(i)
i think i'd like
to smell your cheeks
and listen to your heart
and drink you right up
if i were a vampire.
(let's watch twilight,
i'd like that too.)
(ii)
"don't be silly,
it's not like i'm asking
for your soul or anything -
it's just a kiss"
said one dementor
to the other.
(iii)
a conversation between two orcs:
"amma, where do babies come from?"
"from storcs"
(iv)
if i am
what i read
then i am
fantasy.
**
(what? you thought my bad humor was restricted to offline spaces? fat chance.)
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Friday, February 24, 2012
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
narratives
(i)
along corners of buildings,
in shadows of crowded streets,
as red lights turn to green,
people hurry.
a broken button, a stolen purse,
a fallen slipper, forgotten books,
the city gathers these
like a magpie.
it picks up distractions,
expressions on faces
just before laughter,
lingering smells of
the tired and the melancholic.
obviously, cities can tell
quite the story.
(ii)
the familiar know
the inviting lights
of marketplaces,
the fading greys
of oft used roads,
the sound of snores
on busy afternoons.
and i, i am
but the enraptured audience
of a master story-teller.
i watch hagglers of prices of cloth,
their tricks and counter-tricks,
like a game of chess
between two best friends
always playing
the same first moves.
children crossing roads
with habitual precision,
fruit vendors on roads
or people sitting on park benches,
reading the newspaper.
nothing puts them off,
not even the rain.
(iii)
when everything is new,
there is no guilt in loneliness.
for amusement, i walk
old streets with older stories,
i sit by myself
in coffee shops
to read magazines,
i scout bookstores
whose every book
the owners know,
in cinemas i look
at people's faces instead.
as souvenirs, i collect
evidences of stories.
i wonder where couples
come from in the trains,
what worries line
the child's face,
whether the man
in the tight jeans
has had sex yet.
i take pictures in my mind
of pink houses with no doors,
of homes in slums
with air conditioners,
of the woman sitting
with big bags
in the bus stop,
of old people riding rickshaws
on crowded streets.
(iv)
the wind is but
an old acquaintance.
it carries a tune
from times past -
a gentle reminder
of my own song,
one that my heart
once sang to me.
new people in old cities,
we always sing our songs
carefully.
if i could whistle,
i would have done.
i hum it instead
hoping
that my feet will follow.
like nostalgia,
the notes are made
of warmth and
gushing emotion
that surely belong
to some time else,
having the edge
of something completed.
**
reworked from here:
http://head-start.blogspot.in/2010/09/narratives.html
along corners of buildings,
in shadows of crowded streets,
as red lights turn to green,
people hurry.
a broken button, a stolen purse,
a fallen slipper, forgotten books,
the city gathers these
like a magpie.
it picks up distractions,
expressions on faces
just before laughter,
lingering smells of
the tired and the melancholic.
obviously, cities can tell
quite the story.
(ii)
the familiar know
the inviting lights
of marketplaces,
the fading greys
of oft used roads,
the sound of snores
on busy afternoons.
and i, i am
but the enraptured audience
of a master story-teller.
i watch hagglers of prices of cloth,
their tricks and counter-tricks,
like a game of chess
between two best friends
always playing
the same first moves.
children crossing roads
with habitual precision,
fruit vendors on roads
or people sitting on park benches,
reading the newspaper.
nothing puts them off,
not even the rain.
(iii)
when everything is new,
there is no guilt in loneliness.
for amusement, i walk
old streets with older stories,
i sit by myself
in coffee shops
to read magazines,
i scout bookstores
whose every book
the owners know,
in cinemas i look
at people's faces instead.
as souvenirs, i collect
evidences of stories.
i wonder where couples
come from in the trains,
what worries line
the child's face,
whether the man
in the tight jeans
has had sex yet.
i take pictures in my mind
of pink houses with no doors,
of homes in slums
with air conditioners,
of the woman sitting
with big bags
in the bus stop,
of old people riding rickshaws
on crowded streets.
(iv)
the wind is but
an old acquaintance.
it carries a tune
from times past -
a gentle reminder
of my own song,
one that my heart
once sang to me.
new people in old cities,
we always sing our songs
carefully.
if i could whistle,
i would have done.
i hum it instead
hoping
that my feet will follow.
like nostalgia,
the notes are made
of warmth and
gushing emotion
that surely belong
to some time else,
having the edge
of something completed.
**
reworked from here:
http://head-start.blogspot.in/2010/09/narratives.html
Monday, February 13, 2012
Sita
I am Sita.
Why do you ask?
Is it because
of my silence
or my rebellion?
Which offends you?
Which takes
your breath away?
Which makes you
want to brush me away
or take me for granted?
Tell me, why
do you think that I
would wait within boundaries
you draw for me?
Why would I not flirt
with strangely garbed men
who come knocking at my door?
If they spout ten heads,
would I scream in a fit of rage,
or cower submissively,
and let myself be taken away?
I am Sita.
Why do you care?
Is it because
of my seeming conformity,
my life within a life?
Which soothes you?
Which makes you feel
I am like any person
you would encounter
on the road?
Answer me, why
must I not go where
I please, dream of
love-making in forests
while monkeys and trees watch
in voyeuristic nonchalance?
You would protect me,
you say, you with more
than just Bala, you
who have experienced Atibala,
you would hold me dear,
fight wars for me.
You would abandon me,
just when I allow myself
to be tamed: a Queen,
by any standard?
Let me not lie to you then,
I am she,
and yet, I am not.
I am Sita.
**
reworked from here:
http://head-start.blogspot.com/2011/02/myth.html
Why do you ask?
Is it because
of my silence
or my rebellion?
Which offends you?
Which takes
your breath away?
Which makes you
want to brush me away
or take me for granted?
Tell me, why
do you think that I
would wait within boundaries
you draw for me?
Why would I not flirt
with strangely garbed men
who come knocking at my door?
If they spout ten heads,
would I scream in a fit of rage,
or cower submissively,
and let myself be taken away?
I am Sita.
Why do you care?
Is it because
of my seeming conformity,
my life within a life?
Which soothes you?
Which makes you feel
I am like any person
you would encounter
on the road?
Answer me, why
must I not go where
I please, dream of
love-making in forests
while monkeys and trees watch
in voyeuristic nonchalance?
You would protect me,
you say, you with more
than just Bala, you
who have experienced Atibala,
you would hold me dear,
fight wars for me.
You would abandon me,
just when I allow myself
to be tamed: a Queen,
by any standard?
Let me not lie to you then,
I am she,
and yet, I am not.
I am Sita.
**
reworked from here:
http://head-start.blogspot.com/2011/02/myth.html
Saturday, January 28, 2012
trepidation
love letters in my mind
are all for you, i find.
i don't mail them or tweet them:
quite like secrets, i treat them.
i push them into pink envelopes
patterned with blue hearts and empty hopes.
pages and pages of length comes easy
(but the same for work would make me queasy).
what would we do, if we were lovers -
kiss, flirt and give each other flowers?
true, while i don't care for you -
in my mind, i write to you.
i wonder if you know
that i write to you so.
**
(this came out of a bet with A who wanted me to write something rhyming "flowers" and "lovers".)
are all for you, i find.
i don't mail them or tweet them:
quite like secrets, i treat them.
i push them into pink envelopes
patterned with blue hearts and empty hopes.
pages and pages of length comes easy
(but the same for work would make me queasy).
what would we do, if we were lovers -
kiss, flirt and give each other flowers?
true, while i don't care for you -
in my mind, i write to you.
i wonder if you know
that i write to you so.
**
(this came out of a bet with A who wanted me to write something rhyming "flowers" and "lovers".)
Monday, January 23, 2012
stationery
i'll carry around a
little yellow scribble pad
when i'm with you.
when you're not looking,
i'll make little notes about
things i ought to remember:
'bites nails when bored'
'hair curly when drunk'
'sings stupidly while driving'
i'll commit to memory
little details about you
that even you don't notice:
'eats left over cake crumbs with fork'
'holds down right corners of pages of books'
'thinks dinosaurs still exist'
but if i forget the bigger things:
like when your birthday is
or what you do for a living,
please know that i'll have
enough even without this
to blackmail you with.
**
"A poet never takes notes. You never take notes in a love affair."
- Robert Frost.
little yellow scribble pad
when i'm with you.
when you're not looking,
i'll make little notes about
things i ought to remember:
'bites nails when bored'
'hair curly when drunk'
'sings stupidly while driving'
i'll commit to memory
little details about you
that even you don't notice:
'eats left over cake crumbs with fork'
'holds down right corners of pages of books'
'thinks dinosaurs still exist'
but if i forget the bigger things:
like when your birthday is
or what you do for a living,
please know that i'll have
enough even without this
to blackmail you with.
**
"A poet never takes notes. You never take notes in a love affair."
- Robert Frost.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
shelving
i couldn't tell you
what it is like
to finish a book.
do you forget people
whose thoughts have been closer
to you than yours
(for mere hours sometimes,
whole years, sometimes)?
do you leave behind lives
whose moments you have stretched
into your life from theirs
(fall in love with their ears, perhaps,
find counsel in their fears, perhaps)?
don't you have nostalgia
set aside for old friends
in your life and theirs
(beers, (cheers!), leering at similar rears,
tears, peers, wearing similar brassieres)?
i couldn't tell you
what it is like
to finish a book.
what it is like
to finish a book.
do you forget people
whose thoughts have been closer
to you than yours
(for mere hours sometimes,
whole years, sometimes)?
do you leave behind lives
whose moments you have stretched
into your life from theirs
(fall in love with their ears, perhaps,
find counsel in their fears, perhaps)?
don't you have nostalgia
set aside for old friends
in your life and theirs
(beers, (cheers!), leering at similar rears,
tears, peers, wearing similar brassieres)?
i couldn't tell you
what it is like
to finish a book.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Monday, January 9, 2012
bookends
corners of streets don't see
more than beggars and coins
and homeless people's blankets;
children playing hide and seek
lovers waiting patiently or
people walking mindlessly by.
don't be fooled by sounds
of haggling over peas
of chatter at bus stops, footsteps at subways.
don't be fooled by smells
of cigarettes and chai
of rush hour traffic or sunday afternoons.
they don't see hope
or love or people moving on;
they don't see day,
routine or people holding on;
they don't see night
or sleep or people giving up.
in spite of this, i write
- a fool for smells and sounds,
romantic by day
and idiot by night -
about love and hope
and people stuck routinely
in corners.
more than beggars and coins
and homeless people's blankets;
children playing hide and seek
lovers waiting patiently or
people walking mindlessly by.
don't be fooled by sounds
of haggling over peas
of chatter at bus stops, footsteps at subways.
don't be fooled by smells
of cigarettes and chai
of rush hour traffic or sunday afternoons.
they don't see hope
or love or people moving on;
they don't see day,
routine or people holding on;
they don't see night
or sleep or people giving up.
in spite of this, i write
- a fool for smells and sounds,
romantic by day
and idiot by night -
about love and hope
and people stuck routinely
in corners.
Friday, December 23, 2011
blanket
you're not laughing
at my freezing toes
or the pink hearts
on my purple socks.
you're not witness
to romantic nights
with ginger tea
and tomorrow's reading.
you're not asking me
which song is next
beatles or p'njaabi
on your playlist or mine.
i'm stuck in a cold wave
but i doubt that has
anything to do
with the weather.
**
for me, because my proxy winter now includes a brand new pair of old socks and a third purple sweater. bring on the cold wave, i say!
also for m, because her winter apparently includes a scarf. tsk.
at my freezing toes
or the pink hearts
on my purple socks.
you're not witness
to romantic nights
with ginger tea
and tomorrow's reading.
you're not asking me
which song is next
beatles or p'njaabi
on your playlist or mine.
i'm stuck in a cold wave
but i doubt that has
anything to do
with the weather.
**
for me, because my proxy winter now includes a brand new pair of old socks and a third purple sweater. bring on the cold wave, i say!
also for m, because her winter apparently includes a scarf. tsk.
Thursday, December 22, 2011
101
walk away, now.
leave behind your memories
in trinkets on the fridge -
a chocolate wrapper, long forgotten
a photograph, worn at the edges
a bill, for coffee and a book
a parking ticket, and its unfinished song.
but whatever you do, don't forget
to take your smells with you -
some beer, some whiskey
some food, some mint.
old books, cinnamon tea
is that you, or is that me?
leave behind your memories
in trinkets on the fridge -
a chocolate wrapper, long forgotten
a photograph, worn at the edges
a bill, for coffee and a book
a parking ticket, and its unfinished song.
but whatever you do, don't forget
to take your smells with you -
some beer, some whiskey
some food, some mint.
old books, cinnamon tea
is that you, or is that me?
Sunday, November 27, 2011
momentarily
in the moment
between this minute
and the next
with the regularity
of the moon
my mind wanders
to you.
between this minute
and the next
with the regularity
of the moon
my mind wanders
to you.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
away
i'd rather keep
my dreams
safe in boxes
padlock them
and throw the keys
away.
if i give them
wings, what if
they fly
away?
my dreams
safe in boxes
padlock them
and throw the keys
away.
if i give them
wings, what if
they fly
away?
Monday, September 26, 2011
dawn
stories are told
songs are sung
whiskey is drunk.
but when the night
is over
stories fade,
shadows appear
and
dreams
are all
that linger.
songs are sung
whiskey is drunk.
but when the night
is over
stories fade,
shadows appear
and
dreams
are all
that linger.
Monday, July 25, 2011
()
what
happens
to
stories
that
are scribbled
in the
margins?
happens
to
stories
that
are scribbled
in the
margins?
would you
notice
them?
blue ink
and tiny
lettering
and abandoned
words
and
pages
of
monochrome.
notice
them?
blue ink
and tiny
lettering
and abandoned
words
littering
pagesand
pages
of
monochrome.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
suspiciously i
creeped into my head
to see what it was hiding
from me.
there i found
a box full of dreams
hid away from my
heart-
my cruel, cruel heart,
afraid that i may
discard it the way
i threw away
everything else.
**
i have longed to write. longed, to give in to this desire to burn every flaming thought into reality, to seek clarity, to learn, perhaps unlearn. i write not a song, but a lament. i wish to forget what i must remember, to do what i must not do, to destroy what i have kept for all this while. i am looking up while stepping down, looking up, while falling. i don't want to fall. i want to reel myself in, but at the same time, lurch upwards and fly. i am reeling myself in, yes, and i am lurching upwards, true, but i do this with no soul in it. i do this like an empty shell riding a wave.
**
everytime i have wished to write about my own sadness, i have managed to twist it into a story, to attribute it to a stranger that never existed except for in my own head, in my own heart, in the imagination that has stolen from me, all i ever had. i have created them, to hide me, i have lied, to disguise the truth. i don't wish to write a story today. may be tomorrow, i will erase this, or even hide these words behind some man with an obscure name that has come out my ocean of a head. this is the story of my life, and i don't think it is worth writing.
**
the neem leaves are turning yellow. they know that they must drop, that it will get cold. they imitate sunlight, take up a beautiful golden, shine for the last time underneath the pollution and fall.
this is autumn. the air is nipping. clawing, even, and i refuse to give in. not yet. for it is still warm. so am i. but for how long?
**
i am turning inward. turning to water to scream into, to let my frustration out on. i sing to let go, and i sing with my soul. these are the moments that i have for myself, and these are the moments i love. i read, but it has been a long time since i have read anything that i truly felt like a part of. like the audience that is enraptured, trapped in a world that is not my own, but feels like reality. i yearn for that escape, and i don't know where else to find it.
**
the criticism makes it worse. i pretend to enjoy those long talks with people who tell me exactly what it is about me they hate, and all those things that are wrong about me. i laugh it off, and pretend i know what i am hearing already, affirming their opinions. all i want is to hear it, so that i may assure myself that what i am thinking is right, that everything about me is wrong, that everything about me is wrong, that everything about me can be worded into a few people's ideas and beliefs, and i don't want to defend myself, i want to tell myself that i am the deluded one, and these talks only confirm my beliefs.
**
from what i read today, the self is easy to rebuild, and from what i remember of the rest of it, this rebuilding is like a narcotic (courtesy shalimar the clown that i decided i would not read but fell into). but what i read today gives me hope. that it is probably not difficult for me to undo and redo myself, that i can be a different person, perhaps pursued by the ghosts of some of my actions but untouched by their consequences.
hah. even saying it like this sounds silly.
**
creeped into my head
to see what it was hiding
from me.
there i found
a box full of dreams
hid away from my
heart-
my cruel, cruel heart,
afraid that i may
discard it the way
i threw away
everything else.
**
i have longed to write. longed, to give in to this desire to burn every flaming thought into reality, to seek clarity, to learn, perhaps unlearn. i write not a song, but a lament. i wish to forget what i must remember, to do what i must not do, to destroy what i have kept for all this while. i am looking up while stepping down, looking up, while falling. i don't want to fall. i want to reel myself in, but at the same time, lurch upwards and fly. i am reeling myself in, yes, and i am lurching upwards, true, but i do this with no soul in it. i do this like an empty shell riding a wave.
**
everytime i have wished to write about my own sadness, i have managed to twist it into a story, to attribute it to a stranger that never existed except for in my own head, in my own heart, in the imagination that has stolen from me, all i ever had. i have created them, to hide me, i have lied, to disguise the truth. i don't wish to write a story today. may be tomorrow, i will erase this, or even hide these words behind some man with an obscure name that has come out my ocean of a head. this is the story of my life, and i don't think it is worth writing.
**
the neem leaves are turning yellow. they know that they must drop, that it will get cold. they imitate sunlight, take up a beautiful golden, shine for the last time underneath the pollution and fall.
this is autumn. the air is nipping. clawing, even, and i refuse to give in. not yet. for it is still warm. so am i. but for how long?
**
i am turning inward. turning to water to scream into, to let my frustration out on. i sing to let go, and i sing with my soul. these are the moments that i have for myself, and these are the moments i love. i read, but it has been a long time since i have read anything that i truly felt like a part of. like the audience that is enraptured, trapped in a world that is not my own, but feels like reality. i yearn for that escape, and i don't know where else to find it.
**
the criticism makes it worse. i pretend to enjoy those long talks with people who tell me exactly what it is about me they hate, and all those things that are wrong about me. i laugh it off, and pretend i know what i am hearing already, affirming their opinions. all i want is to hear it, so that i may assure myself that what i am thinking is right, that everything about me is wrong, that everything about me is wrong, that everything about me can be worded into a few people's ideas and beliefs, and i don't want to defend myself, i want to tell myself that i am the deluded one, and these talks only confirm my beliefs.
**
from what i read today, the self is easy to rebuild, and from what i remember of the rest of it, this rebuilding is like a narcotic (courtesy shalimar the clown that i decided i would not read but fell into). but what i read today gives me hope. that it is probably not difficult for me to undo and redo myself, that i can be a different person, perhaps pursued by the ghosts of some of my actions but untouched by their consequences.
hah. even saying it like this sounds silly.
**
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