If I write a poem of desire
There is moral policing
Search warrant for the source.
If I write a poem of renunciation
There are prescriptions for aphrodisiac.
Some prisons have eyes in every wall.
Ears in every window.
Tongues in the floor that wag with out a bone.
Alphabet does not block the flood gates.
There is a word for every form of harassment.
This is a prison that has abundant air inside.
I breathe air that has no color.
Those corridors of my mind
Remain tightly shut
As I open the doors of
Explorer in my own house
Fear had different hues
Darkness was a solace from hurting light
The floor was always a reality
At times springing a surprised flower
Like laughter that was more contagious
than a yawn
Sky was often visible
Sometimes like a childhood I forgot
At times desperate for mother’s lap
A troubled conscience like a father
lost with out a map.
Not knowing who was guilty nor the
definition of crime.
A sister I almost lost on a giant wheel
A God stayed immovable like
a book full of knowledge, waiting to be read.
Those corridors of my mind may open one of these
days , like a bird who breaks her cage
And sets a trail of flames that are purely hot..
What is more real
that which happens
knowing that you will see
Or that which happens
you may never see
What is more blind
the way I saw all your
assaults as frantic efforts
to hear me cry out your name
or the way you did not
see all my escapes
as frantic efforts to stop
a natural force
What is more blind
Love or hate?
What ties you forever?
Love or hate?
I untied the knot; I was free when I loved
I have little experience with getting over hatred
I did not fall in love I was rising from underground
I had nothing left to lose , then I found myself
It was not because you were the last man on earth
It was because you were the first man who understood more than my kith and kin
Best things about me was unsaid, I realized it as you strained to hear the silence
We had mirror neurons in common ,synapse was like fission
You drop your eyes when you know you are wrong , I do that when I am shy
I confess, it was scary to be understood …devastating to be misunderstood
We both were attracted to pain , small wonder we are not together.
Does it matter to you at all ?
The accused collects it
to hide his guilt
The innocent collects it
to prove her innocence
Obviously they don’t tally
If the crime scene is her body
It cannot be wrapped with
yellow sticky tapes
Witness cannot get in
Without scratching or grease.
Any ways you can always
lie back and think of England
or India.If there is no bread you can eat cake, revolutions happen like that .In all countries nice women are
asked to keep secrets,lesser women scream,some others write poetry
and tear the paper.
“To get irritated , is to lose our way in life – Haruki Murakami in Wild sheep chase”
I won’t be another number
In your case file
OP number or IP number
Lucky or unlucky number
Your favorite number on FM Radio
Your correct number of shoe size
An old telephone number
sadly out of date with less
number of digits
Don’t add me to your feathers
in the caps or pillows or
Minus me from your accounts
That do not tally
Don’t count the number
of hours I made you wait
Make it years or lives
Does it matter ?
Love does not keep accounts
I don’t count
I don’t really count…………….
Afraid of working 24X 7
yet not helping another to live
instead hear he died at his own
hands…….Afraid of loving a man
who may see me as an investment
not paying the expected dividend
or as a photograph that got folded in all the wrong corners.I am afraid to live in a house with
a mirror with out a reflectionAn opaque surface where nothing Is impressed. I am afraid of preferring to talk to a stone than a man one day I am afraid of thinking Intuition is just a random choice Not a gift of God.I am afraid of sending e-mails to
my self , hoping to be understood
By a thief who will be interested
enough to break genuine friendships
But will never offer me company
I am afraid of getting addicted
to a routine with consistent
sparks of creativity helping others , fooling my self to thinkI am making a difference or I am not like disposable contact lens that never is worn
to sleep.. I am not afraid of dramaI am merely afraid of calling it a reality since I believe it as a reality
I am not afraid of death
I am afraid of dying
Dying life like mortals
Living death like immortals
Whatever I mastered with great effort
I threw away without a second thought
How ever much they praised me
I continued to ask ,
is this really what I want ?
Now I no longer ask this ,
I merely justify why I do what I do ….
Is this monotony a crisis ?
A deep fear of the unknown…
Familiar with the comfort of solitude.
That grape I never got , yet knew was sweet & never sour
The flower that bloomed in my heart spreading fragrance
A song I heard in a dream , but haunted me while awake
A memory that I try so hard to forget but remains
forever in consciousness
Those moments I want to hold on to , but they speed away
However much I fill , it empties reflecting my hollow self
It is that small earthen lamp burning silently in front of God…..
Translation by me , he is my father and this is from his collection ‘Zero outside and Zero inside ‘ He suffered a massive heart attack on 24th February 2017( 3 days ago) being a doctor I was able to see to it that he was helped with in one hour of the attack , a stent was put in the anterior descending branch of left coronary artery by an excellent cardiologist. Dad loves life and I have inherited it , it was Mahashivratri. A day of worship to Lord Shiva who conquers death …. I am happy my father is alive and with me….
We met unexpectedly
Yet it caused no flutter
We greeted each other like two clouds
aware of deliberate drifting apart
never came together for thunder , lightning or showers…
All I remember is the little star waiting for me in the blankets
Your eyes full of reproach….
No two clouds have the same waters