ON COLOUR, HARD AND SOFT

Hard colour

is made for defining,

for contouring

categorization and theft

grab and run

stick-ups and waylaying;

pastel shades now

they are for corporate crime

they slip knot,

slide from layer to layer

and no one notices.

[from the collection 'Stray kites on string-less days]

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OCTOGENARIANISM

A line for every path walked,

wrinkle for every twist of fate,

colour-shade for layers of being

and navigations that intersected

absorbed and was consumed

by navigation,

and the specks

the scars

markers on a cartography

of living and dying;

it is not the trace

or embroidery-reverse

of the ashta loka dharmaya,

but how mind, heart and sinew,

fingertip and fist,

tender gaze and angry eye,

doubt and finality

touched, caressed, banged against

got hurt and cooled

in the play

of joy

and sorrow,

profit-loss,

fame and ill-fame

and praise and blame.

Look.

It’s history

and a retelling

of an ancient tale

told and retold.

Read it; it’s your story.

[from the collection 'Stray kites on string-less days']

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ODE TO INCARCERATION

And of prisons it was thus decreed

some would be bar-made and some unbarred

some to separate the free from the incarcerated

and some with lines erased,

yes so erased

that ‘free’ comes with query mark

and imprisonment is the worst kept secret

in the metropolis. 

And of the former kind,

there are those who are bowled,

and those less picture-perfect.

The goldfish looks with compassion

and knows the futility of keeping notes

but we,

we eye one another with pity

and even empathy

keep notes;

we might as well collect mirrors

while we wait the clock-guard

to interrupt the monotony of delusion

if nothing else.

[from the collection 'Stray kites on string-less days']

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THREE MONTHS LATER

Like always,
she is present
and absent,
in and out of me,
i speak her words,
wonder if my face mimics 
manner and humour,
love and confusion,
and i remember
the intensity of giving
equalled by an intensity of refusal;
she was proud
and such a child
in her gifting 
and embrace,
mother and teacher,
but such a student too.

And I, 
I cannot remember
the kiri-suwanda,
that baby time
or her giving
for time-squeeze
and event-mix
arrived 
with the curse of awkwardness 
she left
so did I
each to a specific banishment
each in a specific abhinishkramanaya,
and our returns never coincided
our orbits chose to slip 
and miss.
I was not her eka-pun-sanda,
not all the time;
but i was, i am sure,
now and then,
and that's all that matters
in the matter of thanksgiving.


[written in memory of my mother, January 2010] 

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ODE TO WEATHERING

ODE TO WEATHERING

There is dust

a stupor rising

from being and becoming:

it is the brain-residue

of the after-rain

of overflowing days

dripping into a plastic container

through tiles that once leaked sunlight.

We clean up

the vomit of global warming

await the next retching

and worry about our children.

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THE DIMENSIONS OF INFINITY

To the fish in the net

a single drop of water,

to the incarcerated

a sliver of sky,

to the guitarist

whose hands were cut off

a pick,

and

lip-red

to the heart that said ‘no’

to a love that will not return.

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UNCLOTHING

Thread by thread,

a slow dismantling,

removal of colour

wrecking of pattern

unscrambling motif

a miscarriage of line and space:

so many names for fragmenting.

Our disguises are many

and our unclothing unpredicted

but the mirror,

she knows

so it matters not

which hands rip apart

our garments

or why:

it is a has to be done thing

so says the Book of Love.

[From the collection 'Stray kites on string-less days']


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