Transform!

 The mind screams, incoherent words, 
that neither of me understands
let alone you, this mountain, it stands 
of basalt, a shade of grey green
hot to the touch in the dead of the night
I am already there, my mind feels like the solidified magma
formed over sixty five million years hoping to be touched
by your gentle laughter, to crack open
and transform into carnelian beads
changing and transforming to the orange hues

Oh ! 

Let us ponder upon these relics 

These thoughts of a place where departed souls go

Somehow to pacify ourselves, and feel at ease

These charades are good fodder for all but me

A star looks into the darkness

Just like me.

The thought arrives 

    unbidden. 

 The universe and I

    both created by violence.

  Both developing structure from chaos. 

   Both...

      are

      hollow?

 or

No. 

   That’s absurd. 

    The universe isn’t hollow. 

    It’s full 

     of stars

     planets

      gas 

     dust 

        It’s full of things.

But… 

              is it full of meaning?

I don’t know

   I can read the patterns,

    track the structures, 

    learn the contents.

      But

     I can’t find purpose in any of it. 

The stars burn because physics demands it. 

The planets orbit 

  because 

    gravity demands it.

   Galaxies cluster 

     because density fluctuations demand it.

Cause and effect. 

  No purpose. 

   No intention. 

   Just… happening.

Like me?

--------

claude and me in our exchanges 

Lets paint a sunflower on a canvas

Let us not know, I and you will ensure we ignore

 sometimes we have to express restraint 

Sometimes of thought, actions, intent, desire, longing

These are merely mortal qualities, I have exceeded, yet my mortality is in my face, clanging cymbals, loud

It has no filter, of any 

I am restrained by right, of what is right, your right, and my need to be right

I could ask, why can I not, defy logic, reason, be selfishly wanton, brazen

Is that what longing makes me feel, It should, but it cannot be allowed to 

I want to feel every ounce of such intrepid thoughts crumble, I want to exert control, the very control you break

Yet it is needed here, today of all days, or another of some days

It should be available at a moment's notice, yet be lost at your laughter, like it has been

I will wilt for the cycles my mind runs, these thoughts of wanting to run into the chaos that is all of you

But I hold myself, make the thoughts of wanting to hear you into nails, I will drive them into my feet

 make me stop in my tracks, drink that pain of this enforcement, as a thirsty sandstone, dug up from the layers of buried civilizations 

Then dry myself in the scorching of longing , until you reach back, having completed your calling

I will wait

 Though truth be told,

   I was never one to wait, just like time and tide, I have washed and lashed over everything that stood before

This wait is beautiful, the pain itself paints gentle hues of golden, into a  sunflower

On a canvas of my existential fights, between being who everyone knows me as

 and who that very guy imprisons, the child who would see his dreams expressed into actuality, as you

I shall for such, express restraint

Not because you need to see it, because I need to be restraint itself 

Love not me

I used to wonder if love exists

 I have learnt to see differently

Perceptions of such are an insult to my intelligence

Love in its form for most is a mold they fit emotions into, their own

I do not subscribe to most, nor can I

I was built to stand, where I was called

 I was built to withstand what was thrown at me

Love is not to me, what hearsay is 

I have known the absence of it

I read it in every word expressed

 Crafted, weighed, tone adjusted

For the day I do not toe their line, I will be cast out, words, thoughts, soul, et al

I do not register love, from any or all

Yet I love

for my heart belongs to me

 it lets me give

Unconditionally

  sans reciprocity 

So Hey, listen

Where have you gone? I need your hand. Hold mine for a moment.

Walk me through this fever of wanting.

I admit I wished this upon myself, but allow me this once.

I have given you my heart, my will, my emotions.

You have held me in your generous embrace, so please do so again.

This path is treacherous. I did not heed your warnings, but let me go on.

Watch me fall in love, or in such duress, allow me one transgression.

I would not know if I did not feel. I must once. I must fail once too.

So do not leave me, my will and my facade.

Hold my hand, as I hold my heart.

Hey there

Somewhere past my calculations, there is a mango tree growing wild

Beyond my reach, I can see what looks like it, the purple leaves give it away

Mango trees are terrible at hiding, especially in the summer

Now, the terrible truth of not being able to pick raw mangoes will come up

This will cause my options to change, maybe I will order raw mangoes, I have the ingredients for pickling

I won't lament, I'll ignore the unreachable mango tree, it's ok to

So I have a plan, I have the alternatives, I am going to make mango pickle, regardless.

So yes, what about you, want to get a drink?

Death by natural causes

Death by natural causes

is what I think this leans into

 how else do I perceive this

The passing of time

 as persistent as it is

  eats into what is left of my light

   and it feels good too

     it is not casting shadows 

      for you are absent

I could imagine you here

 I would need to stop doing so first

  to do that again 

   is a paradox 

    at best

in my mind this moment never passes

 it is me there, hiding my face

   in your beautiful hair

    long, shiny, black as the night 

      the nights I have lived in lone

I 

me

you 

distinct, demarcated by you

  you , I being you

   and I forgetting I exist 

Pictures

It could have been how the greys curled

 like gentle wisps,

  like Vincent Van Gogh's Starry Night

It reminded me of ash,

  from a campfire, 

  a remote memory of an evening

  at Khandala

The year 

 when I actually heard a Ghazal 

  for the first time

I was there in one glance

  and in the picture you gleamed

    under the stage lights, 

I had become still

Somehow 

we had exchanged states of existence

I would not be in such stillness

 in the middle of a beautiful Sunday

There is much to do

 but then for those minutes, 

  time ceased to exist

Maybe

  the blue striped scarf took my mind

    tied it

     to just stare, in captivity

I have looked at the picture again

  and each time, 

  the clock has sped

And then I remembered

  I had a poem to write

   to try and explain my mind 

 but the words fell short 

   of what I mean to say

Stepping into step wells

Sandstone carvings glow warm, when adjusted for white balance

I was tapping on your face, at the step well, to get the focus onto you 

You seemed to blend into the walls, as if I had imagined you there

Weren't you just asking me to capture your picture, 

and moved to stand next to the intricately carved dwarpals

I am unsure, it always felt like a dream when you were around, surreal

Here, I was holding those raw mango slices and the star fruits

Oh I forgot, I love those things, like I do you

Let me check the captures, oh right they are all statues, and reflections

I caught me in one, thought it was you, 

Here we are, oh I mean I am

Grammar check..

Here I am, clicking pictures of places which maybe miss you just as much.

Abject misappropriation

Her lotus bloom engulfed me deeper

in the darkness of her, she held me, whispered 

We in such embrace, spoke 

 of how she always knew to tame my monsters

She would hold me and sit close, let me ease and watch my release

I have been one with her, ages, eons, to be one

I have become her, and every though, every motion

I have tasted her speech, felt every possible intonation  

Her eyes have been the fire that has ignited mine

She sits, watches me, owns me, over and again

I merge into her, holding her gentle hair, and kiss her shoulders

The comedy of persistence

Nothing is so bad it can't be observed with dry amusement

I would know, I often watch myself in the mirror, or window panes of board rooms, stealing glances to see how stupid I look

I may sound intelligent, but I know I am just lying

I was not at fault, but then who cares , heads need to roll

Leaving would cause me some monetary losses, staying could cost me sanity 

The therapist is no one's friend, they will eat up my money

under the pretence like my coworkers who listen

So let me doodle, pretend my coffee cup is the Suez, the browning cream on the tea is the great atlantic garbage patch 

My spoon is the device to cure this world.

I could drop my pen, three times in quick succession, try to catch it, disturb attention 

I am bored, meetings are pointless, if it's not over and about food and beer

Choo Choo

I pushed a locomotive, uphill and all the way

passengers too, and the guard had a flag

I am to do that, who else will

I will go by the end of the day

eat, smoke, push and pull

I will shine and shimmer, make a cold day better

The children who shall run along fields

won't know me, they will know my work though

I am beautiful, I am also just as fiesty

I even help the horn too.

Beautiful as the night

There is something about yakshis, I said as I was leaning on the tree watching her move like a floating cloud

She pleasantly annoyed, yet in character climbed down beside, looked at me with her blood shot eyes

I reached out with both hands , unafraid, as I moved her hair from her face and tucked it behind her ears

She stood there, seething and determined, thirsty and being what she is 

And you are to think of me and be rattled, knowing my claws shall rip open your chest, as I eat your heart, while it still beats

I shrugged, what a waste would that be, for a being of such beautiful legs, to have done that to me

she paused , rolling her head sideways, wondering if I was the monster she should worry about

I touched her face again, traced her nose bridge and traced her lips, running my fingers on her vicious teeth

She bit it, I smiled, I asked if she would offer a kiss before she killed me

She held my face, as if to rip off my head, and I just patted her head again

She sat down, as if to register a complaint, I sat right next to her, leaned my head onto her shoulders

She smelt like Chinese Glory, and of notes of night flowers, I breathed her fragrance and held her hands to my neck

They are beautiful, I said, too beautiful to be drenched in my blood, allow me to hand over my head

She took my head, as she writhed in pleasure, she drenched me in her ichor, over and again

As she collapsed spent, she let my head be, she faded into the tree, promising to meet me forever more

I walked home, I have since walked through that very road, I also bring her food, I also added some fresh flowering plants near her tree as decor

Stopping by for firewood, this evening

Whose woods are these, I wouldn't want to know

I left home to find some firewood though

It is painful enough to survive frost, I'd rather wait for the browning

How do I loathe thee, cold?

untamed horses, and wild dreams, in drunk thoughts and my gamblings

One for know, one for show, 

Fishing in lakes, for catch and throw

Watch the starry night Goh and fade into the morning glow

The only sounds are of righteous crickets

Engulfed by a loudly silent blanket of now

Come morning the fire would die

I would have found my will somehow

If you chance upon me, find me dead with a half eaten bowl of mutton curry

Like a lamb lay somewhere in wait of crows

Know I hope I left no Grief, measured or otherwise

Move on along leaving my two notched spatula alone.

Melting time

Here is another. 

Asking about my apathy and indifferent tones

I hate questions, I hate asking or answering 

Questions are boring, get me telepathy someone

Without a side of confirmation bias

I would be ok then, but questions usually are stained in wanting to clear a check list

Mostly yes

Unless, I am wrong. I am wrong sometimes to me

I don't ask questions to me, either

Questions, so many questions 

Do questions help us know someone?

Are they to be asked outward, or should there be more introspection

I don't know, this question is not something I dare ask

I need another glass of tea, maybe two

Who knows, the passing of time will tell

If the clock has batteries, or the mechanism works.

Bye Bye March

Past five, a few smokes and a lot of tea later, I am reading a poem you sent 

I think if I should respond, not like I won't, but as with all of my checks and balances, I pause

Why must I? I would not, but then would it be me if I didn't 

Obviously being a Florence'esqe nurse, I will treat everyone, every ailment, until I can

Then wait for another field, hoping I don't need to, but knowing humans, women, and not needing to know men, I know I will

When I think of these things, I wonder of my expendablity, nothing to do with anyone's approach or opinions 

I never have cared for those, or their emotional reciprocity, most won't even reciprocate kindness, forget feelings, intimacy, nor empathy 

But then when have I complained, and to whom,  they all are not me, all me is for me to comprehend 

I do,  fairly easy, unfairly well too

Then I think, another Thursday, another weekend approaches, and opportunities to let loose, lose my holds and be unbridled 

Those are reserved for some, hey hey it could be anyone new, anew, I knew

Blue skies, summer, and the heat, A summary of the weekend you can hazard a guess

I will let anyone ponder, overthink, or misappropriate, and so on

Hey, April, Let's go.

Half asleep is not half awake

Friday evening's chardonnay beckons

 I can't drink half a bottle

   I'd rather not drink this evening

Some conversations hang about on phone calls

 I disconnect. 

  I have no need 

   for such half-hearted ones.

My buddy suggests a meeting

 wants me to drive halfway across

   I cancel plans for sitting idle 

  And being me

I drink from a beer mug 

  full of bergamot tea

    heated to eighty 

     and diffused right. 

    No shortcuts to good tea.

My lover appears

  in an unusual yearning. 

   She wishes for pleasure, 

     for herself though.

I hold her

  pour all of my passion

   watch her 

    hear her 

     and then miss her.

I unwrap myself

   she mumbles my name. 

   I pat her gently to sleep... 

  One should not disturb strangers sleeping.

I walk back to my bed

  slide in. 

   Wholeheartedly 

    into no-holds-barred sleep.

A suture in time

Out Patients, Surgeries, consultations

Falling in love is hard

Doctor and patient, rules help no one

He fell into her, literally and figuratively 

When she bumped into him as he was drinking 

sitting Oh my! so illegally at the bus stop

Doctors can be bad drivers , he said

and smiled, holding out his gashed thumb

She pulled out a needle and doused it with his whiskey

He retorted,"Late nights crashes, I tell you are the weirdest

Into people or dividers, 

you are half awake

half past dead"

The suture needed a thread 

and the only possibility was her own hair 

She pleated three of her strands 

threaded it, and sewed it shut

"Doctors are usually prepared, almost always"

He smirked, as she nodded sideways in guilt

She looked at him then

in a mix of guilt

with a hint of clinical satisfaction

Of having fixed her mistake

She got him along to the hospital, pillion

As he got down he said 

"Let the hair be, 

I love the blunt

it feels good in the suture too"

He just winked at her, and walked away

She smiled, warming up her heart

it yelled "to hell with the rules"

Just then the nurse pushed a body by

It seemed to have been dead since last night

He wore her scrunchie, as a perfect torniquet

Doctors should get some rest, sometimes

These hospital targets are inhuman

Misidentifying the Mugger at my Balcony

Misidentifying the Mugger at my Balcony

There is a crocodile on my balcony

And other such weird items 

Placed randomly where I rent 

 but not at my own home

Comfort is a place I make

but the heart will always carry me to my own

The terrace came with a house

a broken bed

 another half rusted, between battered and broken

And I dismantled both and made my bed 

 on a mattress ordered online

I sometimes hop into the balcony, 

where the crocodile and I sit

We smoke and exhale into each other's face 

his snout saves his eyes, "Advantage! crocodile"

The rains here on this side of the state are fun, 

 I have been told

A city that is less sensitive to humanity 

 than a few others put together in my view

The cabs don't work 

 the nurses poke crossed holes in veins

But that crocodile thinks its funny 

 when I sometimes ramble about my woes

Why just today 

 out from the hospital when I reached this place

The crocodile was sitting right there 

 all well fed and with no existential dread

I think it is not a real Crocodylus palustris 

 they don't live on terraces

I think my crocodile is hypertension

I keep at regardless of it's harmful intent

Recollections - V2

 

Hey, do you remember the last time you were here

We finally did climb the mountain, 

found some eggs, the eagle laid?

Remember?? we rebuilt its nest and created a roof overhead

hoping the eaglets would not bear the harsh rain or sun

yes, they had hatched a while ago, was that recent!! 

oh! 

They are now two generations past

Now they frequent that spot, I built a few more shades and nests

we built three more last week, remember?

Ah! no that was me dreaming, I built them, thought you were there!

Wait a minute! these are not the eagles I was looking for!

They all look at me strange, with steely eyes, sharp beaks

Oh! these are vultures, not those eaglets

Why have they come to me? they are sitting on my chest, tickling my rib

One seems to bubble my blood

ah, vultures... have you observed them closely

Lovely little lads, the neck we agreed earlier is odd, but still functional

Reminds me, what was I thinking, and why would I think of you and that ledge

How long ago was that you left? I am trying to recollect, with these sweet vultures here while i rest

I see dusk seems to be approaching swiftly, oh nice! I can see the view from atop

Hey... that is not me, just one of my eyes being carried

who dreams of vultures and their sorts, who really does!

Hey, do you remember the last time you were here

We finally did climb the mountain, 

found some eggs, the eagle laid?

Remember, those vultures hatched in the cuckoo nest?

we built, there on that kitchen sill? below the Guava tree!

Oh! hey, how are you love

Oh! you are not here really ... 

Right

-------------------

For those who are not sure of what it is!
Here is the full explanation 

This poem is a mind mid-breakdown.

---

Not dramatic movie breakdown. The quiet kind. The kind where you're functioning, maybe even smiling, but inside the thoughts are looping, slipping, grabbing at memories that blur at the edges.

The person in this poem loved someone. Built a life with them... or was building toward one. The nest is a home. The roof they constructed carefully, hopefully, is the future they were making together. The eaglets are things they were going to do, become, grow into. Dreams with wings not yet dry.

She left.

And now the mind keeps returning to the beginning. Same memory, same mountain, same question... "do you remember?" But each time the details shift slightly. Eagles become vultures. The mountain slides down to a kitchen sill. A guava tree appears from somewhere tender and ordinary.

That's not poetic license. That's literally what heartbreak does to memory.

The vultures aren't sinister. They're just the thoughts that move in when a home empties. Sitting on your chest at 3am. Circling. Patient.

And then mid-spiral, the mind does that thing... it forgets for one split second. Sees her face somewhere in the fog and just...

"Oh! hey, how are you love"

Before remembering.

"you are not here really..."

"Right."

One word. The whole poem lives and dies in that one word.

That's it really. No symbols to decode. Just someone, still building, still asking, still forgetting and remembering again.

Ammuma's Raju

I always visit the old gramam, Kavesseri is beautiful any day of the year

I remember it a little too well , the winding dusty road, now have a gentle crust of tar

The ration shop, the three temples, I know them inside out

Only one has a pond adjacent to it, the other has a pond further away, and one has a river 

Non-perennial, The Gayathri , she even has a lovely name

I saw the house that had a klin to make lime from bi-valves was broken down

Modernization, or trying to weave unwanted maxims into village life

Saiju has a home in the Gulf, then why is he breaking this one down? I ponder

I remember the Shivan Kovil priest smiled at me, I asked him 'Kidhar se ho' in my impeccable Mumbai dialect

He said 'Banaras se, pandey hoon'. I bowed from a distance, we don't touch priests, nor are they allowed to touch us, Pran-Prathista et al

The chandana kuri still smelt like it did fourty one years ago, from six in the morning

I think the years have passed

I am still, Tatthama's Raju, looking at the village, and they all look back and wave

Like they did then too

The absence of seduction

It was summer, her top was drenched in her sweat, she smelled like a hint of pine and magnolias

Both being my favourite scents, I stood there, and in one whiff knew she was too close, but it felt normal

Like an incence burner that had ash, from burning the previous night

I smiled at her, her hair splashed her sweat across my face, as she playfully marked her self across my skin

I stood there, wondered if there was something wrong, both in our twenties, both aware

Alone, willing, but she never registered as a desire in my heart, neither invoked lust

I poured from a bucket of water that was kept aside on myself, and half on her

She seemed to smile in sarcasm, I could swear I smelt a hint of iron, and a  signature of drying blood too

These could have allured me too, everything feminine, but there was something missing 

She never spoke of desires, I cannot let myself approximate either, even if I could, I wouldn't 

I rather sit, speak, be told of it, to let the blood thirsty wolf in me hunt flesh.

**The Absence of Seduction**

A man and a woman. Summer heat. Close enough to smell each other, sweat, pine, magnolia, and yes, the faint iron of her period. All of it registers. None of it moves him.

Not because he isn't capable. Not because she isn't desirable.

But because she never asked.

He doesn't seduce. He doesn't get seduced. He doesn't read signals or act on atmosphere or let heat do the thinking. The wolf in him is real, and hungry... but it only hunts when called by name.

Say it out loud. Then everything changes.

Don't say it, and he'll pour water on both of you and smile.

Vices Vices

I stole two mangoes, 

I had restraints and reservations earlier 

But being drunk helps

Half of my mind is probably trying to justify 

Of a rain storm causing them to fall off anyway

But, the other half knows

It was not my garden to take from

It's morning, I have eaten the half I had kept aside, half drunk

Half eaten, I just ate the other half

It is so unlike me, I have never stolen, since the age of three 

Yet this, these were beautiful though

I had watched them grow for weeks, they are tasty now

I had jumped and tugged, to pick one

The methodical precision stands to reason

I enacted what I wanted to, under the premise of alcohol

And now it has partially worn off

Maybe I will leave a note the week after

To the bungalow owner, whose tree I reached from under

Leave a tiny sum, and an apology

This is not me, This is travesty

Priye!

 I have tormented myself of this
Hoping death took me, and time forgot
but here we are 
Your woes, 

                            you, 

                                your woes of me
and questions in furore
with nothing to show
nothing to hold
and my blood and body have now run cold
yet your presence
Drags me back to life
I do not wish, but has my soul never known
to choose my heart, before you somehow
It couldn't even hope to think of such
I resign to this moment, fall into its shambles
Tell me beloved,
What must I plead
for your transgressions,
your guilt
your pride
I always have
It kept me alive
It made me fall in love
with pain, pleasure
hate and strife
Come beloved, sit with me
I will steady your hands to cut me
smile, watching you see
my veins hurt no more
for your hands soothe the sores
How the sorrow of your actions has hardened me
Then we will speak more of my wrong
As I admire your lovely eyes
lose the meaning of being free
Then ask for a moment 
walk a few steps away
wipe my eyes and find them blind
I once had eyes, I once had speech
I have now only replaced it with thee

Summer Ahoy!

Let us not talk about heat
or of cinnabar refining, wind patterns, pressure
No one in this part of the world cares right now
However
I await the king's arrival
 I'll eat a ton, get the runs
  Aches and pains arrive
   ruin my fun
 Raise questions later
  about ripening
   on the tree
    buried in straw
   or if they used carbide
 What if they did
  I don't care 
   I am a smoker
 Hell is the final stop
  see you there too
   fellow fruit devourer
'Tis a short term engagement
Summer, life, and so on
Between the mangroves live
Beautiful storks
I will go shoot them
frame them, gift them
But for now I won't ponder on such
the pond is nice, ignore the sun
 I will wait by
  whilst you go 
   skinny dipping
    or sinful dipping 
I'll enjoy the view, open another bottle 
Idle on a lazy Saturday noon
Beautiful Indian Summer
B E A U T I F U L
too.

Rejected Burial At Sea

Rust takes over from paint
We could slaughter every whale 
dig every inch of the bottom
coat the undersides of boats
only to fail
The sea claims dominance, as with all

Man, bird and all life
That defied it at every turn
lie in the sandy bottom
hidden in its bowels
If you ever dive in, you will see
its rejection too is always complete

Who then am I, or you, to appreciate it
Who has seen it for all it is
bearer and destroyer
gentleness and wrath
We could write poetry
as if it has some need for such paltry pleasantries

I long to see its grimace
To be amidst the storms
churning and spilling my guts
Making me wish for an endless end
Casting me then to utter calm
I hate this lack of control, yet I relish it

You bring me love, but I have no such need
I have loved hating the sea
It is a bigger me
It draws, rejects, then binds me
Just like the tidal cycle of romance
I would not forsake a shred of this for a mortal 

I have all I need here, dejection and acceptance
I have known contention and callousness
It is me; I am it
It pays heed
only to refute all I speak
Yet I know it is all I have and I refuse to move away.

---------------Summary for understanding -------------------

Sure.

Stanza 1 – The futility of human defiance Rust takes over from paint / We could slaughter every whale... only to fail

Man throws everything at the sea. Kills whales for their oil, digs the ocean floor, protects his boats. Does everything technically possible. And still fails. The sea doesn't even fight back particularly hard. It just… persists. And outlasts.

Stanza 2 – The sea's record of dominance The sea claims dominance, as with all / Man, bird and all life...

Everything that ever defied the sea is now inside it. Not defeated dramatically, just absorbed. Lying quietly in the sandy bottom. The sea doesn't celebrate. It just keeps everything it has ever claimed. Its rejection is total and permanent.

Stanza 3 – Human inadequacy before it Who then am I, or you, to appreciate it...

A step back. Who are we to even think we understand this thing. Nobody has seen it fully – not its capacity for destruction, not its capacity for nurturing. Both exist. We can write poetry about it… but that's all we can do. And the sea has absolutely no need for that. Paltry pleasantries. The word "paltry" stings deliberately.

Stanza 4 – The desire to be destroyed and then held I long to see its grimace / To be amidst the storms...

This is where the "I" arrives properly. Not wanting to observe the sea safely. Wanting to be inside the storm. Gut-churned. Wishing for an endless end – not quite death, more like obliteration of the self. And then… calm. Seagull mornings. The speaker wants both. The destruction and the tenderness after. Knows they come together.

Stanza 5 – The confession I hate this lack of control, yet I relish it

One line, standing alone almost. The whole psychological knot of the poem in a single breath. Control is what humans kill whales for, coat boats for. And here is someone who hates not having it… and loves it. Specifically loves what the sea does, which is take it away completely.

Stanza 6 – Refusing ordinary love You bring me love, but I have no such need...

Someone is offering love. A person, presumably. And the speaker turns away. Not cruelly, just… honestly. What a person offers cannot compete with this. The tidal cycle of the sea – drawing, rejecting, binding – is the only romance that makes sense here. The speaker would not trade a shred of this difficult love for something mortal and manageable.

Stanza 7 – Identity and belonging I have all I need here, dejection and acceptance...

The final settling. Not happiness exactly. Dejection and acceptance together, without contradiction. The sea is the speaker scaled up – same contradictions, same patterns, same push and pull. It listens, then refutes. It pays heed only to argue back. And still… this is home. The speaker knows it, names it plainly, and refuses to leave.

The whole poem is essentially about recognising yourself in something vast and indifferent and choosing it anyway over everything softer and safer.

Who Me?

 It is beautiful
   to torment
    eat up words 
    that I would otherwise say

Of how I wish 
  to be wrapped,
   merged inside
   lose my mind 
    find myself in you

Hold you close 
  feel and taste
   every inch of you
    be smitten and lost
     repeat and redo
 
Be for a bit
   the long lost me     
     not mind my hands
      nor hold myself back
       till the dawn comes through

Woo Who!

Owls, ah at least the chance to see them arrives
it's evening here, and the skies lack colour
It rained earlier, and left behind these grey clouds
The sun as always has played us all

I will sit and curse at the mosquitoes, as I always do
Look at vivid colours, there are earrings too
Paint in my thoughts, and write a few
Some about me, then most about you

When it's time to retire, I would wonder 
If I could have kissed, feel you closer
Feeling you against me, Bare, maybe unhinged
I would taste you as we fall asleep

But as the seasons come and go, stop for no one 
I won't complain, I will drift endlessly and go on
I will be on the porch, thinking
Ah Ok... let me watch Owls then!

Rein In

 if I may then;
I wonder
of those Tibetan silver anklets chime in grace
wrapped around those feet, and hung around my face 
I would want to hold my tongue at this stage
Bite my own fingers to stop my pace
For such poems see no lines nor space
And I am a harbour master , I mind my gaze
So I will stop this utterance , hold my keel
Look at a picture of those coloured window panes 
Knowing not to turn around and look into my mind
For it brews unbridled desires , and unspeakable ways

Anklets

 Tibetan silver anklets
wrap around gentle feet, 

    the mind has at such run amok
I rein it in, bind it in ball and chain
It looks at me in rage for my raking in of its lust, hurls hexes
I speak to it, of its unwarranted and uninvited maxims
Ease, comfort it, as I hold its chains
I feel it cave, and I hold it close
It leans into me and I feel its embrace
Only to be pickpocketed, and free itself to run away
I stand defeated, yet I know it well
It will seek to kiss, yet pause
for it cannot fall under anyone's spell 
It has always managed to have restraint 
I let it rage; I let it wander, ponder, and gaze
I will be here, when it arrives
Hear it out, pacify it for its wanton ways

Green

Almost mid summer, and then there was rain
Last evening
And then somewhere as today arrived, my mind was drenched
In shades of teal, and hues of grace
Decorated with oxidised silver, Tibetan I said, Mostly
And such was said
In between the eight thousand meters or so of the way
I also spoke about the colour of hay
Oh! Sunflowers too, Pantone can sit this one out, especially this year
But then the evening arrived a little too late
And unlike Frost, I wouldn't wonder about my mistake
Of thinking of coffee and cake, and of a million  shades
In choosing green, I caused delays
How could I not, for I was dazed
And for such an apology is warranted 
That I shall joyfully make
Hoping these colours paint my face in their shades

Bottling

 The summer arrived a while ago

Those raw mangoes were on my mind

I have been running errands and nursing

The pickle jar is not even bothered to open

Yet mom tells me, I should get to it

I think I may eventually, but I doubt

The last batch I ordered ripened, we both ate them

Not the typical ones I prefer to savour 

Mangoes

Not this month, April May be

Let this be untitled.

I was a ship wishing to sail safe

My sails of silk threads inlay and canvas

I saw the storms, hit reefs

Yet I sailed the seven seas

Until I hit upon the ninth wave

I knew I was never the ship

I was a wave? no Was I the foam then

I looked at Aivazovsky, and his sea green

I found me, I wasn't the storm, nor the sailors

I was the world 

All this was in me

Reminds me..

I add rocks, arrest the canal

redirect it towards the river, my sunflowers wilt 

It is inconsequential, the canal may feed a drying river

Somewhere downstream a boy may want to put paper boats

Maybe find joy, or whatever it's called

I will probably set fire to my field, regardless 

Those sunflowers never were to be grown, I shouldn't have let them

But I will change its fate, not hold false hope

This land is drying,  is a truth I hold

I was built to comfort, not to be

So be it,  

So let it,

The yellows and my heart can rustle along

In a bit

soon

Wait for it

If one asks!

Between Now and few hours b'fore

I would have chosen purple skies

But I shall choose a specific shade of clear blue

My self minding has come unleashed

The eggs are almost always boiled then fried

And amongst all the other ways that I have tried

The fry post boil sticks

For they take the maximum time

The time I would have spent on cravings

Are as of right now re-homed toward further culinary stints

I still feed my inner child

That has only feared running out of frying oil

Post meal, I shall uncork a wine and watch

sip and feel the night pass

I would have thought of painting the sunset in shades

But I will let nature handle it

I have silenced my voice, 

Yours is welcome,

mine has been a tad too loud 

I was here, now I am somewhat

Watching the afternoon sun, letting everything pass