too, live to love.
If I may walk, when the noon is high,
Summon my spirit to break away
With only the pockets to comfort my wrists,
Leaving out what mayn’t or may; I may,
After all, seek what’s pure in the world
I’m seeking. Even if it is to fail and falter
For whatever it may take, than to be your cleric
And it is that spirit I seek, in a balanced world,
Where the fear of gambling produces
Over and over again, the Getty image
Of the Romantic rebel that loses out
And if there is a doubt you shouldn’t move
Though in staying static you sure don’t groove.
To leave, then; to walk away and to run
To the wilderness; to you.
Monte Cristo is Romantic, alright,
But it is the fable for a
Grown up’s life. Cut by years and places,
Yet, not to forget the faces
And to return to the sinner with a sharpened knife.
Meditating on a light that is
As thin as your finger, that
Crawls through the bars, whisper
That lives outside linger; let
Memories and moments replay and replay
So, you get worser, you get cut
And in pain you bleed again and again
As the banquet, elsewhere, plays
Live in the hurt of happier days
And let it harden your flesh
For, Monte Cristo returns —
For, among the ones who denied you
A superior seat the once-damned earns
And those faces after years of pleasure,
You will see, are no more the fresher.
Our weakness is in forgiveness —
More than forgiving, it is negligence
And in being ready to easy let go.
Watch the stupidity in them for a casual while
And you need to screw them all hard; down the core.
At a Lecture on Displacement
This room in which I drone
Has no meaning to me.
Away from home, where I want to be,
From where sweet breath brims,
Waiting by a railing, without failing,
By the bridge I should pass
To the greeting of the warmest smile
In anticipation; all the while
Feeding me life and comfort
To survive the world.
Away from home and from love
In a meaningless room
I pretend to take notes, Tutu,
Meditation on the Arrest of Charles Darney in Charles Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities
The grilled window.
The face behind, in twinkling smile.
The unlatching lock.
The door opening
And the welcome home kiss
Is the sum total of what life is
To me, my love.
In your warm embrace
And in arms that refuse to let go,
In assurance, holding me there
Seeking for more; and, then, more
Is the total of what life is to me,
To be a captive of that moment’s power;
To be moved by your passionate eyes
And to whisper in your ear, “Lover”.
Tomorrow they will come
And tomorrow will arrive
With an eastern quarter; and a sunrise.
Applying Hesoid’s Philosophy to Life / There is a Time….
There is a time to lay open the barn
For the corn devil to walk in and sleep
On the haystack. A time
To let it dig with its hoof
The tender soil that nursed your tree.
A time to lay low, remove
Arms, ariels, wireless phones.
A time to go underwater,
But not for snorkling.
A time to hold back, deep breath
Breathed in. And await a time
To snap the finger and to make love.
A time to create and a time
To live dreams. A time to
Jump, hold and climb trees.
A time to destroy
What you will.
In your guy’s company
— Maybe the umbrella’s yours —
As you pass protected by the sun’s faint light
You squeeze his fist as you choose.
“Hi machan” — he beams a
Casual teeth-grin that is neither hi nor machan;
You look down, play the modest girl friend
Who tightens your thighs only over his,
As his fingers seek something sincere
In the prolonged moment of the prolonged kiss.
Or maybe not —
Maybe this is me just feeding into my construction of you
What my perverse imagination through its
Interaction with you permits; insists; tells me of —
Who never speak to me,
Who, in public, avoids me,
Pretends not to know me as your
Guy, outta courtesy, spends a precious minute on me,
You look aside, at some
Random object, and then
On Facebook tell me
That my face may look sincere
If my beard was cleared;
That I always wear black
And ask me who is my girl friend.
“Next time I will speak” and
Before you go offline
You submit a smiley and some ambiguous line.
Next time when I see you
You pretend to stare hard
At some fixed reality through me
Who, it would seem to appear, is made of glass.
I walk up to you and say “How do you do?”
Your words come and you smile:
“I’m alright all the while”.
In time your guy will leave you,
Or to him less fascinating you will be.
Not that I contest for you. But, that is only me.
I see, I see
The next decade and a half,
Till the absolute order you court with you is done,
I see the culled, gleaned roses of mediocrity.
I see the thin grass of a wasteland come.
Speak to me, you spineless shadow of a
Athens that never was; now, living on bread,
Is this the last stand of a postmodernist Achilles,
Or, do the blossoms bear best when the land is dead?
A little tommy tank passes, goggled soldier with a head.
I see, I see the
Next 10-15 years, they’ve come today,
The way they were played, the way they returned
Day before the day before yesterday.
The caterpillars that grind as they carry your tank
Lay crushed, decomposed corpses all along the soft bank
And between the banks flows the water
From the hills to the sea; so, that it may fall into the ocean
Somewhere around Trincomalee. The trees will stand, till dead,
For even as they stand dead-like they slumber. Do forget my name,
O’ Place, but do not forget my number.
Tonight, the protester comes home. Tonight,
Nothing’s won, forced through; and very little’s bright.
You stop by the fish tank to see the waters go,
The reeds, unsettled by the oxygen, yet let
The fish to exhale and flow.
The light’s on, you got a shirt to remove,
A Facebook account to check. Revive a
Stanza in unappreciated poetry: which, when revised,
You know will not go any further than when
You stood among real fiction and real men.
Just say that NM was ultimately Minister of Finance.
Concede that Comrade Vasu is now a deva in blue.
Sanjeewa Bandara’s a name that comes after
Charges by government batons; to tell a tale
Of what is left of what the System smiles to do.
Man, Protester, my beguiled fellow,
In tired, dripping resignation you lie against the pillow
What you earnestly felt was your pill for the nation.
Close your eyes, let out a sigh; I encourage your dream.
Battles are won individually; if not as a team.