Category: Poems

I have an itch to write and write
Though what to write is seldom clear.
To write without a thing to say
Is writing like an engineer
Who has been told to busy be,
And so keeps coding spaghetti.

I have an itch to eat and eat
Though what to eat is seldom clear.
To eat without an appetite
Is eating like a volunteer
Who has been told the night’s his shift,
And so keeps snacking not to drift.

I have an itch to sleep and sleep,
Though when to sleep is seldom clear.
To sleep without a worldly care
Is sleeping like a mountaineer
Who has been told his team is dead,
And so he sleeps on snowy bed.

No one prepares you for the stench
Of burning flesh, and sooty smoke,
And flying ash, mixed with your sweat.

No one prepares you for the taste
Of waking up to a burning tongue,
Pickled with dry coughs of acid reflux.

You just watch the water faucet stream
And forget to splash your face.

You run by falling purposely
And breaking it with thrice the weight
Of body passing through your joints,
Your ankles, knees and lower back,
All brittle, fragile, built to break
At once to overwhelming force,
But gaining from the smaller shocks
To be a little better at
Absorbing pain with passing time.

And though you curse your Life for being
So hard on mental knees and back,
Remember you have gained in strength
Precisely from these little shocks.

Misfortunes are the grounds we run.

Another call from a still-unsaved number.
Another leaf fallen from the family tree.
Another bleating night of sheeplessness.
Another dawn-lit mourning coffee.

He walks in his father’s uniform,
Alcohol-washed and charcoal-pressed,
But already a size too small
For his puberty-powered coming-of-height.

He walks in his father’s uniform,
Sweeping yellow and green confetti
From last night’s party on laburnum trees
That the monkeys forgot to clean up after.

He walks in his father’s uniform,
Picking biowaste with polythened hands
With the same energy he has for picking
Fly-ridden leftovers of overnight orphanhood.

He walks in his father’s uniform,
Rolling a wheelbarrow of sludge
Patiently loaded with steady arms,
‘Cause everyone cries over spilled muck.

He walks in his father’s uniform,
A volcano quenched by heavy downpour.

I want to write a Python script
That reads my daily poetry,
And then attempts to write it too,
Or, failing that, quite obviously,
Attempts to create metaphors
From lists of nouns and verbs and nouns.
For instance, say, it throws at me,
A “python writing poetry”,
Or “monkey scripting Ramayan”,
Or, “sunlight waxing strawberries”
Or, “vaccines uppercutting crowns”
Or, “beards braying Bengali”
Or, “crickets playing fantasy”
Or something doing something else.
It may be all I need to jog
Imaginations within me
And write a poem. Like I should.

I cannot get out of my bed.
I feel a heaviness engulf
My every single rising thought.
I know I cannot stay in bed,
But knowing doesn’t action make.
My body pleads with stirring mind:
A day of rest is all I ask.
A day of…please, a single day.
I promise I won’t ask for more.
I need my sanity today
And sleep is where I’ll find it, no?
A day, an hour, a whatever.
I cannot, cannot fight today.
I’m beaten down already, see?
So, please, let me sleep today.
A day, an hour, a whatever.

The drums of death are beat again:
A second time this week,
A fourth instance in thirty days,
A ninth, this year, to leave.

Some old, some young, some middling years:
All too early in health.
All with dependents left alone
To make their way, unhelped.

A widow, a son, a widowed mum,
A daughter yet to wed,
A son, two daughters, and a son,
And now a widowed head.

And those like me with moneyed hands
Do grab the honeyed pills,
Away from beating hearts of death,
Away from any chills.

Is there a guilt in being alive
When those around have passed?
You’re asking him who’d rather live,
Even if he is last.

You spend a week or month or year
In silent desperation’s clutch,
Unknowingly assuming much,
And thinking you are done for good,
Unless you do a thing extreme,
A thing you’ve seen the others do,
But never have you yourself done,
Or even thought of doing once,
But now you want to try it too,
So, Monday morning, you go to
The local Shiva temple door
And touch the bull – its rump or hump –
And say your prayer to its ear,
And walk the way to where you touch
The phallic blackness to your head
And say again your prayer pitch:
You give me that, I’ll give you this,
And walk away, a tray in hand,
A tray of offered fruits and leaves,
And offer them again at home
To members of the family,
The ones for whom you went to pray,
The ones who do not care for God,
Or maybe do when crises strike,
And you convince your faithful mind
You have to have to do this thing
On every Monday following
If _really_ you want to have
Your prayers answered earnestly,
And that is how before you know
You end up starting Mondays all
By touching rumps or humps of bulls
And touching phallic blacknesses
And making barter contract pleas
That come to pass on rolls of dice,
Or not at all, or all at once,
So there is no real telling if
The things you do have causal roles,
And so to err on safety’s side,
You continue to do your thing
On every Monday following.

My simple joy of sleeping in
Begins with recognising that
The actual price of waking late
Is losing handful habit hours,
Which I can anyway recoup
In handful minutes through the day.
My calendar is fungible,
At least in Lego blocks of time
Which I may play around with on
A lazy day with few demands.
Of course, the real joy in this
Is this exact same exercise
Of self-delusion rationalised
In sleepy seconds that alarms
Attempt to steal away from me.
Alarms are off’d, and eyes are off’d
And blissful ignorance is on’d
Until the hour of waking brings
Another opportunity
To do this all over again
And smile my guilty-pleasure-smile.