Resurrection (March 2015)

That moment of birth

Still rings in my ears.

waves howling on the right

stillness on the left

and damp earth above

reeking stink of wood.

It was not the joy of a new born

But after pain of again born,

weary entangled sinews

bark peeling off like the big oak

under which lay my tomb.

Now I stray listless

Searching amongst shadows

My name , my face

And the love of my life

In this strange new era

Where veils are open, 
and doors are closed.

When the clock paused last

Were cries of victory and celebrations

They said that day 
my valor, my martyrdom

Will be a legend for eons to come.

and the caravan passed by.

But today, after the years have become,

Not a bit of my success even name

Found a note in all those books

As musty as me in the library.

The legacy of the one before me
to have deceived death

- glorious trail of truth seekers, 
Lores do say, I had this child

Spit flames as she cried

And was stoned to death

Or was burnt at stake

As I pray for its sake

On a teardrop
pitying my legacy
On this headless mound

Why am I brought to live  

again in this alien age ?

Am no undead, no thirst for blood,

Am I chosen for some forlorn fables, some godly task ?

My love is lost somewhere

In a morbid hiatus 
between heaven and hell.

And is my faith.

Our dreams of union have withered

In an eternal twilight

No sun for life, no moon for solace.

My lovestruck ballads ,

Only hopes to rouse her heart,

Are rehashes of cliché 80s songs

Or maybe there is no grand plan afterall,

Like reeds and timber in rapids flow

Earth to earth fire to fire, and back onwards,

Marvel to misery in five feet

To live in this limen with no nests across.

Portrait (2014)

One of these random strolls

Through medieval museums

Of dimly lit alleys of past glories

Famous for one masterpiece

But am not interested in appreciating the obvious.

I notice this musty lane and trod in

There are some portraits hung on the wall

My eyes are stuck, am rooted

Gazing at one piece of art.

A simple portrait of the immaculate

Otherwise venerated, adorned in altars

Feet washed with Torrents of tears

Of atonement, hope, fear and love

She is as captivating hung on this cracking wall,

Head tilted back, eyes closed in ecstasy

May be twinkle of a tear drop

But the singular feature, utmost intriguing

In this portrait of the immaculate

Is the gush of blood and stains

Of mystical stigmata

Faithful ones imitate the passion

But for the foremost, bearer, source

Why would she need an outpour the mark?

Haven’t they laid their arms armies head at her feet

Sacrificed heirs heirlooms and all  

Traded riches for forlorn moments

Spend as recluse in her thought

Her charm, is it not the theme

Of a thousand melodies

Chants and hymns

Consort of the divine dance.

Value of that blood

First pulse of the divine child

Feeding masses with life succor

For eternity and far beyond

Is it worth any pang of imminent joy?

You take up the sins the pain

Pour out as stigmata

Signs of the suffering, the sin

But for the one to have borne him once in the womb, and once fallen,

Why would your love pour out and leave a stain to recur ?

As am no artist,

Nor the portrait shows any semblance

Neither adornment nor recoil,

Time stilled and rolled into itself

Till the cruel curator’s bell

Made me shake my head and sigh

A huge void in a pool of blood.

The Clock Strikes Four (Feb - June 2014)

As I lay motionless

Await sleep to drain me clean

Lover dead love exhumed

Tied to bedpost of obliviousness

The clock strikes four.

Your perfume the lure

Echoes in this bed

First hour of giggle turned babble

Second of intense passion

Third of ecstasy turned exhaust

Fourth of dreaming in arms

Petals of each bouquet

Each flower each pollen

In this empty dingy room

Now the clock strikes four

It was a memorable day

Love cheers and swinging in arms

Cakes togetherness blessings flowed

So did those memories

Bowties gave way at nightfall

And you walked in

Nor did I check your identity

As it is always forsaken in love

Now creeps in the cringing fear

As I crawl alone in this room,

Did I lose you or myself all this while?

Now I hear footsteps climbing up the alley,

The wooden creaky stairs nearing the door,

Taciturn footsteps, as the clock strikes four.

And who would that be next?

Beauty beast or cold lord himself?

I lay helpless, address in an envelope,

Now no echo rings itself,

In this shallow narrow cell.

Bubbly dreams the froth and the roll,

Hopes ideology theology the stiff collar,

Stars the moon dew and a raindrop and you,

Enlivened moments ago here in this haven

Now the waves are rolled back,

Big curtain flown away

And someone said its bright outside!

A great new dawn, great victory for mankind, 
Freedom everlasting 
But it’s just the same lore, the same record,

Same embers and same timber…

This was the promise, was it not?

You play your part and am all yours,

So much drenched in rapture,

Saw you hidden in shadows, heard you in silence

You would make this glass house fall,

And make my yore unmatched by the legends.

Now I hold nothing but a little ball of yarn,

See nothing but the rut, the machine,

Just that it now sounds worn out more,

As the clock strikes four.

What happens next, who creeps in here?

If thunderstorms are nothing surreal,

And are just monsoon rains

Would the clock be wound back?

There were a bit of goodbye’s left,

Which’d now be a single bud kept,

On a forlorn grave in a village trail.

Journey through the Hills (2013 Nov)

Deep stillness of these hills

The mystique forests

Trickling mountain creek

I saw him this time

Through the misty veil

I cross these hills every time

Glance once again

At those funny fur caps, gluttony, loneliness.

Warmth of the cave, unmatched safety of thatched roof,

The old lair assuaging answers for all fear.

But travel again through these hills

Just to see him, to touch him

Creek now a stigmata

Separating two landscapes

As a tear drop.

This side the sun rises and there starshine 

There is a tiny hut and its cool inside

And he is looking afar into the stars

Longing for solitude within them.

As I lunge to touch him,

The veil rolls around and reveal

Finger and arm are swapped,

Innocence swapped by frailty,

Magic blanket draped once again

And all looks fine again.

Now I know all the answers

That are sometimes assuaging.

But I sense the small alcove by the hillside

Facing the dark woods

Still resounding with chants

Is a dusty storehouse

Atop an unsurmountable hill

Stacked with memories

Some slippery some soft.

The lands across the hills

It’s always drizzling

Joyous Pearls and home coming

But there are also these drops

That never fall as rain

Or as a teardrop

Never to become a rivulet

To separate the landscapes.

So this is the mask I wear

As I cross the hills,

Await new uniforms and school bell  

And while crossing back,

Await the next summer. 

The Vigilante (2013 June)

This is my city.
The canals melt with filth and expunges
Once were dug to bring in fresh water
And mingle with the salt of the sea
Near the estuary 
Arteries and veins of my city.

I watch this city of mine
Standing on this gargoyle
That supports the tower of basilica
In darkness of moonless nights
Under a slight drizzle
That veils thunder and winds
Howling across the horizon
Wearing the cape and cowl.

Across the bridge and the overgrown weeds
Is the asylum
For the criminally insane.
Now the confined madness
Someday pours over the streets
And their rabid dogs
With so much mayhem and bloodshed
And leaves this city a pile of bones, ash and wails
More filth the canals cannot cleanse

Atop the hillock
Is a small shrine
That houses one streak of hope for one too many
Once a year many of them climb the hill
Dragging on their baggage of tears
Emptying on the little lamp
Lit atop the hillock.

The roaring seas define the landline of my city

Beyond the seas are mansions
Built of resilience and resolution
By knights of justice with armors of valor
Of unblemished history.
It is not on those stories
That this city was built.
This was built by hard toiling miners
With a desire to lit that little lamp
Atop the hillock.

There is passion gratification
And the preceding anticipation
Crawling through this city
There are brothels and pimps and street hawkers
As more slime flows in these canals
In a flash, in a trifle, hopes are born and wilt
Like the blinking lamps of the street
As someone in a white collar
Tries to walk through the streets
But now the streets are empty
Although I hear rumblings and pangs
Under shades of thatch behind the walls

Hence I wear the cape and the cowl
Under the veil of awe
Strike terror and hide fear
Standing on the gargoyle
Watching my city

I can take these veils away
The cape the cowl and all clothes too
Then, so would the city sob, would it not?
“The witness is gone, of all our triumph
Our pulsations our glory”
And would a year pass
And would one more walk
Atop the hillock
With another dirty baggage of filth.

The eucalyptus grove (2013 Feb)

Now this place looks like a charnel ground

Black earth, ash and half burnt blocks

under this desolation lie not human bones

but remnants of an erstwhile eucalyptus grove

What is with eucalyptus that we love and hate?

Is it groundwater, or is it us

who suck more and give back filth ?

This grove was nest and home

sparrows, doves and squirrels alike

lived in peace amongst petty quarrels

This is where I showed her waves

winds laden with raindrops make

on our night when heavens poured

Sunrise I see a kite with white streak

and imagined lord atop, on daily rounds.

Groves have seen generations before mine

protection for the village belle

lamp lit at sunset, the small idol, abode of serpent god

Now her sons, waged and poor

two hold the tree and the third cut apart

her daughters saree tied under 

save their love from sun at noon, cut at dusk.
lords under the shade were of no avail

when all gone, scorch mother earth

punish her to have grown all those

I still see brahmani on her daily rounds

It’s a screech for food, pangs of desolation

Lords reside in palaces of late,

not on tree groves, or on top of birds.

The Resort (2013 Feb)

It is twilight.

time he keeps four clean plastic chairs

on by-lane that leads nowhere,

under a board that says ‘the resort’.

These picturesque hills

are dotted with resorts with 
tokens of silence for a handful of cash

tokens of peace for a heart full of faith,

tokens of comfort for a heart full of love.

dark forests for wilderness within,

and tombstones for fear within.

but board here is empty.

At this place stood a tower so tall

that it spoke to the gods

but simple laws, like gravity

work in mysterious ways

it was then covered with creepers

with fragrant roots

that fawns would stroll in

and with marvelous antlers

would stags tread on.

now there are thickets without flowers,

but u know its jasmine

And u know it’s a resort

as none chases ecstasy here and claims love

none chases the word here and claims peace.

none chases noise here and claims silence

none chases blood here and claims opulence

The resort is this empty board

where u write your name and smile

and the name smiles back at you.