ആജിവണ കരവാസം

സ്നേഹം 

മനസ്സിൽ ഇരുന്ന് നുണഗൾ 

വലിച്ച കെട്ടിയെ പ്രാകും

പാടാത്ത പക്ഷി ആകിയെ സ്നേഹം

ആദാതെ വെള്ളം

ചാൽ അടിച്ച മണം

ചാഗാത്ത ശവം

നഷ്ടപരിഹാരം കല്യാണം

കെട്ടുന്ന താലി

കുട്ടുന കുഴിയ

സ്വന്തം

സ്നേഹം

Oregano anyone?

Have you ever felt an urge that you can never trust?
All at once, When the mind is preoccupied and flustered
I have felt such mixed contortions, where such were thrust
One of March Mondays, Mundane and lackluster
Audible is the ho-hum in her voice of knowing me, yet I tug
Out of my time, my legion, my era, and now my league too
Shamelessly, ah! a classic man sticks, like a piece of rug
Spending his moments, making sense, sometimes rue
When she stabbed my heart the first time, I whimpered
Brushed it off, wearing the blame, does this woman ever introspect?
When she stabbed it the next, I broke, yet I persevered
Only to end up served à la carte, with a side serving of disrespect
Oregano anyone?
 

दगडी काळजात 

फुटे न फुले

जगणं हे ऎसे व्हावे

निवांत, निषचिंत, शांतता राखून

अरुंद मनात , येति ना खरे

शब्द, व्याकरण, प्रेमळ भाव

खोटी व्यक्तिमत्वाचे धडे

बघुन बोलून नापून शिकलो

तरीही अल्लड मनाचे रडे

गरज नाही

तरी पाहिजेचा रोडा

त्यावर आपली मतिमंदत्व

आणत नाही, कुणास चैन

म्हणून काळज हवी दगडी

करण दगडी काळजात 

फुटे न फुले

जगणं हे कैसे व्हावे

निवांत, निश्चिंत, शांतता राखून

Summer sea

She giggled

As we hid behind a large rock

To not be lashed by the large wave

She dragged me too with her.

I was out to be lashed by it

But she had other ideas

What for are we at the beach now

If we hide from foam and spray

At that she kissed

As I was about to complain

She did, I froze, mid summer, in the hot sun

The cat didn't catch my tongue, she did

And as I held my balance, composure,

She held me, close, in a firm embrace

Unpredictable, ah! that may her name be

Bratty, brash, too wild at times

As I raised my head above the rocks

The wave slapped me sharp

Her too,

We both laughed, but then I saw her drenched

And I was drenched in her craving

Both of us rather

The we walked into the sea

Cuddled, floating and bobbing in the waves.

Angai Geete

Drifting memories
I have often smiled
When I have wanted to weep
Turned away at times
Sometimes in view
It was her voice or the songs
Like a sonnet, but abrupt, abstract
That she could instantly construct
Back then the limits were 10
The Sheep were 10, or maybe 20
In such energy then, the ceiling was fun
Forced stares, wanting to hear
Her words would gently sway
My heart, or soul, both I guess
I was to be chasing the woolly quad
Not me, I wanted to hear her more
Who knows why ‘Chafa bole na’
Or why was the peacock in ‘Ambyacha Vanaat’
Yet she drew them in words
In her gentle cuddle, Her cotton saree
So soft, fragrant with detergent
Washed over 400 times, no replacements
My new shirt over her needs
I was king, even if of an almost penniless empire
I know now, what that means
I know what wishing a ‘Chocolatecha Bangla’ entails
Diabetes, and sugar rush, first money
Lots 
But no soft sarees for her, they are not soft now
The king won’t let them go soft anymore
And
Maybe 1329 Kilometre is too far for her voice to reach
If I run to her, she will cook for me
She will sing, but I miss the old sarees of hers
Her Pallus were my covers
It explains, a lot
Maybe that is why I cannot sleep
Yes, I miss Maa.
 

The heart for me is a foe

For it has no regard

No ryhme nor reason

And for all it can do is wail

For its misgivings and mistrusts

Let it be known

I suffer no pathos 

Yet I refuse the heart's role 

In matters of logic and love

For the blinded know no colours

Nor see 

So the mind, or maybe the soul

Should be the lead

In things of love

But what is love?

Nothing but a conjuring

Of silly words, wanton feelings

There is no love in control

Nor is there in being under

But who would argue with one 

Who wold be blinded by the facade called love

In heart, mind, and soul

The faux pas of hope 2

If for a charade of popping baloons

And worse, such childish thoughts

Should I have aged, to maturity and beyond

Then I rather remember

There are fairies and pixies in the woods

And the tooth shalt be paid in coins

Yet the only coin I need

Is one to cross the Acheron

When I hear my final call

And step on the boat

Pay the boatman

The faux pas of hope

Where are the winds now

Those that we deemed will float us

Be beneath the wings

Make us proud

Nowhere, never was, never will

Yet the faux pas of such 

Is but a hope, like a child

Wishing a baloon remains

Forever puffed

And at best a day, post that pop

Crying Wolf

I sometimes visit my private cemetery

I see pieces of my past buried

Some are moments of people long gone

Some are those that I no longer hate

Some I no longer love

Then as I reach one particular grave

It was of my faith in loving

And it is the most decorated one

When I struggle with facades of folks

I visit it often, to sit by and smile

For it was the most adamant and arrogant

It was the most difficult to kill

I do not lament on its death though

For I know love is not what is desired

We just cast lies and deciet in a form

And call such abomination love and grace.

My regards to me.

I strolled through a dusty old road

It was a Summer evening, mildly cool

As I chanced upon an old tavern

There sat an old man singing

With an urge for a drink, I approached

Sat on a wooden stool, ordered a drink

The old man called out, as if he knew me

I waved back, as I knew him too

Past the third mug, I started to hum along

As the songs seemed familiar

Of times long gone

And this time I ordered another mug

For the old man with his ukelele 

As he strum, I saw his fingers were chapped

He may have felt no pain in them

For they seemed like they have strum for years

As his voice has sung it seemed

A few thousand of songs

As the moon rose, 

Like drunks do, unapologetically 

I asked him his name mid song

He smiled and said, I knew him

I for some reason called out my own name

He then asked me to sing along

It was a song, a story of my own

Full of events and happenings that were past

As we reached the end of it, I paused and saw

He had my face, my shoes, and my clothes

I realized then, I was at my end

At that I woke, lying in my bed

Who but a poet's dearest friend stood there

The grim reaper, the truest of pursuits

I reached out my hand leaving my shell behind

The

Rustling leaves

Singing streams

The breeze

Countless things

Lost love

Haphazard meetings

Fluttery gut

Awkward silence

Silly eyeing

Nervous laughter

Wanton cravings

Soulful singing

Joyful departing

Hopeful mornings

Thoughtful nights

Sleepy cuddles

Gentle kisses

Passionate love

Wakeful mornings

Those days

Gone by

Stained knife blades

Now seem like rubies

You have cherished 

Each you have stabbed me with

They have only become sharper

From stabbing my heart

I shall let you treasure them

And move on

My wounds will heal

But though your knives will rust

They shall forever carry the stains

Of deciet and your debauchery

And should you run back to me

Know, I shall be here

For I have known better

It is your nature to hurt.

My Inferno

There were two precarious events

One was Dante's inferno

One of my introspect

Both yielded alike

His definition for hell

My soul's semblance to it

Both placed beside

Confused me, as to which is which

Though in his books

He casts a cautionary tale

I was born as malice

To know I cast pain in my wake

If you strolled by

My heart that seems ablaze

You would find only darkness

That is spit from it's flames

Who else but 'I' would know

The hatred that blooms within

And all I seem to reflect in pretence

Is false love and pretentious care

My words chew swords and knives

Yet, I preach peace and grace

Who should I be, I ask often

Staring into the mirror each day

What else, could you be human

Replies the mirrored me to my face

A heart that hates

I would know when a voice would break

Often from hints of words

In text or voice

I manifest my malice

To whitewash my intentions

Of selfish pleasures

Now I know what breaks who

I willfully rush in

With reckless abandonment

Who, what, why

Are often the least of the questions

Let alone an after thought.

Frail humans

Tainted by falsehood of emotions

And I am but one different

A demon of manipulative magic

Whispering sweetness

Leaving a soul bleed

Brandishing them with agony

What better than pink cherry blossoms

As a flower I have only seen in pictures

Paintings, sketches

In words and poems

There is a certain pull

In the gentle petals, and its colour

Like a woman I love

That lives atop an icy land

She like the bloom is distant

And I shall never be able to see

Yet, I remain connected

For the universe seems to hate me

I would want nothing but freedom

From thoughts of blooms or her

Neither would ever care should I fade

And I wish my thoughts of them wither

The last Sail

I sail at dawn

Amongst the high seas 

And at best hope, 

To make it to the docks

For the storms that brew

Are as strong as my love

And they weave fears

In my stern and bow

I will Hold my drift

I will Keep me afloat

Should the waves lash against me

I shall Remind me

That I have been there before

Though I have braved a million storms

This journey is lone

No mates, no love

Then at dusk should I reach the shore

I shall walk into the tavern

And drink a brew, or four

And then walk on along

Without a care

Vanish from this town

Into the fog.

The whirling wind

I know a bridge

Creaky and rusty

It has over the years stood

As if having outlived its utility

But left to it's own

It was the haunt of many 

Little kids, watching boats

Old folks sitting on it fishing

Lovers who stood, 

Making promises, kisssing

I have often watched the sun set

Waiting upon it

Bathed in the golden glow

I have felt you walk up

Ask me for a light, smoke up

It was a rendition of my thought

But it always felt surreal 

Last I waited on there

You said you were going away

I nodded in agreement

For one cannot make a whirlwind stay.

Untamed

What is my reprieve

From self inflicted abuse

Of my mind and soul

Wishing for wants that draw nothing

Who can I blame

Other than my childish heart

For that seems to remain untamed

Running amok on wayward paths

I could try to hold me back

Maybe sleep over some longings

And desires too

Yet in a tussle between me and my heart

I would have to be mindful

For the heart is a child, vindictive

Wanton, absurd, and manipulative

Untill then this will suffice

How I would like

To paint a river by the mountains

Covered in mist

On some random evening

Of sun shafts

Piercing through clouds

Lighting up the river

Making it sparkle

But my hand is stilled

For I am not a painter

Or so my mind says, my skill shows too

I envy those

Yet not innately 

I wish to wake up one day

To splatter paints and brush 

And maybe in those strokes

Highlight

What my mind sees

Of green fields, rivers, mountains and mist

And maybe you holding me

Until then maybe I shall apply restraint

Than waste canvas, colours, brushes, and oil

And look inside as I write poetry

On how you seem to be

Playing along, singing and dancing

Holding my soul, unlike you are 

But then again

From paint to words

It can still be my fantasy.

pragmatism

You I know

Vexing me to no end

For farce, for flimsy social dogma 

Sanguivorous as it may be

Worse, feed on lies of made to fittings

Efficacy of sentiments

None, 

For societial dogmas innoculate 

As we mature, or so as the state gets called

Is but a contorted lie, vetted as truths

If epiphany shall dawn

It will be Tucked 

In the deepest recesses of heresay 

For dogmas are moulds

In which to imprison minds

I have been an inmate

Served the time, walked to the gallows

But my will and freedom could not be quashed

I can be hurt, by what I let 

I deny normalcy 

That is not, yet is deemed to be

For I have learnt to breathe free

You are yours

Your will and thoughts

But they shall always be welcomed

For it's you, that matters

Not your dogmatic inclination

Discussing Ownership

Who does a poem belong to?

To the poet or to the muse?

If the poet 

then answer me this

when the poet sits idle, devoid of thought

        is that all theirs? 

        or is that nothingness

        that is filled by the muse

        that in a sudden moment

        their words become convoluted

        and spring to life.

When such a change can be brought upon

How does it become a poet's?

If to the muse

humor me with this

When the muse in their ignorance appear

        is it preordained?

        or is it that they want to influence?

        by enchanting the poet's mind

        by bewitching the poet's soul

        making them scribble and scribe

        making it come alive.

I would argue the poem belongs to neither

for the words and feels were chanced upon

who else but the universe could contrive 

of such an argumentative, yet beautiful plan.

Irony

Waking up to hazy mornings

I often stare through my bedroom window

Half wanting to sleep again

Lazy hazy mornings

But the weekdays have other plans for me

Some to annoy, some to delight

Some days of a chance meeting

When I could sit and forget the world

Some you meet in life remind

Others make you forget 

And some others help to see clearly

That this is a cycle of rampant futility

I can see these images often 

Cast on haze, ironically these too are

For these fade away in the bright sun

कुछ लिख दूं

शायद लिखकर 

     मन संभाल जाएगा

पर अल्फ़ाज़ न आए

तो कैसे चलेगी उंगलिया

दिल के तारो को कैसे छेड़े

जब धुन ही न आए

मन तो जैसे मानता ही नही

पर, मनाना ज़रूरी है

और भी तो काम है

सिवाय इश्क लड़ाने के।

Perfume of the soul

Strips of papers

For smelling perfumes

From sample vials, in malls

I walk by, with caution

For me there is no allure

I have no inclination to such

For they smell like falsified personnas

Of silly temporary attraction

Momentary, unlike her skin

She wears scents

She loves them too

But In our long embraces

They fizzle out

I have felt her essence

And the gentle hints of saltiness

From her sweaty upper lips

On summer nights,

In humid weather

Cuddled, closer, 

With her hair brushing my face.

Tekdi

I have often wandered

At midnight, those were good times

A safer world, no paranoia

Only stories of ghosts, or folklores

'Amit' my buddy and I

Were once upon a hillock near our homes

Exactly halfway from each of our homes.

Those were the days when radio was taking over

After the television had run its course

Back in 2002, somewhere in september

We both sat atop the hillock

Hearing 98.3 , beautiful days

It played good songs

We listened all through, then sang till dawn

We were besties , we are too

Though those all nighters, 

and beer on hills have ceased

We still talk

Of bygone times

Of carefree wanderings

When we didn't have to keep up our appearances.

Coming to collect

A few years ago, I visited my village

Walked through the dusty roads

Beside the old home that was mine

Amongst the lush mango and moringa trees

For a few moments I stood at the courtyard

Asked the owners if I could sit on the dusty ground

He was visibly confused

Until I mentionedy name

At that he smiled wide

And invited me indoors

I declined, but asked if I could sit on the verandah

Where I have often, as a kid sat pondering

Thinking of if I could fly, if I try

Or if water would solidify in the sunny heat

He obliged, offered me some water

I sat there, again 30 years after

It felt like only an evening has passed

And my grandma would call me for evening prayers

I asked him, if he prays or his kids do

His 8 year old girl had just stepped out

Chanting 'Deepam, Deepam' with a lamp in her hands

I stayed back for a few minutes and left

This time my mind followed me

I had after all come for such

I was living in Mumbai till then

But in Kavasseri I was alive.

cuddles

I have learnt to sleep watchfully

To wake up in mid,

Pull her closer

So that I could smell her hair

And hear her breathe

As she cuddles back 

Folding and curling into me

Sometimes she would smile

And if she did, 

she wouldn't remember

I would watch her

And wait for her to roll away

In between her cuddles and drifting

I have lived a million years

Waking and wanting

To put her back to my chest

Kissing her head

Sit by me

At the recliner, 

on the beach

The patrol has gone by, 

They won't be back for another 4 hours

Its dark, and only the moon is out

Lets kiss,  

lie down on the sand

make out

The ocean lashes onto the shore

Crashing into the sands

Whispering into our ears

To be bolder, 

and mad

and wilder 

Existing in instances

Who could you be

Maybe a sun, maybe a son, maybe a sign

Yet

When you cease

Are you all that?

Does the memory or a memoir, replace one

I doubt

We carry none, for we carried none

Everything was like a flash

And everything bore itself

Yet we attach meanings, where such doesn't seem

Only for we are humans

Only made of stardust

You or I, us or them

Just randomly placed objects

In each other's paths

By a universe that hums

Maybe laughs in tune, and we deem it a song

I see nothing, I am nothing

Yet, you or I, we are here

And so at this juncture

When we part, remember

I am you, or you are I

Rotating and counter

Always away, and always near

penchant for Adversity

Under dark skies

On moonlit nights

Many have sought hope

Love, and such

Yet the moonlight is a lie

A whitewash to cover the pain

For there is only pain and longing

As the lament of love is a drudgery

Then you see the stars

Further apart

As if a giant glass heart exploded

Into a million dazzling pieces

Glistening

In the gentle moonlight

In the 40s

Summer nights 

Hot and humid, I sleep almost bare, 

In mind and body

As we reach the 40s in age and temperatures

The mind is free

To think of nothing

Maturity, or maye be tolerance

We often lose track

And memory, and people

Old songs, old words

Times past, of teen age, of childhood

The roof is bare

We would have painted some pictures

Yet at this age and temperatures 

That is better left

For there is nothing but boredom

A lack of will, acceptance of lack of skill

We may have seen it all

We know, we must have

But poetry

Ah, poetry remains

Everything is poetry, else poetic justice

Our past labour has borne us fruits

Some rotten, others taste sweet

But then again

Where was I?

Ah! summer nights

Boring summer nights

Devoid of sleep, and we are still scribbling

Poetry was it?

Yes, yes.

Poetry.

A photographer's song

Morning light, morning light

Stay with me

Make my pictures bright

But not too much

Let the eyelashes appear right

Let the hair shimmer

Shine through, in sun shafts

Make the morning haze fire like

Beside the lake

As my subject poses

Let the water sparkle, 

like golden beads

Let me capture, 

Their hues and tones

Morning light, morning light

Come through, but be gentle

Stay a while,

Let my lenses see

Lit by your warming glow

see through.

I am often laughed at

For I drink from my beer mug

Tea, Coffee, Beer , wine, or even water

Why not, for there is consistency

This is my glass mug

The contents are mine 

If you wish to, you can borrow one too

I have many mugs

But no ceramic ones

Ceramic ones are smaller, and translucent

Glass shows what's within

And I can have a favorite glass

Have it break, replace the same

There is no kintsugi, I have no time

To lament over like the Japanese

Glass is clear, for all to see within

There are no secrets

There is only whats inside

Much like me, much like my glass.

Tomatoes and sprinkled sugar.

Beautiful hot summers

Of mangoes and holidays

Days gone by

Vetiver roots in the earthen pots

Refreshing and quenching thirsts

Late noon snacks of a low income child

Grandma makes him his favourite dish

Sliced tomatoes with sprinkled sugar

At 3 he relishes those as a delicacy

He is at the verandah

Amongst the wooden pillars

4 , rounded unpainted

Often during the rains his house would tumble

Termites, those hideous creatures

Grandma pawns her ear rings

Gold, for a mere 500 rupees.

Contractor uncle repairs his house

He knew, he is not rich

He is a child, he sees his granny

He is happy, she is his all

His mom visits, yearly

Sends granny money to live

He has grown to not seek wealth

He was never a dreamer either

He hurts his head, walks off the pain

His fault, though so young

He knows it will pass

He has grown up, he has been around

He still relishes his favourite dish

Today he made it again

Sliced tomatoes with sprinkled sugar

He can afford more, but he loves his granny.

Fragility

In those oxidized weave

Of rhinestones and wire work

And then of your essence

Maybe the summer sun shines better

If you step out into it

Or maybe the roses bloom to compete

Against you blush, as you laugh

Such parallels, such metaphors

They are not to impress

They seem to be as true

For the poet sees a different you

Your mirrors and you may beg to differ

But the sun nor the roses prefer

They are mine, yours are yours

And yet mine are yours too.

Fight fire with Spite

Dear poet

Lucky you are to not be in the drudgery of a mishmash

Of forlorn songs that is IT's debauchery

Maybe I should let myself loose

Into the twirls of madness 

Stare the medusa of apathy in the eye

Am sure she will be set in stone

The absurd rigidity of set paroxysm 

Shall at best be my undoing

I could curse my toils

Yet they are from the depths of my heart

I could be wayward, aloof

But that would make me them

I have rowed and rowed

Furthered my self from such indulgence

For I have seen me love

For my soul seeks to aid

Amidst all the turmoils and tantrums

Of project managers and clients

I seek only compliance

Above all, even if only in audits

ramblings

I have asked myself often

What would sunlight taste like to a man blind

And I for sure know now what it will

It would be like a kiss from her lips

It may seem like a postulate

But I know it is so

For I have seen the sunset glow

Radiate off her, mirroring her skin

They say a poet is mad

But isn't madness what is perceived

Is it so unwarranted, that my mind sees

Someone stirring a soul song, in a heartless me

I could write a million words

Yet they pale, in the feel of her

Summers, rain, fall, winters

They are all like how it feels, seeing her.

ramblings

She sat by, with her drenched hair

Arching over to whisper

I could only be stilled by her husky voice

While the water dripped on my bare skin

I brush aside her hair 

She looks at me with gentle eyes

Her skin, like dusk , like melting time

She smiles gently, moving into an embrace

She wore no threads,  and my hands could feel

But my eyes were transfixed

Into her voice, she was real , but I was in a dream

Floating in multitudes of poetic rivers

As she laughed at my helpless stare

She caught my face and held me near

I was awake, yet transfixed

Merging into a pool of madness

Delirious, but without a care

मैं तपस्वी

अंत, हर, योगी

गुण से परे

आदि, अनंत

पर मेरा मार्ग जाने माँ सरस्वती

तेरे पास हो लक्ष्मी

पर तेरा उदर जाने माँ अन्नापूर्णा

तेरे जीवन में हो हरी

तेरे जीवन मैं सब कुछ हो

अगर तेरे नेत्रों में बसे माँ निद्रादेवी

मैं सब हूँ

पर मैं ना हूँ, 

अगर ना हो पार्वती

न पिताः, न नारायण, न हर

जो ना हो माँ आदि शक्ति