Great things are not done by impulse, but by a series of small things brought together – Vincent Van Gogh

Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

Petty

High-heel designer shoes,

Long limbed, fair legs, petite.

 

Dour faced, frowning,

Harried, brisk mediocracy.

 

Long names, big designations,

Years of experience, exploding belly, wrapped in gallantry.

 

Smiling, jovial,

Loudly informative, shifty.

 

Hawk eyed, beaked nose,

Ruthlessly predictable with a shuffle.

 

Elegant, stylish,

All manners on a frowning brow.

 

A pageant strutting by,

Can you see the colour of the heart.

 

In This Together

I was looking forward to feeding the city pigeons with you.

 

To sitting in the park opposite our home,

gossiping about our days of yore.

 

To attend weddings, and stand like cloth dolls

While the bride and groom bent at our feet.

 

I planned to take in our days at leisure,

Frying eggs, toasting bread and cooking your favourite curry.

 

I wanted to help you find your glasses,

Hand you your towel at the bathroom.

 

We so hoped we could go sightseeing,

And watch the whales in Africa.

 

I looked forward to admonishing our grandchildren,

While you pampered them with your love.

 

I wanted to snuggle against you

When it got cold and the socks did not help.

 

So why did you suddenly take a decision one day

to just lay down and die?

Something In Her

There was something in her, and it sometimes kicked.
It made her tummy rounder and bigger.
The doctor said she was too small to bear this something,
but her mother in a drunken stupor could not care less.

 

She yearned for love in the signs that she made,
in the words that could not escape her mouth.
But the man who threw her on the floor,
overpowered her, left her bleeding
went beyond what she could put sound to.

 

So she hid her shame till she could no more.
And when the something inside her grew too large,
it kicked at her tender, innocent heart.

 

The words again fled her mind as she lay writhing on the floor.
Oh what pain she bore.

 

(This is a poem to someone I knew. She died a few months back in premature child birth)

The child in Her

She lay curled on her bed,

Wrapped in her teddy bear blanket, now threadbare.

Tears streaming down her cheeks, choking.

Her fist a ball in her mouth.

 

Tormented by the prospects of her future.

She did not want to marry a doctor,

She wanted to study, to be a fighter pilot,

To fly the sky in search of her soul.

 

She did not want the burden of docility,

The demur demeanor were her loathing,

The nosepin, red dot, thick kajal around her eyes,

She did not want to be her mother.

 

She dreamed of a wearing a pant, with its perfectly ironed crease,

A shirt tight against her breast,

Stripes on her shoulders,

She was meant to ravage the man’s world.

Meghanath

He would trudge home

Grimy and exhausted,

After corseting buildings with bamboo all day.

Moth eaten, wooden polls,

Held together with thin coir string,

Around dreams that reach

Up to catch the wind.

Precarious, wobbly,

Lives depended on it,

Often his.

And by the flickering kerosene lamp

The rice gruel boiling on the wood fire,

He inks elegant, moving verse.

His voice still floats through my reverie as I gaze up into the night sky.

Gosh, I think, “the only reason I get away with some of the tripe I write,

Is because I publish on a blog”

Colours of Paint

Slather me with huge swaths of colour

The mysterious blue of an ink well,

The luminescent yellow of flaxen hair

The shimmering red of raging eyes

The sexy brown of lustrous skin.

 

Slather me through, with rough, cruel passion,

Pent up anger, nauseous distress,

Straining taunt muscle, hacking, frenzied to break loose

Rippling their way from the depth of your bowls.

 

Slather me, with words that have no utterance

Thought incomprehendable,

A whirlstorm of action that shreds to atoms

Pell-mell in a million directions.

 

Slather me thick,

From my skin to the deepest crevice of my being,

So I transcend into your hell,

For a moment, breathe as you.

Beyond Reproach

She takes on the wind,

With strong, steel wings,

Claws pulled back in an ugly black snarl.

Impenetrable eyes that petrify

At the speed of light

The wind jumps out of the way

Just in the nick of time.

 

Grimy dagger cuticles dig in,

Deep,

Instantaneous,

Nothingness.

 

She lifts off

In majestic splendor,

Her breast swelling with accomplishment

Dangling her prize, flaunting it,

Daring nature itself to win it back from her.

 

On the humblest perch with a million dollar view,

She throws one last piercing look at the sun,

Then digs in,

Slurps up the brain,

Throws back her head,

And croons sweet wicked music to goodness.

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