Not Green

The tree is dead, today.
Spread across the limitless horizons
With its infinite wisdom, and charred branches
It stands, several ants escape
Their lifeless abode, lest the tempest
Of silent sap and flamboyant pollen -
Blows them away into nothingness.

You were there, the quiet whisperer -
Climbing its stony boughs, sprigs cradling you
You were touched, weren't you?
The fire lit its insides, but left you
With tears ablaze, and a strange leafy musk
That you will reek of, whenever you lie -
Or lie next to me, possibly medicinal smelling.

They will come in hordes and swarms
It will rain a million tears.

I have the axe here, see, saw too -
Dead trees must lay forgotten.
But what do I do with the stump
With roots clawing far beneath, holding on
And here in my clinic heart, the storms
Rage on, creating new dunes of sand.
Yellow and brown, not green.

Alas

It was the picture of a broken bottle -

Jagged, a victim of asinine actions

And acrid smoke, lilting by the dark drapes. 

Or maybe it was you, with napalm poetry

Burning red, green, white; who knows? 

Let's wail tonight. The picture, you, I - 

The darkness of the eyes needs washing.

In yours, under mine, and the picture? 

It is but sanguine, you say. My eyes hurt. 

Let's sleep with each other tonight.

I, you, the picture - no, it must remain away

Fetid little thing, not apposite in our havens, 

Of fragrances and musk, and entangled arms

And Alhaiya Bilaval 

You are gone. Or is it I? Dark grey skies,

You cannot see the moon. It burns red. 

I burn red. 

You burn red. 

The picture burns red.

Alas.

I'll Be a Friend, Tomorrow

Maybe when banging doors and loud voices
Would not drain the colour in me,
I'll be a friend, tomorrow.
I'll tell you that it hurts, when you
Talk to me, behind me, about me-
And that, I drag my thumbnail across
My fingers when I'm nervous.

Maybe when you ask for me to celebrate
And paint the town red, I would nod.
I'll be a friend, tomorrow.
I'll tell you that I spend nights under
Dark grey skies, counting absent stars
And that, the salty brine that sweep about
My face aren't just sweat from the dancing.

Maybe if you hold my hand and smile
And return my colours to me,
I'll be a friend, tomorrow.
I'll tell you stories of your greatness that
I proclaim to others, about dreams-
Of us, hair blowing in pleasant breezes
And my face, prouder to just be there.

And in this fog of emboldened words and-
Premature actions, I'll still tell you,
I'll look up as you stand atop conquered hills
You mount corpses of men and animals alike-
I'll be a friend, tomorrow. 

On Dying

Do not talk of Death-
He listens with wary ears
And in wallowing wisps
Waving away, he walks
Slyly he makes you
One of his dear own.

While the distressed songstresses
Of the graveyard, sing but in
Selfsame violent chirps,
Yet the heart longs, silently.

Talk of Death- in the expect'
Of a new escape? Ah but
What of the hens and cocks
Who witness you leave the cage?

High

They told us- India looks this way
And Europe looks like that- but
How does one decide their shapes?
Does one stand atop high buildings-
And draw what they see below them?
I’m standing on the seventeenth floor-
And the shape of this city isn't clear to me.
The tall cross and clock stare at me,
While there are higher buildings to stand on.

Tell me- you were always the smarter one
If I stand there- will it be visible to me?
Or should I jump down- onto the unyielding floor
Till the unrelenting wretch of a Time passes me by?
Till blurs of several colours become heads-
And bodies and souls- and then blur again.
You were tall. Could you from your
Mighty height make out the shapes of towns
Is that why you were good with roads
Even when you let me guide you? Could you
Also make out people from that high?
Is that why you left me- were my bays too deep?
Or were the lands too soft and uneven?

Tell me-just this much. How high do I
Have to be- to just distinguish you- just you
In this ocean of blurred bokeh- with my
Fogged out eyes spewing brine? And will you
If you ever see me coming, with your height-
Towards you with outstretched arms,
Take me back again? Or would you be lost again?

I guess I am just high.

I Will Not Love Him

I gently bent to kiss him-
He pushed me away, told me
To not be a sentimental fool.
I wade into nostalgic waters-
And the upstream drift saps
All my energy- sans hope, I see
Trophies and report cards, a tiny bicycle
And a plethora of broken sticks
That I broke on his back.

I look at him- his eyes glued to his
Computer- a faint glow of youth?
Or perhaps the light of the computer
Reflected in them- and slowly I
Curl up- To hold on-
To all the fleeting shadows
That go ahead as soon as I
Jump to grasp them.

Another woman will come-
She will replace me- or will she
I cry silent tears, and then
I cleanse my own thoughts- I
Must let go- that is natural.
But is natural right?
I don't know.

Little by little, I promise myself
I will not love him.

Note

I don't know if this will mean anything to you. But this song unearthed new things in me. New places, new memories, new feelings, new thoughts that I never knew existed. Here's my translation, actually interpretation of the song. Yours may differ. I don't know. I strongly urge you all to give this song a listen though. I'm myself so sorry that I heard it this late. Guess I do stay in a really impenetrable bubble.

Amar Mawte (In My Opinion)

Singer: Lopamudra Mitra
Film: Hemlock Society

Youtube Link: www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mq9GHbg7xXo


I've shattered your mirror so many times-
Looked right back at the real you
In my opinion, there is nobody like you.
I've bathed in your raw luminescence
And sung my innocent songs-
In my opinion, there is nobody like you.

In this dead land, when there is only the scorch of the sun
I could not even keep the remains of a single river intact-
I lost everything at your games- and
I still asked for another round,
Never knowing what drew me back each time.

Sometime these days, leave the safe confines
Of your clothes and shoes- and come
Be naked with me on the streets.

I've shattered your mirror so many times-
Looked right back at the real you
In my opinion, there is nobody like you.
I've bathed in your raw luminescence
And sung my innocent songs-
In my opinion, there is nobody like you.

On the way to your home, I must pass-
Each time, the sentinels of logic- sometimes
Camouflaging themselves sometimes in poetry
They get caught- I know poetry too well.

Right across your frontyard- is complex mathematics and logic-
I couldn't solve them- I could never reach the insides of your house.

Sometime these days, leave the safe confines
Of your clothes and shoes- and come
Be naked with me on the streets.

I've shattered your mirror so many times-
Looked right back at the real you
In my opinion, there is nobody like you.
I've bathed in your raw luminescence
And sung my innocent songs-
In my opinion, there is nobody like you.

Time and Again

Unflinchingly, with the greatest dedication
She holds on- to the tablecloth of time
Woven intricately by crisscrossing muslin threads
Sometimes she keeps looking at the gold sheen-
And the patterns swiftly embroidered by divine craftsmen.
She feels happy- her life contains patterns- little butterflies
With red and blue wings flying over bright flowers
Her grip tightens- Those patterns are not to share or to let go.
And as she notices, a pull- she bares her claws. She hisses.
And the delicate muslin threads yield- one by one.
She falls, face forward, rolls back immediately-
Perchance the patterns and the tapestry are gone.
She throws one look skyward- of pure loathing-
And then drowns herself in her own tears, for the patterns
Were the only thing she owned- befitting her.
They lay a new tablecloth of soft wool with more colours-
A purplish hue- she notices through her blurry vision
Soft to touch- this time with motifs of little children playing-
They mouth unheard words to her through their smiles-
She puts her cheek to the fibre, feels it caress her face
And slowly dry up the tears. She has grown up now.
A lot of sheets have changed. Yet, each time, she hangs on
To the last- desperately, resisting change- Each time-
Tear tracks on her face, darker than the last.

Distorted

Must our blacks be always black?
Not a little dark grey
Looked from afar
With the right amount of shadow
From the wrong silhouette
Of a high tree
Or maybe the little distorted
Angle of the white lighted sun.

Bludgeon me in the head, repeatedly.
Till your arms are tired- and watch
Me fall, the bones within crack-
And the blood flooding the floor.
Then hit me again, one final blow
To the stomach, right above the abdomen.
I won't feel it, no. Life, but a wisp
Flew out the day you said-
Or did not- to me.
I would apologise, if I knew.
Actually I do know.
Sorry, for hearing the words you never said.

Happiness

I am scared of being happy.
I do not let his song spread
Through my insides- I do not
Let his infectious touch moisten my skin.
When somehow, Happiness seeps in
Through all the reluctance and refusal-
He warms my frozen heart, thaws it
And then the ugly scars- from years of
Failure and rejection come daunting back.
They bare their fangs and guffaw.
And Nostalgia, riding her black stallion-
Slowly makes her way through to my head
And she shows me gory images of darkness.
She rescues Hope from the cobwebbed dungeons
And sets him free- And Hope runs wild-
A madman, setting the entire body afire
Readying it for activity- and failure, again.

Forgive me- I know you will not-
But my wintry world is all I need.
I agree the storms never subside-
But again, nobody hopes they will, either.

The Red Wall Clock

Somewhere between the two ticks
Of the second hand of the red wall clock
Half-cracked, towering over the bed room
I can still hear your breaths, intertwined
In mine. Shallow. Urgent. Passionate.

And I wait, patiently and watch the smoke
Rising in characteristic spirals over your food
Bow down, and disappear- it has gone cold.
Much like my patience- yet each night as I
Hear you walk stealthily upon the porch
I know where you're coming from.

I sense you cower in my presence, I feel
Your insides lash out in agony- Or are they mine?
For the one air we breathed in, now separate-
Desolate, almost. I smile, and light up the stove again
As you repeat how work is so stressful these days.

And each time, I sit in front of the mirror
I question again- And the tears always win the fight
With my heart. But when you walk in- I bury
Myself in your chest, and feel the pieces string
Perhaps together again. I have seen her.

And the red wall clock looks at me.
The cracks look like eerie little smiles.

Harami

I drive a Honda City now.
They all look in awe- they say
"Ramu has become a millionaire"
I laugh it away- Sahib is nice
He sometimes lets me drive it
To the end of the city, and back.
I feel happy- they say you're happiest
When you are a child. I spent mine
Running around on the streets-
Caked in dust and snot, they called me Harami,
Until the day I knew- and I changed it to Ramu.

And little by little, I get to know
More things about me everyday.
When at weddings, all the drivers
Get together to smoke chillum-
And look at magazines baring women's breasts
I dream of open fields- of swaying paddy.
And I see myself naked.
With a man's shadow atop me.

I know better than to tell them
That at the municipal tap- I wake up
In the morning only to see all of them
Get bare chested and bathe, to make out
The shape of their contours and bulges
Through their wet clothes- and I sometimes
Purposely ask Shome to spend nights in my house
To take in his divine smell as he silently dreams.

Sahib asks why I don't marry- and I tell him
No girl marries bastard drivers.
He clicks his tongue.
I smile. I have seen him undress, once.
I did not like him.

And amidst all of this, sometimes,
I stand naked, and look down-
For the hint of a breast or a vagina.
My penis stares at me in the darkness.
So do my dreams. A man's shadow.
And while inside me, as I writhe in blissful pain
He calls me "Harami".

Hopeful

She is the pebble, perfected

Through streams of inundation

One after the other- that scraped

Her insides as much as her outsides.

She is the majestic ring of the eclipse

Luminescence ever-present- yet,

Ever-spreading darkness in her heart.

She is the sand of the hand- fleeting-

Rough to the hand, smoothly flows through.

She sits with her head bowed, with the

Noise of a thousand worlds in her head

Dragging a finger on the ground into 

Surreal shapes- with a nail unevenly bitten

She hides herself in her throng of black

They hiss at her, and she silently counts days

When she has heard her talk to herself-

Of love, of brokenness, of life.

And in the fire of her aura that she lights

Around her- she throws a little piece

Of herself everyday, to enrage the flames.

If you ever so stand- close to the magnificent 

Light, know you are but fortunate.

Hold on to her. She'll hold onto you.

For is love nothing but a torturous flame-

Attractive at first, but hurtful the very next?

She remembers you.

She deserves you.

She wants you.

Trust me.

Oddity

Behind closed doors,

In the darkness-

He cries himself to sleep.

He tells himself that

He is not an oddity.

He looks around and

Sees them all refute.

He flays his spindly arms

In exasperation- and ends up

Breaking the mirror-

And in each fragmented piece

He looks at himself.

He looks for himself.

He seeks answers.

And once he is calm,

Ready, not quite, to face

Daylight again- He jots down

Another thing in his little head

That he would not tell anyone

Least of all, himself.

For is that not where

All struggles begin?

Mirror

It is unfair

That a fragile piece

Of mere glass

Has the power

To not only physically

Cut us, but also

Rip us from insides

Shred our falsehoods

And exhibit what remains

The naked truth.

If I were a mirror

I'd be more sensitive

I'd, for one, learn to lie.

I'd let people live

In their hollow bubbles.

But that is not why when she

Timidly comes and stands

Before me, I tell her

She looks wonderful.

For Solitude

Espousing Melancholy- she sits

Her hair open, like auburn fields

At sunset, sipping ruby wine

From a crystal goblet, letting it 

Swirl while she swallows.

She whispers seductive silences

Into the ears of animal and man- 

Until all is shrouded by the fog of war.

She wears her knight's armour

And fights- with her fiend and foe-

Psyche, who shoots familiar arrows

And Death, lurking in his black garb

Comes to scavenge when all is dark.
Yet she stops Death sometimes, for He
An adversary as much as a friend-
And she distinguishes calm from calamity.

O Solitude, behold! For I may not be

Your war-puppet. Engulf me-

Let my rimes and songs be thine

Let me be the flickering lamp

In your Temple of Suns, feeble-

But infinite, somehow.

La Isla de Palabras

Quite past the world

Of complacency and blame

There is an island, wherefore

I travel, not everyday

Lest I get attached to the place.

I pluck words from the 

Thorny acacias, and watch

Their sharpness slowly goad

Into my hands.

I watch myself bleed.

I see the words I carefully plucked

Mix with the blood in my hands

To create poetry.

I sometimes wash the redness

The taste of raw iron -

With the sea, sometimes my tears, till

The salty aftertaste is all that remains.

And sometimes when tempests rage,

And I can't find safe shores

I lie down beneath the acacias

And witness the moonlight weave

Beautiful patterns on my hands-

That, come morning, have transformed

Into ugly callouses.