Month: April 2023

A letter has to volunteer
To start a poem on a page,
And bid the other letters come
To stand with her upon her stage.

And then they must committees form
Of words – of nouns and verbs and such –
And meet in lines that break somewhere,
Unheeding of the space so much.

And then the lines must cast a vote
With operatic chorus ayes,
And hope that they are not the one
On which the Reader rolls her eyes.

And even if they pass the buck
Of Reader’s eyes from top to end,
They must do more between themselves
To be a worthy poem penned.

The only way’s to play and play
To different musics every day,
And come for all rehearsals dressed
In hopes of being the show today.

I know you don’t like jewelry,
But will you take a string of beads
Of little moments, full of Life,
Like fruity Life’s leftover seeds?

…

The fogging mask of eyeglasses,
Uppended glass of ice on face,
The twinkling stars on roasted corn,
The lemon gulped without a trace,

The poking of the mayonnaise,
The red-sauce mehndi on the palm,
The shall-we-take-that-city-bus,
The railway bench of waiting calm,

The twiddling thumbs in chilling breeze,
The fattened kittens on the fence,
The optical illusion pond,
The books with signs in brushing pens

…

The string will only grow with time,
And on the days we rage as storms,
We’ll thumb these beads like rosary,
Until our hugs again are warm.

My drawer draws withdrawing eyes.
Its holder holds withholding hands.
A gentle tug, a glassful chug,
I stand to stand withstanding sands.

The charcoal sketches in the sky
Have started drumming on the tin
That shelters me amidst the scents
Of Eden’s gardened seraphim.

She introduces, green by green,
The leaves and stems of every shape.
And meeting them with her, I see,
I’m so alive, I’m so awake.

This bonsai here of thirty years
Reminds me of the Artist’s Way:
That crafting beauty takes a life
Of mindful caring everyday.

And look, she says, a little bird!
A hummingbird, replies my hunch.
In yellow petals, yellow plumes
Are seeking Sunday’s leisure lunch.

Is that the karma of this place?
A resting hop for Time that flies.
While nodding to the rain, it thanks
The sunlight in her kaajal eyes.

No point in showing marble slabs
Reposing on unwoodened doors.
No point in showing wooden planks
Unpolished on unmarbled floors.

Material’s material
In being immaterial:
Invisible in finishing,
Remarkably ethereal.

No point in sharing dreams aloud.
Until fulfilled, avail a shroud.

It’s over when it’s over, but
It doesn’t start until it starts.
And where you start is up to you.
The middle’s where you find yourself,
Between hereafter and ago,
With choices you don’t understand
Except in cause and consequence.
And so your story writes itself
With every foolish folly felt.
And so your mind regains its peace
By ending what has not begun.

The way I sauté serious words
Though simple ones are tastier.

The way I stir my arguments
Though warming up is easier.

The way I grind my grumbling teeth
Instead of finely chopping stress.

The way I strain and strain my plans
Instead of soaking them at rest.

You teach me cures for ill-slept nights:
A flung-out fistful flattened rice
Into a pool of fighting fish.

You teach me tricks of restful taste:
To finger-wrap our pithful haste
From plantain stems of weekend wish.

You teach me plucking pleasures cheap:
To stop and smell the lemons heap,
Defying apes on temple stairs.

You teach me closing beauty’s doors:
To shut a gateway madman’s roars,
While picking peacock feather pairs.

You teach me choice to practice glee.
You teach me joys of being me.

Some books I read again-again
To gain them word for word by heart.

Some books I read again-again
To gain them part by part by part.

Some books I read again-again
To gain from them a single line.

Some books I read again-again
To gain the space they leave behind.

When roads are harsher than they are,
When every thistle leaves a scar,
When forks give ‘worse’ and ‘worse’ to choose,
Is poetry of any use?

When doctors countdown weeks I’ve got,
If all the thousands lines cannot
Remind me of remaining youth,
Is poetry of any use?

A little less of Hellish grays.
A little more of Heaven’s grace.
If neither it can introduce,
Is poetry of any use?