in between the new distances
lie our footsteps
west and east.
we wait for a full circle, again.
the smug smile of the days gone by
ignored for now
stale after the remix
i keep turning around
in the hope that
no new diversions
have come into being
I
red leather
value chair
respected even
stepped down
became myself
pure me
eyes clear
Them
tentative respect
protective contact
opportunities possible
keep contact
Us
who we
who you
who I
what matters
beyond favours
In a crowded conversation
An undeclared agenda
Angrily slithers in, waiting
To schedule the evening.
The roar of the crowd
Drowns it out; strikes it
Out of the night’s list
That was never inked.
The dried words crackle and crumble
in the famine of thought
Organic reflections transmit emptiness
as transactional assessments overflow.
Loss! Loss! Loss! Cries the mind
of that which is quantifiable
That which uncountable
is lost without a whisper.
As artistic deficit stacks up high
no coins remain even
To pay the Jungian fine for
“the divine gift of creative fire”.
blank.
the first word to describe
an unquiet mind.
the opposite
of the current state
of chaos
unbridled.
cold feet
disturb the balance
of a body warm in a static position.
your native intelligence
wards off the
cold feet
cold feet
get
cold feet
we were never
natives of this land
alive people talk of people
now dead
in chat messages, sans smileys.
one truncated message
talks of the end
of one life, in one line.
five hours later in time
one tear is held back
perhaps conscious of the lack
of a context
the place
the moment
the sight.
far away from the crackling pyre
distance dries that lone tear.
it will violently gush out
perhaps years later
on a dry unassuming summer late afternoon
without warning,
like death that struck today
who knows, who will kill, that day.
an old letter
that wasn’t to be discovered
an old photo
that wasn’t to be ever seen
a hasty scribble
that didn’t otherwise mean anything
The morning’s remainder
A pre-dawn questioning punctuation
Hung and hooked on the right angle
Of the grid-like orange shadow of the window grill
Made bright by the sodium vapour street-lamp
On my white wall, fades slowly to 6AM
And the sun beckons the patrolling policeman
Sleep now.
unfinished letters more
than those that ever reached.
the story of my life.
the heat of mumbai summer
burns the sleep in me
dampens my dreams
forces visits to my dark secrets
catalyses my impulses.
my phone rings no more.
life desperately trying to teach
failing even drastically.
i shut my eyes tight
every time i see my reality
and walk in darkness
bumping into incidents i lived
wishing i had not.
nothing remains mine
not my memories, my sketches
my poems even belong to them.
so much colour in this world
i don’t even have a shade of grey.
anger unchannelled grows
so big i cannot stomach it.
nothing wants to be mine
i want to belong.
saturday 07 june 1997
