Category: Poems

We heard the drum before the cock,
Before the clock, before the Call
Of muezzin at prayer dawn.
We heard the rhythm on the drum
And knew the meaning it conveyed:
Another person has succumbed.

We heard the drum, we filed outdoors,
We saw the man on makeshift bier,
We saw the son in drummers’ trance,
We saw the utter thanklessness
Of people who refused to come
Ahead to help the lonely son
Of him who kept our gutters clean.

I stepped ahead and stood near him,
A brahmin breaking tradition
To partake in the cremation
Of someone from the lowest caste.
I saw the eyes, alarmed and wide,
I saw the accusations rise,
I saw the coldness settle in,
I saw that I had lost something.

In time, the drum elicited
The others who would dare to cross
The lines of caste on grounds of trust,
And thrust ahead without a thought
For all the drama that awaits
The ones who break the street’s decree.

I looked inside the rising flames
For bridges I had burned in it.

The sun was red, then yellow, then too bright.
Eagles perched on their towers, then flew.
Rooftop yogis in tights yoga-ed, then selfied.
The wind blew, then didn’t, then did.
The coucal croaked, then got chased away.
The pigeons ate the grain, then shat right there.
The plants in pots stood unmonkeyed tall.

It’s the most boring morning I’ve had in a week.
Thank God for that!

I’m almost of a mind to end this
Incessant, insistent obsession
To write a poem every morning.

What identity am I reinforcing?
“Poets like me do things like this.”

Or, is it a wannabe attempt to belong?
“Poets like them do things like this.”

Can I really be good like them
If all I ever write and settle for
Is just another tick on a habit tracker?

“Trust the process,” the books urge me.
“Look at your record. _Some_ are good.”

“You have to be kind to yourself,”
My therapist-visiting friends advise.

“It’s not like not-writing will help you
Write better,” common sense reminds.

So, fever-fried or medicine-muddled
Or existentially-emasculated,
I sit my brain down, foregoing rest,
and write … something.

I’m tired of all this trying, m’lord.
Just send me away for dying, m’lord.

I’ve aired the skeletons of those in power.
So, hang me out for drying, m’lord.

If proof you need to hide your hide, I will
Confess me a plea of spying, m’lord.

If, in a week, I’ll lie in markless graves,
I’ll buy me a name for lying, m’lord.

In all the things that will go wrong, I have
A treaty for which I’m vying, m’lord:

My transparency is full and empty.
Let half be my glass of crying, m’lord.

Let half be my glass of crying, m’lord.

This close to smothered mate
In the center of the board;
Material advantage choking.
Timely prophylaxis led to long walk.
Slipping away. Surviving.
Always a way out.
Prescribed combination working.
Too slowly? Net tightening fast.
Cannot resign. Not now. Not ever.
Cannot sacrifice for breathing room.
What win will that be anyway?
Have to draw it out. Infinite checks.
Have to be one move ahead.
Just one is enough.

1.

Prepared warrior
Or overconfident chump?
Disease reveals me.

2.

Listen to my bones
Crying the glorious name
Of untaken pills.

3.

Stink of life is sweet.
I’ll pick feces any day
Over carcasses.

4.

Temperatures rose
Like overnight millionaires:
Bubblewrapped for fall.

No loss to weep
No win to cheer
No rise to seek
No fall to fear

No curse to voice
No praise to hear
No bond to forge
No tie to shear

No will too weak
No breath too dear
No life too far
No death too near

It can’t be Monday, obviously.
Already too much on my plate.

It can’t be Tuesday, obviously.
The Monday always spills over.

It can’t be Wednesday, obviously.
It’s discount coupon night at home.

It can’t be Thursday, obviously.
It’s on-site day with buffet lunch.

It can’t be Friday, obviously.
The Happy Hours are happily so.

It can’t be Saturday, obviously.
Need the Sunnyside Up for hangovers.

It can’t be Sunday, obviously.
I like my Sundays nice and slow.

Come, my sweetie, come, my baby,
Come to the world of dreams,
Where there’s oxygen a-plenty
And no helpless screams.

On our faces, there are many
Laughs of outdoor glee.
There are many friends to play with,
Many friends to see.

Come, my sweetie, come, my baby,
Come to the world of dreams,
Where the only viral things are
Social network memes.

Come, my sweetie, come, my baby,
Come to the world of dreams.

“And who are you?” the crowned germ asked
While flying through our door.
“Only a mite of a different gene,
Who’s trying to be more.

“Your Dad is sick, your Mom is too,
And you’re too weak to act.
Come, serve your king – an honoured guest –
And pray you’ll stay intact.”

I welcomed it, I welcomed it –
This virus crowned in Fear –
And thought of guests at weddings Red
And Rains of Castamere.

I thought of guests at weddings Red
And Rains of Castamere.