Category: Poems

My every morning feels
Like every other morning.
Routine makes it so.
Groundhog Morning,
Again and again.
My sense of time distorted.
Calendars turn. Notepads thin.
Manga progress many chapters.
Yet every morning feels
Like every other morning.
An atom on a transverse wave.
Up and down at the same spot
Though the wave moves on.

The ice cube in my Rasna glass
Has had its revenge on me
For all the stirring, blowing,
Sucking, plopping I did
To make it turn and twirl
To my whims and wishes
As it slowly melted away,
Water to water. As I now do
Into the world I am made of.

I’m fortunate, though, in getting
To escape that drama every day
For a few hours in the morning.
A few hours in which I see
A poem written, a page read,
A chess position analysed,
A new language wrestled with,
A few thoughts set aside,
A deep insecurity encountered,
A deeper motivation found,
A clock whose every clucking tick
Sounds like every other tick,
A morning that feels, once again,
Like every other morning.

I knew her for a long time
Only as the girl with boys’ shoes.
Shoes that were a bit too big.
A bit too shabby, a bit too heavy.
She trudged in them,
First left, then right,
One big boys’ shoe at a time,
Switching sides along the way.

The teachers didn’t mind
And I wondered why.

‘Cause she also had a jute sack?
A DIY school bag,
Home-stitched and home-patched,
And a string attached to heave it.
She carried it,
First left, then right,
One stooped shoulder at a time,
Switching sides along the way.

‘Cause she also had stone dust?
Always in her wiry hair,
The mineral dandruff itching.
She scratched at it,
First left, then right,
One fingernail at a time,
Switching sides along the way.

‘Cause she also had ab-lumps?
Like stones she hammered after school.
Crushing, on a bed, with her weight,
She tossed about
First left, then right,
One tumour at a time,
Switching sides along the way.

When you ask me
“Yo, How’s it going?”
I’m not sure if you’re
Interested in knowing
The ten things that
Are weighting me down
Or just the one thing
That makes me sound
Like someone who’s
Figured it out.

When you tell me
“Yours the life, dude.”
I don’t know if you
At all include
The werewolf curse
Of phasic depression
Or the sinusoid of
Mental compression
Or the wild obscurus
Wreaking doubt.

When you “feel” me,
“Man, that’s rough.”
I really really want
To call your bluff.
You’d expected
A simple “All good.”
Yet I dragged you into
This droll mood.
And now you’re looking
For a walkabout.

But when you call me,
“Hey, I need a favour”
I breathe relief
Since we don’t waver
Into small talk that
Won’t stay small,
My troubles with yours
Won’t snowball,
And it won’t leave us
Drained throughout.

So, let’s stick to that.

What good is writing
When no one gets to read it?
When it’s not around to help
Those who really need it?

What good is writing
If it’s only for your eyes?
If your vanity is all
Your words ever prize?

If you really want to know
And truly understand
What good writing is
To this very hand
That pens it on paper,
Or types it on screen,
Or when neither’s around
Sews it to a dream,
You have to be ready
To walk in the dark
And hear that noise,
That shriek, that bark,
That calls for release
From its own pain
Or else, threatens
To drive you insane,
And question yourself,
If you were me,
Would you write them down,
Or let them be?
And if the former,
Would you then
Put someone else
Through this again?

Again I’m up at 3 a.m.
Again with words in spate.
Nouns and verbs
In pretty curves
Mix and match and mate.

From where they come
To where they go
They tell me not
Before they flow.
Up at a stop,
Down with a start,
They drive me mad
As I drive them home.

Will there be a point?
Should I seek help?
Will the little poem
Just write itself?
Will it stick to the rules
Taught in the schools
Of nuns and buns
And Jingle bells?

And what then?
What will become of it?
Some legacy for me
To inherit?
Some ink to spare
On pages bare
And there forever sit?

It’ll make no money
And make no friends
For it holds no value
And fits no trends.
But that’s okay.
That’s just life.
It need not be great
Need not be ripe
For me to love it
As I love them all:
My bratty little poems
As they learn to crawl.

When I ask him what to write next,
He says: That which enrages you.

For what enrages one, engages another.

Maybe, sharing your rage, they’ll raise it.
Or knowing your pain, erase it.
Or seeing your fits, laugh silent.
Or being offended, turn violent.
Or caring not whichever way
They’ll say what they always say.

But you’ll be heard.
You’ll be read.

For rage ranks. Rage indexes.
And it vexes those who feel in excess.

Know this, always this: Rage rages.
Go, write that.

How often does Halloween
Come on a full moon night?
And workless werewolves,
Fired or furloughed,
Tired of fur loads,
Save the silvers
In their costume budget?

Once in a blue moon, I suppose.

You know you need a break when
Looking at lush, black,
Sunlight-glowing
Grapes upon grapes
Of natural abundance
In an autumnal-smelling vineyard,
All you can notice is
How in a month’s time
There’d be rotten fruit
On some factory floor
That would translate to
A black bottomline on a spreadsheet.

In a hot pot sitting atop a flame
I’m so like a lazing frog,
Clickin’ my tongue to crop a claim
“I’m such an amazing cog!”

In a machine that’s rotten
Its oiling forgotten
And cogs losing teeth all day.
Now wheels don’t move
In the lock-step groove
That had made me say “Olé!”

There’s many a job to pay the bills
And pack this plight away.
Yet not a one to stay the chills
That wrack me night and day.

I know you had a bad day, buddy
Though not so bad as mine
But I won’t rattle the BS script
That everythin’ will be fine

You know as well as I do now
That this too shall not pass
It’ll stick around, and gut you too
This life’s li’l Masterclass

So, as you raise your head today
Put on your hotter smile
For sure you need some warmin’ up
Your cold blood’s so reptile

Go out that door and paint it all
This whole town in your hue
And stop not in your enterprise
Till no one’s laughin’ at you

Till no one’s laughin’ at you
Till no one’s laughin’ at you