Sunday, 4 September 2011

Lights on the hills

Those patches of light on muted hills
some red some white and yellow, some moving;
small dots of sparkle on the infinite canvas of the night.

Soundless, starless and clouded heavens.
Only the sight of those lights, like a heap of glow worms, add some life
to this unfortunate unnaturally quiet and blackened town.

But they're just too far away, like forgotten happy memories,
their illumination too faint to spread any warmth or shine
but how does it matter, it's sleep-time and people are dreaming already.

Perhaps a few eternally disgruntled souls chase for some light
time and again, to snuff out the lightlessness within them,
looking for burning signal lanterns in the dark when the world is sleeping.





Wednesday, 13 July 2011

Some of the poets I adore and their poems

Charles Bukowski (1920 - 1994)
Dear Charles Bukowski, i feel as though I have met you because even if you are dead and gone your heart lives on on every line you wrote and because your poems break my heart and make me learn how to feel and be human all over again.

Eulogy To A Hell Of A Dame

some dogs who sleep At night
must dream of bones and I remember your bones
in flesh and best
in that dark green dress and those high-heeled bright
black shoes, you always cursed when you drank,
your hair coming down you wanted to explode out of
what was holding you: rotten memories of a
rotten past, and
you finally got out
by dying, leaving me with the
rotten present;
you've been dead 28 years
yet I remember you better than any of
the rest; you were the only one
who understood the futility of the
arrangement of life;
all the others were only displeased with
trivial segments, carped
nonsensically about nonsense;
Jane, you were killed by
knowing too much. here's a drink
to your bones that
this dog still
dreams about.


For Jane: With All the Love I Had, Which Was Not Enough:

I pick up the skirt,
I pick up the sparkling beads
in black,
this thing that moved once
around flesh,
and I call God a liar,
I say anything that moved
like that
or knew
my name
could never die
in the common verity of dying,
and I pick
up her lovely
dress,
all her loveliness gone,
and I speak to all the gods,
Jewish gods, Christ-gods,
chips of blinking things,
idols, pills, bread,
fathoms, risks,
knowledgeable surrender,
rats in the gravy of two gone quite mad
without a chance,
hummingbird knowledge, hummingbird chance,
I lean upon this,
I lean on all of this
and I know
her dress upon my arm
but
they will not
give her back to me.

******************************************************************

Rumi (Jalāl ad-Dīn Muḥammad Rūmī) (1207 AD)

Because I cannot sleep
I make music at night.
I am troubled by the one
whose face e has the color of spring flowers.
I have neither sleep nor patience,
neither a god reputation nor disgrace.
A thousand robes of wisdom are gone.
All my good manners have moved a thousand miles away.
The heart and the mind are left angry with each other.
The starts and the moon are envious of each other.
Because of this alienation the physical universe
is getting tighter and tighter.
The moon says, "How long will I remain
suspended without a sun?"
Without Love's jewel inside of me,
let the bazaar of my existence by destroyed stone by stone.
O Love, You who have been called by a thousand names,
You who know how to pour the wine
into the chalice of the body,
You who give culture to a thousand cultures,
You who are faceless but have a thousand faces,
O Love, You who shape the faces
of Turks, Europeans, and Zanzibaris,
give me a glass from Your bottle,
or a handful of bheng from Your Branch.
Remove the cork once more.
The we'll see a thousand chiefs prostrate themselves,
and a circle of ecstatic troubadours will play.
Then the addict will be breed of craving.
and will be resurrected,
and stand in awe till Judgement Day.


***********************************************************************

e e cummings

i carry your heart with me

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)



Wednesday, 6 July 2011

Tuluni


How many pigs to buy?
What size and cost?
Amishi or Avi?
Which village will offer the best quality and the best price?
Who shall get the head?
Who will donate how much?

Chief Guest or no Chief Guest?
Whom can we call to be the festival father?
What shall we give him?
Azuta or angu or both or azuto?

How many groups shall we form, what names shall we choose?
Dead or alive? Christian or animists? Man or woman?
How many in a group?
Who shall head each group?
Which traditional sports shall we play?
Which lejo leh shall we sing?
Which leshe shall we recite?
How many for the fats-biting competition?
Both young and old?
How many bamboos for the climbing competition?
How much should be put in the pouches?
What about men's war dance and women's dance?
Ah! Puxakukuxu, itsakeu and ashekushu as well.
What's the prize money?
Hey! maybe a non-local game too. Ping pong.
What's the entrance fee?
Who will print the program?
Who will pray?
What about the son-in-law hosting play?
Who's going to explain the meaning of Tuluni?
How many pieces of firewood per house?
Who's going to do the shopping?
Who will be the cashier?

It's one big pig and one big cow!
Who shall kill and distribute the Tuluni meat?
Who will cook which meat?
Who's in-charge of rice and greens and chutney?
How many bags of rice?
What about fish?
Who's going to serve the guests?


Dig the holes for the the bamboo-climbing competition
Drape the tent with traditional shawls and amini jeli
Arrange the chairs
divide the groups and assign a dish each
Cook some meat now and dry the rest for tomorrow

Wrap the gifts and prizes
Choose the jewellery and clothes
Wake up at 5:00Am
This Tuluni will be a long day!










Monday, 27 June 2011

Dreams like water


Today it rained

and i thought of you.

How you’d happily take out the buckets

the jugs and plastic Gallons

filling each with rain

all at once --

filling each like pouring fresh dreams

into an empty soul.

But you’re not here

And who will pour these dreams

into my empty buckets now?

I am pretending exceedingly well

like you were never here but

I don’t want to see these familiar things

that have your imprints, your laughter and talks.

This miserable world was not good enough

to keep something as pure.

You’ve left ,

You had to leave

but these dreams of you--

like flowing water--

will they ever cease?

Chasing Sunsets

...and here we go again chasing sunsets

our eyes, the roads, the rain, the evening, the rice fields, cameras and clouds

thirsty for a glimpse of the last glowing moment --

a display of an arrangement of elements,

that had never happened

that will never happen again.




Friday, 23 July 2010

like old cotton shirts

Where is it? Inspiration
that faded like dyed red cotton shirt
that soft comfort,
nowhere to be found
not in the almirah
not in the laundry
not hanging on the clothsline
nor has it flown to the neighbour's fence.
It's just a matter of time
perhaps
I'll find its faded prints
in its wrinkled self again
lying somewhere close by
when i least need it.
Ah!...and then it'll suddenly propel me
to leave everything aside
to wear and feel its
soft warmth again.

Monday, 26 April 2010

Impromptu poems

The Streets of Earth and Time

Tarred, grey, and dust-filled there
Scarred, muddied and worn-out here
Polished, black and smooth somewhere
I lie flat seemingly impassive
My arms lazily snaking across walls of bricks and hills
Of towns and countries and continents

I see nights and days and years
Passing like leaves falling and decaying
In my sleepless existence
I watch the star-studded universe
And drink in the quietness of the nights

Millions walk over me everyday
Yet the load I bear
Is so great a pleasure
I connect the sea of humanity
Travelling across thoughts and time


*******************************

Visions of a coastal afternoon

A sun-baked yellow afternoon
a sleepy, lazy, dull dream-time.
Hot air blows from ocean to land
across faces and feet and hands.

Drenched in heat
people sleep-walk in and out
of black burning iron gates
gates joining white and red walls
of bricks blazing fire and anger
Drugged by heat, in lethargic inability
flowers yawn.

Outside
the grey traffic roars draped in dust and smog
honking cars and trucks and men
like ocean screaming red-faced.

In the hustle-bustle of a city
on a coast, i hear a melody
amidst the chaos of my mind.

A city busy as a beehive
buzzing out a lazy mid-day orchestra
singing a soothing lullaby for me
as i sleep in front of the teacher and the class
in a sun-baked yellow afternoon.



21.03.09 (Chennai)




Poona under the Moonlight

Everything strangely still.

Buildings square and pale;

windows square and dark

like monstrous eyes and mouths.

Moonscapic bald hills, electric poles and nameless trees.


Not a sound,

not even one stray dog rummaging trash bins,

or a bandicoot in the sewage;

or honks of autorickshaws.


An empty rocking chair

with creased silk-like cover of its cushion

sat so stiff

next to a motionless swing

tied to concrete posts above the balcony.


Orange light from street lamps

that wore helmets, curiously seems

to blend with the moonlight

illuminating hundreds

of feather-like Neem leaves

arranged in perfect symmetry,

suspended in space, waiting…

or just

being.


Pyramidal Ashoka trees

towering tall,

leaning against each other

like old friends reuniting;

outside the walled lawn;

calmness seems to

branch out

from the lush foliage

of the Sorrowless Tree.


A synagogue’s top with reddish light

below the half-moon glowed;

roofs of temples and museums and mosques

and churches and shopping malls stood close.

Somewhere in the distance,

the ruins of the old Peshwa palace

with its elaborate Dilli Darwaza,

and its lotus pond and umbrellas

and trimmed gardens

must be silent for a while,

at night,

without visitors in protective sun-duppattas

to trot upon its cobbled floors

searching for hidden passages.


The surrounding hills stretching

as far as the eye could see

shone a dull pinkish hue on the edges

where land merged with the sky.

Glittering lights in varied colours dotted

the streets and buildings of the city--

a grand Churidar Kurta

embellished with sequins and Swarovski crystals.


Off-white cracked walls

of modern houses

built on sinking sand,

wearing the swish-swash marks

of brushes dipped in dark

repairing cement,

grotesque at daylight,

appeared completely transformed:

at night,

ancient runes and Chinese pictograms

imprinted on Puneites’ walls

sprang to life

transpiring old secrets

of an old city of kings and warriors

to me,

in the balmy, jasmine-scented night,

under the moonlight.


A perfect stillness –

mute, trance-like and eerie.

An impossibly flawless sky –

cloudless, half-mooned and starry.

A momentary musing

under the moonlight

of a brief visit

to a new place,

before the smoldering heat of the day

and the chaotic schedules of life

destroy it all.