For the elusive one

faraway door,

close-by wall

and other impediments of the mind:

no, i am not attempting break-in

for such things are forbidden

not by statute or convention

but choice of moral territory;

but whisper to me

relate stories

in your respective voices

of that place where i believe

i am not non-resident

and not necessary unwelcome

though un-encouraged.

describe to me a flower

and let me imagine fragrance;

recite to me a poem

and i will compose melody,

tell me the texture of the soils

and i will describe her face,

or,

say nothing

and I will write unwritten histories.

Journeys*

If you are asking me,
i'd say this:

There were no name-boards
or landmarks
no road-sign, no map
for hearts
though contoured
slip through fingers
evade cartographer.
There's a price to pay
for heart:
salute love
and concede reason,
give up choice;
there's no agency.
Did not ask,
did not plan,
do not complain now;
there might have been mirror
but I didn't see;
there are people
and they never asked my name -
so i said 'conclude, as you will'.
There are no auspicious times,
not for heart,
not to my knowledge,
nor my ignorance,
as of now.

*a response to a poem titled 'How did you come back from where the heart took you?'

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Where has the heart taken me/you?*

A fishnet and a hook
a belly of acid
a burning rock and
the spark of a thunderclap,
to the blade of a fan
the end note of a music score
thumbprint of eternity
and nothing,
to after-last-sigh silence.

*This was in response to a question Marianne asked: 'Where has the heart taken you?'


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Time*

For melody and music
love and love-making
rain and thunder
the caressing of leaves
breaking of twig
uprooting the tap-root
of memory,
time for the madness of recollection
for the head-toss
robbing tongue of word
throat of vocal chord,
time to bend low
and lower still
for executioner's swing
and time, perhaps
for words.
it's not now,
no, King Silent's century has begun.
Sorry.

*For Marianne who wanted a ‘Right Now’ poem

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Of words

There will be more words then,

between you and i,

more from me perhaps,

just little pieces of sky

ribbons drawn from memories,

colours from impossible sunsets

and ordinary things

     like bookcases

     wrapping paper

     a stranger's smile

     a computer screen

     the bark of a dog

     traffic lights

and other things we pass by

as we move from moment to moment

as we switch dream for reality

and reality for dream,

and in those words

and pauses too

you may find something

something that makes you forget to breathe

something that stops clocks

and buries eternity forever.

or you may find nothing at all.

either way, i will come.

[from the collection 'The Underside of Silence', shortlisted for the Gratiaen Award 2008]

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Samadanie

In your eyes

in the circle that captures

movement and being

in the net that gathers

sandstone histories

and anthills,

among which crawls unhappy love

random and shameless

conceding dream to illusion,

in the compass of gaze

that maps out thought-paths,

heart-runs,

unscrambles word-game

uncovers silences,

and in the blaze of that incomparable knowing,

I am naked

not as a child

but an old man,

incontinent and divested of shame.

inadequate.  

[from the collection 'Underside of Silence', shortlisted for the Gratiaen Award 2008]

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Shelf life: Indeterminate*

These are the libraries

of our land,

made of novels and epic poetry

rarely perused

seldom cited:

and yet there are letters

words and metaphors

tapestries woven

with labour

and the threads of being,

the bartering without permission

wheels that turn

despite impediment and age-limit,

the fruits of our today

the catch that fell through

the butterfingers of political economy,

the story of a child

and her tomorrow

and the transcripts

of a timeless,

careless

civilization.

[from the 'Eye' section of 'The Nation', November 20, 2011] 

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