Hemlock

I make you a cup of
sweet tea.
Milky hemlocks wave in
my garden. 

A late autumnal afternoon settles on
my skin. 
Like a soft shroud on the carcass of a
child unborn. 
Mossy green fishes swim in
your eyes
from a summer whose shadows have
long withered. 

Each fish in your eye is 
a monster. 
They devour your stories
my memories
our regrets. 

I make another cup of 
sweet tea. 
We keep sitting in the late
autumnal afternoon. 

In you,
each fish drowns. 
In me, 
a new hemlock grove raises its head. 

End-of-the-Year Lullaby

My Dear,

Death is a sheep
slow grazing
in a field of stars.

Our shadows still frolic
in the afternoons
we forgot to stub.

Our mid-nights still burn
ages after
the last embers have died.

Did you not know
that stories that leave
never come back?

Except, o' my love!
when they want
to haunt you down
and turn around.

A Handful of Sea

Send me a handful of sea?

Your stale love clots

like wet sand.

Now clinging to my skin

now, not there.

At night, the sands turn silver

like a sky upturned

all its dead stars.

And, then I want

to wring all the black

out of your shadows

leaving only a

smear of ink behind.

Ink from the depths of sea

in a handful

of which

a lil mermaid will swim,

away from the wet sands

of your love, decayed. 

Girl in the Forest

Girl in the forest
is that you?
What's this stain that
keeps spreadin' through?
There are creepers in
your hair and
fishes in your
eyes, are you
looking for something too?
Wait, aren't you the one
who ate books?
All of the
books that there were?
Is it true?
Is that the stain
that keeps spreadin' through?

Those creepers in your 
hair sleep all day. 
The fishes in your
eyes look frail.

Girl in the forest!
What will you do?
Now that your words
have left you?

Stranger In The City

This city will never
have your heart.
But she will know
your cold fingers
gripping window bars
that old song
in your head
late night foibles
piling cigarette butts.
No, I don't smoke.
Neither does She.
I keep sweeping,
sweeping and dusting
piling cigarette butts
that you leave
here, there, everywhere!
My city will never
have your heart.
Just the diary
you threw out
of your rented
flat, will age
upon her. Yellowing
crumbling, falling
all over her.
No, you do not
have to give her
your heart.

Cinderella?

All my chores
are fairy lights.
I wash and
hang old clothes
upon the wire
where birds sing.
The clouds gather
slow and low.
Rain streams down
all over them.
Their colours drain
softly away, dripping
like a slow waltz.
Down the gutter,
suds of soap
tufts of dream.
The colour of
Your sound spills
on my skin.
Almost like bruises,
beautiful midnight blue.
Wasn't that the colour
of Cinderella's gown too?
I did not lose
my shoe.
You did not come
looking for me.

Potpourri

Peel my sorrows.
Lay them out
on your rooftop.
Wait for days.
A bird drops
a feather sometimes.
A stray leaf
floats over at others.
Summer is long.
Towards the end,
they crisp up,
like potpourri.
Sweep them up.
Keep them safe.
In a glass bowl,
or a velvet case.
On nights when
You can't seem
to breathe,
plunge your face.
Inhale my sorrows.
Like potpourri.
Heady, but dead.

Komorebi

 My curtains have tree branches all over them. Must've bought them some time last year, you know how these sales happen and sometimes, just sometimes, you find a piece of your dream on sale? I found mine.  In the mornings, the sun rays filter through them. Soft tendrils of rays, curling around the window bars, making patterns on my floor, patterns of bare branches, gently swaying, like reflections on water.. It's getting cold in the mornings here. Winter will perhaps be cold this time. A festive smell hangs in the air. The air is heavy with the smell. The air settles like reminiscence on me. Birds seem chirpy these days. Some mornings I don't want to leave home. A distant ache reverberates through me. I don't know where it begins. I found a bunch of pink paper-tip flowers on my desk. It stands out among the dusty pile of books, one aged ink-pen and a few paint brushes. These brushes haven't been touched by colour in ages. The soft, wet strokes that leave their mark upon drying. Strokes that the sunlight makes on my worn out, red cement floor. These don't remain. Nor do the fallen leaves in the petite alley just outside my walls. Sometimes, they crunch beneath my steps. The gentle crunching noise makes me dream, but the crumbled pieces break my heart. When I return, those pieces are gone. I want them to remain, piles of soft yellow, curled brown, crisp red, overlapping, strewn. I want them to remain until a sudden gust of winter wind blows them away. Until the ache within reaches a crescendo and then, suddenly is there no more. 

Eliot?

Eliot,

Will you pass me that bottle?
Yes, the one on the dresser
curved like a swan
at the neck
half-filled with a
nocturnal blue liquid,
that one?


The night spreads like a
bruise, seeping through
clouds, one after another,
And drips on to
the pavement, like tar
or congealed blood,
left over.


The square piece of sky
stuck in my window
crumbles like a
burnt love letter.
red-rimed at the edges
glowing, like a photograph
It stays.

A crumpled autumn clings
to the tire swing
in the park
on a single string
yellow-tipped grasses
swaying, wild flowers
lilac, white.


The park, the park, it haunts
my nightmares, dreams
have fallen asleep
Wind rustling leaves
whisper whisper whisper
Memory treads on
stolen secrets.

Shards of a piercing scream
gush through my veins
like a madman lost
trying to find his way
in a maze which
only has a way in
none out.


I have not slept in
a fortnight, Eliot.
The leaves that fall
linger awhile before,
before falling, but I ?
I don't, never, never.
Just fall.

So, hand me the bottle
will you, Eliot?
I'll pour you a glass
pour myself one
But only one of us
will swallow.
Shall we?

Wanderlust

It all started off
with the letter
you dropped.
I lunged over deserts
plunged into seas
to reach.
Your words became
purple blots
bleeding into
breathing blues
gently swaying
night lilies.
That night I
slipped on
moonlight and
fell into
a twirling
chaos of
wanderlust.
And I never
closed my
mail box
ever again.
All of you
was all
that was
not left
behind.

Fault

A Safe Place

Remember how we
promised to remember?
All?
How can we
forget the person
we love?
But we were
mistaken.
Very.
Our memories are
Not our own.
Never.
Moisture eats away
At our photographs.
Your shirt camoflages
with week-old dirties
In my laundry basket.

I have misplaced you.
I'm shifting house.

I stowed you away.
To a dungeon inside.
The ravines of memory.
A Safe Place.
But how was I
to know that
It caves in?

Your death becomes
a bunch of wilted flowers
on my window sill. 

Island

My balcony is an island
floating above city lights.
I see people floating by,
wheezing past my window,
traffic groaning into the night.

None of it touches
my balcony island.

I drown in my bathtub.
Press the sky.
Over my eyes.

And sleep.

My balcony-isle floats
the length of cityscape. 

I wade through the noise.
Weave myself a wreath.
Count lamp-posts till I meet
my Lancelot.

The city lights await,
his silhouette. 

My balcony-isle
collides and stops
at the bus-stop.

A Seasonal Lament

My David, don't you worry, 

this cold world is not for you. 

If there's one thing that everyone will remember you by, then that will be the ghost of a smile that always lingered in the corner of your mouth. Last night, the memory of that smile haunted my sleep. It kept fleeting past my eyes, hazy, grainy, but ever so palpable. We weren't close, some might say I'm overreacting, I cannot explain my own behaviour, but, you are terribly missed. You were always nice, one of the very few people who was nice to me. But you were nice to everyone. Not a person, never a person who will not remember you by your ghost of a smile.

            I remember you offering me your coat, the winter of turmoil, only because I was feeling cold in the campus, even though I had not asked for it. When I said I liked it, you said I could keep it for as long as I wanted, wear it, make it my own.  You were that nice. But last night, nothing prevented me from shivering, not even that coat of yours. You left behind a bad cold for me. And, heartbreak for so many of us!

             I don't know what your demons were, I don't know how ugly your demons were, I don't know how much they tormented you. But I hope, wherever you are, your demons have been put to rest. I hope, they can't take your freedom anymore. 

             We all loved you.. We will remember you for a long time, some of us till we grow old. July will never be the same again. I hope you are  better off now. 

Take care. 

-a grieved friend from the world which your demons inhabited. 

P.S: Some losses are irreparable. 

Linger

 I.

You linger in me

Like the persistence

Of letters sent

But never received. 

II.

I wash our tea cups.

Wipe them dry. 

Hook them up. 

No tea warmed their insides. 

III.

I lay the plates. 

A dinner, for two. 

The steam rising in spirals. 

It grows cold. 

Uneaten, soggy, forgotten. 

IV. 

I inch towards the bedroom. 

Just one pillow, 

instead of two. 

I look for the other. 

V. 

But it sleeps, 

with all your

other things in the loft. 

Only Your absence lingers on. 

Rest In Peace

Of poets

Happenstance

Into the Night

There is something about old poems, the rawness, the imperfections and the silly little things. I found one such lost poem today. Therefore, I raise my glass to the younger me, to whom the world was simpler and hopeful. Cheers!

I love walking with night.

Bokeh and splotches of light,

pockets of shadow,

dew wetted  park rails.

They make me feel alone no more.

Every door I walked out of,

have added shades to me.

They don't fade.

With time I get deeper.

I look back without a twinge

Of pain or regret.

The layers of night

peel before my eyes

It leads me on and on.

This path is endless

All I want is to walk

I inhale the chilly night

and I don't breathe out-

capturing moments within me,

in my lungs and skin.

And when I die I shall send

bit and pieces into the wind.

My moments will stay,

while I become dust

and get blown away!

Maria

It was half-past moon when 

I heard the sobbing.

Echoing through walls,

 raining upon my window.

I could hear your quivering lips

 on the other side!

Were you shy Maria? 

Were of afraid of coming to me?

Did you think I’d sprinkle your tears

on the wounds you gave me?

I can hear your smell through the door-

I put my hand on the knob,

and feel the heat of your skin.

I’ve been standing where you left me Maria!

Survived through all those men 

making love to you!

I saw your broken shadow 

twitching under the bedspread.

Every time I wanted to dip 

my fingers in your chest,

and pluck the black-hole 

from your heart!

But now that you’re at the door Maria

I’d kiss your voice clean of all the sobs.

Pluck stars from the nest of night

to plant them in your hair.

And every time the wind kisses your neck,

a song will be born in the

black-hole of your heart.

P.S: Falling in love with women, especially older women is a risky affair!