Kanmani (Creation)

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She held her palms open on a blue,

blue day, while the sky poured open

in honour of her mind.

A wistful grey cloud lay out beyond.

The cracking whip of a thunder and

cold whispers, tore into the

Nodes of her guileless heart.

She sought for answers amidst

What she grew to never be her own.

The damp air reaffirmed what she

never thought would have.

And there lay, like a curveball, even before

It’s life began, a hatched young lifeless bird,

The membrane of its creation, holding

every untold story of it, in her skin.

Pale, opaque beak that almost formed to sing and shut eyes that almost opened to forage,

Thin filaments of wings, that would

One day be strong to fly away, far away,

And beat the strongest of winds, up to ascension.

Though now, here it lay, in her hands, pointless, waiting to be salvaged into the earth,

That has brought all of us here.

She threw a piece of her heart, and trowelled

a lump of mud heavier than her breathe, and

Placed this lithe creation, which was here,

If only for a drop in the expanse of time,

A few inches deeper into the circle of life.

And as her praying hands buried the esse,

As deftly as she does with her dreams,

The ritual of love gave away, the embers,

The tears wrung from tired eyes, called

Another mother, who perched on the

highest branch and cooed away all the hope

She held in herself, once upon a time,

and sang a solemn requiem,

for her soul below.

ANODYNE

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I let gratitude crumble into

My hard bed today.

Just my breathe is enough, thank you!

The heat outside has churned the

molecules of time I have lived yet

Into a pile of obscurity.

A pale column of steam, I am.

The birds outside are chattering housework and tomorrow,

The sun burns a hole in my escape plan

And dreams. Ones forever without an origin,

destination or route.

Wayward and wanton like a rogue elephant.

Just when we thought our legs and words

Have found their respite,

Here’s arriving a thousand restless tiny clouds,

And to all the climes living in our house upstairs,

that can claim nothing anymore, but a few well spent seconds, while here at home.

 

H is for Hamlet

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This gray day has bought with it

Some wizened thoughts

Of a past not long back

When the feet knew of stinging bites

And the heart found love in

Nothing old or known and

Thorns and stones

(and stupid idealism).

 

The hunger has died, but the burn remains.

The urge to purge the stillborn memories

Of many of our dreams we built callously,

(brick by brick)

Whetted by the stone of curiosity,

Licked by the blade of loneliness,

they have planted beautiful blooms

for the Gods in their slave’s garden.

To be enjoyed while taking a pinch of salt

With a drink to our sealed fate.

 

Grief comes to those who have the time to cry.

The rest of us keep on running until

we run dry.

And sometimes we remember to breathe,

As there is nothing any longer to feel.

While the gush of air in dissolves the body

Into the universe of our head rush,

And the clouds above roll out the drums and the show,

but no rains or tears from within,

I often question the distant rainbow,

I remember seeing while I walked a prayer for you, only to get

An endless reflection of vacuous colours,

in the mirrored room of illusions I built for myself. All over again.

Here

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Sunshine streams through the heavy clouds above

Like a call of conscience from heaven.

Life outside moves with a horizontal vector

While I’m sat here, static and in inertia of limbo.

The lilacs I always looked up to for respite

Have grown pale into the spite of existence grey.

Time moves inch by inch, every swipe of the needle

But a smudge on our longevity and dent in our breath.

I have not spent much here, yet I feel like

I have been home forever, 

The shadow of a stranger in the glass,

Some long lost friend.

I fix my gaze upon nothing yet I’m lost

Even the field of dandelions held like 

Beads of crystal in the softness of dusk tried to call me out.

Maybe that is what it is. To be here and now.

When you are really no where any how.

Forget me never

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Forget me never

Forget me not.

I am the music in your heart.

I am the soul of your art.

Forget me never

Forget me not.

I am the faint whisper in the sweetest of your dream.

I am the wisp o’ air caressing your face, in the deepest of your sleep.

Forget me never

Forget me not.

I am the remnant of your love for tomorrow.

I am the remnant of all your bygone joys and sorrow.

Harvest

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A midriff lay slumped on a chair.

The spine an adage of another existence.

Crumps and foils have been cleared away.

Breakfast long served before the bell breaks

again, 

another blush of coral in a vase, like

a little child screaming for that what it knows not. 

As always.

The sun has esteemed our resilience. Idyllic fair-weather uncle.

The soil has been trowelled for him to feast and

lush worms exposed in their hideouts.

Little sylphs of the earth, mopping up the dried salt

of this frosted mud.

I lay a bulb, inch apart, and hoped for some gross vanity 

as spring disrupts into shoots and roots entangle the mess that we call life.

I let the water flow out wondering what it would taste like. A drink of brine inside. 

A tongue for foregone rains. Outside.

A silent robin looked around, perching its hunger on a barren branch.

 

Goodnight and Good Luck

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veins over tendons course

like a meandering river,

topography of lands and jungles

thicket, sinewing through muscles and bones,

in the lonely hands of a winner.

the thick gossamer of a deserted winter,

lush tones of yesterdays summer

allured in the wine crushed by another’s feet

percolating sin into another’s words

clouds like fresh cream, only in yesterday’s dream.

bright red stars and bells chime now

to bring in another chariot of time.

 

Decades more to sleep.

Charcoal Analogy

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There is a burning fireplace 

In every heart gathered here.

A dark chamber of secrets hidden

In the deep recesses of their ever burning soul.

Embers of dreams lost to a sallow, callous youth

when the blaze of arrogance danced to defeat.

They now yearn for the spirit of passion, that no longer

lodges in their withering flesh,

Longing to be ignited by the lick of a flame,

A touch, a swig of the tender fuel

Of love that can never be lost. Only found.

Again and again.

Our lives lie in this furnace, these lumps of burnt charcoal

That we are.

Waiting to be picked at, from its state of apparent futility.

These cold and needy times pleading for 

You and me, again,

To be burnt to the end of being burnt,

And nothing more to give but

What was already there.

Yet another chapter being written here. Sat by this fireplace.

To warm another’s belly.

To warm another’s hearth.

Single Magpie

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I have had a very rough last few weeks. Just started off with a new job at a completely new place with lots to travelling to and fro from work and home. And I wouldn’t exactly be going ga-ga over my personal life, at the moment. My brains were all over the place and I was hurting people who genuinely loved me the most. I remember being a complete wreck last Sunday and reached the zenith of moments when I lost all my cool. In a way, it was a process of catharsis but it led to a lot of hurt and anguish that, unfortunately, I just couldn’t control, despite regular meditations.

I remember waking up the next morning, to a clear blue Monday sky. I got out of the bed, got my journal and pen, and penned down every single issue that has been bothering me ever since they started. And I could automatically feel the heavy iceberg in me slowly thawing away into a glacier of forgiveness. At the end of writing my journal, I took a resolve. That I will not my bruise my poor heart anymore. That I will treat my heart, my beating crystal of a beautiful heart with much more love and kindness and dignity, that she actually deserves. And from there on began my ability to be a lot more kinder to myself. And in the process, unto others.

I went out for a walk in the cold morning, the brilliant autumn sunshine wavering through the golden leaves, shimmering the green of the grass to make it appear gold- well technically, there was gold everywhere!

Autumn brings out every shade of gold, nature withheld in herself under the many guises of other colours of summer. Every colour of autumn, be it the bright yellow, the tarnished green, the burnt orange, the indifferent brown, the bright burgundy or even the sallow tawny of dried leaves, is a beautiful complement to the colour gold. It is as if, time wants to display her demise into the depth of another year, with a resplendent show.

My face was freezing and my hands nearly lost their sensations but I had never experienced so much happiness and release in a long while like then. I wrote a poem in honour of my day and made peace with myself. My life and its gains and losses- small and large.

I hope you like Single Magpie as much as I did writing it 🙂

 

 

I walked through miles of cold sunshine

Today.

The indignation of hitherto, waiting at its

Bay.

The sun had not smiled yet at the frost in its 

Thick white spread.

Yet the young green leaves shallow-ly bathed in the virgin waters of

The day.

Splinters of ray poked the peripheries of what I tried to see but couldn’t

Say.

Memories of bereft blood and memoirs of unknown laughters held me in my path in a 

daze.

Yonder arose a red mist held up in the sky sewn together with threads of autumn berries

A manic splay.

A magpie, a single magpie, as ominous as me

Soared up with its proud breast, perched upon the highest bough of a discarded tree, it’s foliage 

frayed.

All of us in equal share, in this frame, of the ruthlessness of hope and tomorrows.

She charmed me, this little white breast messiah, with nothing, absolutely nothing.

Just by being there. 

Loner bird, sat like a loner human

A queen in her stillness, a thinker of all sorts.

While I breathed in and earned my thought

Without a dime or two to spend.

Flames – Orange Poppies

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I am fascinated by Georgia O’Keefe’s paintings. Sensual portrayal of flowers is indeed the essence of art for me and in a way observing the birth of life on this earth. I try to photograph flowers in my own humble way, inspired by her work which those who know will know.

 

Just sharing a few lines of my own poetry here tonight. Hope you enjoy!

 

Woman

Woman.

Like an instrument.

Play her right

She is a melody to the ears.

Play her wrong

She is a nuisance to all.

And if you don’t know how to play her

Don’t bother keeping her.

A thing of beauty,

A joy forever.

Untouched and unowned.

Unaffected and unmaligned.