Saturday, 20 December 2008

Auden

private faces in public places
you see
glimpses of me
i do not want revealed
a raised eyebrow
a hushed whisper
your name in every breath
you smile as you realise
you have swum against the tide
and won
me
like i am
some prize catch
catch is that
we are
who we are
and can only be that
these people
in this life
the face retreats
only to be revealed
at a different time
in a different rhyme.

Wednesday, 26 November 2008

OD1

the marks on my arm have faded
i’m still cynical and jaded
my ride with them pills
hurled me off the window sill
but i have finally made it

a tube down my nose
an iv up my arm
another twenty or so
i’d be in good-bye farm

my innards turning out
my thoughts tuning in
garbled words in my mouth
my blood in the bin

the dance of the dervish
the devil in my soul
not that my absence
would have left a gaping hole

revenge is the rice tube
stay down for forty-eight hours
the sermon the lecture the icu laughter
my painful ears they jar

have i learnt my lesson
hypothetically it’s a yup
till the next time and the next
on an overdose i’ll decide to sup.

Monday, 10 November 2008

Clothesline

the clothesline can tell you stories
that wearers will not reveal
of purple yearning
and blue moods
it tells you everything
the pastel triangles of cloth
a little one is in the world
a mother’s milk stained gowns reveal
pride that goes untold
lace panties satin thongs
a lover has been there
clothes that give away
more than they hide
give way to a penetrating stare
crisp lengths of unbleached cotton
speak of irreligiosity
the opposite softest cotton
speaks of temple visits religiously
blankets and patchwork quilts
remind me
winter is approaching here
eiderdowns coverlets aired prepare
for cold weather
socks towels tennis perhaps
some sport at least
silk sheets tell me of
games that tease
a pristine collar on
a much used shirt
feminist feminine whatever
tells you of a woman’s love
that no modernity can sever
starched crisp cotton
khadi classy silk
no matter what the fabric is
it brings society in its ilk
so this is the story of a home
and the cord that runs through it
you may bond over
fights
food
or fabric well knit
and when you see
it fluttering in the winds carefree
know that it is love
you see
i’ve started this poem
many a times
to abandon it mid way
maybe it needed time
to soak up the sun
maybe it needed today
warm clothes
the fragrance of
sun kissed laundry
raises my spirits
and sets my soul free.

Tuesday, 28 October 2008

Coming Clean

my poetry makes people question me
and ask if i’m sane
i smile
shrug non committal
then write hard verse again
is it about me
i am asked
how can it not be
but then widow alcoholic abused whore
do these define me
i write because i have to
i don’t know any other way
to be who i am
i must speak confront
i have to say
the slimy uncomfortable stuff
dirty underbelly of life
weaves itself through my lines
i am honest
for this there is no strife
so read
if you can handle it
it is not my desire to
discomfit you (it is)
love it
loathe it
be compelled by it
don’t ignore it
no matter what you do.

Friday, 17 October 2008

A moody state of mind.

ok, so love and all that jazz..changing my mind about the whole thing. it exists but not in the way i write about it. gimme the quiet man whose intensity lies in his loyalty and who makes this whole love thing look simple.
so here is a love poem, to celebrate this state i am in.
Moody 4
picking out furniture
drapes and dinner sets
curtains and bed spreads
jars of pickle
cinnamon and spice
a kitchen to cook
relish and rice
picking out love linen
pillows sheets patchwork quilts
lace and silk
to warm us in cold
nights
morns
noons and crimson dawns
picking out food
chocolate and whipped cream
maple syrup and candy dreams
to lick and pour
liqueur and more
picking out love
to cry out or sing
to raise you up
or bring
to your knees
and seize
this heart of yours
everything figured out
as you can see
except one tiny detail
are you the one for me?

Sunday, 12 October 2008

Night nuances

with my glass of water i sit down on the porch
the silence is quiet nobody encroached
the river flows sluggishly pregnant with memories
that will hold their own when they mingle with the seas
many a happy summer have i spent there
with you in my childhood content without a care
now we are older and married too
you are married to her but i feel wedded to you
in my heart my body i feel this way
i think about you all the time
have you thought of me today
i still live in the memories of
those far away times
when time was ours and
you were mine.

Compulsive

write it down
write it down
my heart says to me
write down every scintilla
dirty as it may be
the truth has to out
who but you to do it
don’t pass the buck
or wait around
don’t just stand there
sit.
and write
so we may hear
of things unspoken
and so dear
of illicit love
and mindless sex
of casual comments
the kind that wreck
of pain’s sweet prison
that heals as it cuts
of a whole lifetime gone
in a series of ‘buts’
write about the friendly neighbour
who had to pull at cheeks
of nubile girls at Holi
they bore red marks for weeks
and write about the grandfather
who visited once a way
shared a bed with a little girl
put his hands on her
for play
and write about the perv
on the cycle
who grabbed at an innocent breast
clad in pretty pink
it was
the girl the breast the rest
and write about her one true love
who treated her like a whore
who kissed her because he owed her
then said she asked for more
and write about the numerous
men
who turn around and leer
who laugh when you swear or stare
maybe they sense the fear
men
who brush past you 'unknowingly'
always not meaning to
desperate starved pathetic men
twisted minds one would assume
surely this is not new
the tale i narrate today
every girl woman you know
has felt violated in
some way
a remark a touch
a dirty e mail
haven’t we seen it all
the evolved man is
not even a myth
he never existed at all.


For Thushara. Who said she did not want flowers in my poetry.

Wednesday, 8 October 2008

Verbivore

an articulate man
holds my heart in
his hand
spins a web of magic
with his words his words
he can treat me bad
and hate my face
but when he starts to talk
he leaves me in a daze
his weapons are sentences
poetry and dreams
when he starts to speak
i am beautiful
or so it seems.

Thursday, 2 October 2008

experimenting

Some of my poetry is in series form. Maybe i feel one poem alone cannot do justice to the theme, or i cannot get the theme out of my head, and my heart, and i am compelled to write, almost incessantly on it. For instance, my Widow series. i also have a Doodles series but that consists of short, random stuff.
This is another series. i call it experimenting, because of the theme i attempt to deal with- love. Not just any kind of love, Grand, Passionate, Illogical- but- so- right kinda love. Aptly, this series is called Moody.
Moody 1
this pain means love
or so he says
if this is love
then i'm unfazed
give me more of this pain
this ache this aching mien
cut me up into tiny selves
this pain
this dervish hell
this dull ache
agony's loud shout
and bring me up
for another bout
with this sweet tantalizing hell
with him and his intense eyes
with emotion requited
and tormented ties
bring on this pain
am here and now
i long to see
this long ago love.

Wednesday, 24 September 2008

Doodles

Not the curse or the cause
not the practice or the pause
not the gamble not the glue
not the dice roll that wins you
not the cleaver of the chain
not the prison or the pain
not the grass blade not the rain
not the asylum not the sane
not the music or the flute
not the poison or the mute
not the song not the sky
not the one who says good bye.

Wednesday, 17 September 2008

Mom

what does she see
when she sees me
talking tough
walking tall
does she wonder at all
if she did right
or wrong
raising me different
from how i was born
is she proud of my now
at the classes i teach
and the thoughts i sow
in my words and
through my words
or does she wonder how
i got so
so neurotic
so lachrymose
writing suicide
and pain
when she is joyous
and rather insane
does she sit up late
at night
wondering how i might
turn out
cope with this life
and wonder am i
a good daughter
leave alone wife
do these thoughts cross
your mind ma
or do you rest assured
that you brought me up
right
and taught me well
and that it is
my choice
to seek
not heaven
but pain’s eternal damning hell.

Tuesday, 26 August 2008

Open Season

now what?
we’ve bitched and hissed
at all this
the dj the wedding
the wait never ending
the unfriendly bride
and the vulgar side
of both families
that display dowry and dominion
as if they were de rigueur
so unlike us
with out classy ways
and quiet days
no dance or dowry for us
we’ll sit and talk and
make a fuss
that the music’s loud
and the make up too
and of relatives proud
this just won’t do
and eat our fill
and have our fun
dress up talk down
and act as one
in our collective boycotting
of
what passes off for
fun these days
oh these big city people
and their
decadent ways
and weeks after
we’re still at it
dissecting bisecting
seeing what fits
bringing up all questions
of laddoos and loyalty
of family gossip
of history
till one day
her father dies
expected yes, not a surprise
and yet guilt’s fingers
tease our souls
we’re ashamed
truth be told
how do we undo
all that’s been said
even if in private
at the breakfast table
in bed
oh maybe she was
just stressed out
the wedding her father
why even i’d want to shout
the music is good
and the dance they do?
that’s old tamil culture
there’s a history there too
she was polite
when we met her now
the shock must have
changed her
and how
well as long as they’re happy
the wedding was grand
and maybe god has other plans
but guilt’s fingers
are a stronghold
on me
they force me to see
haul me up to
acknowledge
that bitching is easy
and fun too
but some of it, all of it
may well haunt you.




Wilde

my words reflect an unlife
i am after all only
woman whore wife
i am only the keeper of all
things good
i do not keep the many
facets i forsook
adventurer dervish mad seer
saint
i could have been
could be
all the colours you paint
but now these lines
do the talking for me
take you into my world
and try to make you see
this life
these choices
i have made
they are not half bad
the tears i have shed
and the joys
are the best i’ve ever had

Lullaby

i love the sounds
of my city winding down
a shutter pulled
the last pitcher filled
the tinkling of bangles
as laundry is put away
the sputtering of candles
as night gets underway
secret lovers kiss
their caresses point them out
a baby’s gentle laugh
mother love
flows from its mouth
dogs are a-baying
feet run swift on dew
they turn a corner and are gone
before I even knew
prayers are said
doors secured
with bolts and chains galore
family calls out to take stock
behind closed doors
the steady beat of the watchman’s stick
brings calm to the mind
but his whistle
sporadic as it is
wakes me up every time
in the alleys tomcats yowl
the clank of an upturned can
nightmares are chased away
brows soothed by an understanding hand
bedclothes are smoothened
arms enfold
bodies hold one another through the night
the wind howls pleads cajoles
limbs feel the cold
and hold on tight
my city is asleep
its people at peace
warm in sleep’s embrace
good night god bless sweet dreams
poetic nights
profound days

Tuesday, 27 May 2008

Zoo

Sunday
work day
play day
park day
make out in the park day
park and make out day
the animals in the zoo
four legged and two
sounds aren’t heard
silence is learnt
who are the animals
getting in the way
ruining siesta
for a quick lay
courting couples
secretive spouses
looking for a lone bush
despite a palatial house
people with no dignity
or maybe
too much of it
look around at the cages
see that they fit
lovers in lust
others trying to rekindle
the flickering flame
of romance
the one that’s so fickle
sanctimonious souls
pompous parents hustle
their impressionable children
though themselves tantalised
by the tussle
and the passionate
clinching they see
spread out
wistfulness is of
no doubt
maybe they’re thinking
of their younger days
sans superciliousness
simple their ways
and they looked
for space
to claim
their bodies
and their names
old days
the good old
dirty days.

Saturday, 26 January 2008

More than rhyme

a once-upon-a-time-friend of mine, told me once, that the reason my poetry was not getting published was that i did not know how to position it. an interesting thought and to back it up, he gave me words, ideas..inspiration.
this is what i came up with. and this poem is for him.

More than rhyme

my poetry is an aphrodisiac
prozac in a silken sac
a mood enhancer
for the giver and receiver

a pick me up not a placebo
a strong cup of java please two to go
a lifestyle drug a coffee table book
a beautiful woman worth a second look

all the things you wanted
but could never be
all the things you thought were
real but could never see

mine is the siren song
taking you to your doom
giving you wings to fly
to escape from this gloom

place your hand in mine oh reader
i am what you want
find in me your orgasm
or hit me with your taunts.



i followed it up with this..

Escort service

i am a prostitute to my muse
for him to use reuse refuse
to pour his juices in me as he sees fit
with my inferiority champing at the bit
no escort service for me
my muse my companion of eternity
do not abandon this lost cause
i will be yours. pause.

Saturday, 19 January 2008

Doodles

Not the curse or the cause
not the practice or the pause
not the gamble not the glue
not the dice roll that wins you


not the cleaver of the chain
not the prison or the pain
not the grass blade not the rain
not the asylum not the sane


not the music or the flute
not the poison or the mute
not the song not the sky
not the one who says good bye.

Wednesday, 2 January 2008

Museindia

Museindia is an e journal.an idea.an inspiration.
for the many many people who write and want to be heard, who love literature and want to hear more of it, who create and want to share, this site offers hope.
for those who love the world of words, this is a site you will be drawn to.
for those who don't, this is a site that will intrigue you, and hopefully, make you think.
i was delighted when they chose my work for one of their issues last year.
i am honoured that they have included some more in their current issue.
http://www.museindia.com/showcurrent6.asp?id=851
museindia does what no publisher,big or small, national or international, veteran or new, is willing to do- stay true to its ideal.
and that kind of courage, in these times, deserves respect.
and then some.