Thursday, 28 May 2015

Dusty and unscheduled and unlit



Lately, I have given up forced schedules -
of voices and gravity, unbroken rules
governing when the windows might open,
when they must shut, when words must be spoken,
a life of finite couplets and modules.


I’ve let the door stand ajar in dust-storms
I’ve piped in dreams of sand and low landforms,
orchestras of fallen leaves, autumn-coloured.
Led merry festivals of haphazard
words into worlds far away from their homes.


And I’ve also let my voice go back to sleep -
the freedom that’s in silence is for keeps,
and when it’s finally woken up again,
I’ve asked it to hold its breath and just listen
to chuckling rivers, to candles as they weep.


The winds have blown out my lamps, and unlit
they stood for whole Diwalis, not just minutes.
Their darkness and their beauty were unsurpassed.
Forget small flames, even stars do not last.
I’ve come across a darkness that’s infinite.



If you’ve stopped here by chance and wondered why
the door’s unlatched, the golden dust’s knee-high -
well, now you know the reason: I’m not absent
I am only doing what I was meant
to do: be still and let all things pass by.




Sunday, 24 May 2015

Asylum




Officer, scrutinise
my papers and date of birth
with half-truths and unkind eyes.
Pinpoint if you can
where this life began
where it weaved into earth
and casually out again
honestly in precise
circumstances and coordinates.
You’ll soon understand dates
and stamps on a watermarked page
leave the bulk untold
whichever may be the language
used to slice lives open
behind bullet-proof, cubby-holed
existence across the ocean.

Thursday, 21 May 2015

Perfume on my wrist



The minutes pass only in clicks of keys,
the drumroll of space bars, the slight zephyr
of breathing, stale cigarette smoke, the broken wheeze
of a machine, the silent turns of clever
codes, there is no talk, nothing anyone can hear
but a sudden eddy of air inches near.



A faraway crack of sound, a van tyre
bursts on the road, and flaps to a whining close;
the traffic's a rush of fluid, fuel and fire
seeping in thin red lines from shut windows.
Your voice is a perfume left on my wrist,
your footfalls the brush strokes of an artist.







Monday, 18 May 2015

Blood, Boobs and Carnage : At the BBC with Bess, Libby, Olympias and Roxane






Who could resist a blogfest titled like that? The BBC Blogfest; jointly hosted by Ninja Captain Alex J Cavanaugh and Heather M Gardener, both of whom need no introduction.  The idea is to post about a book, TV show, or film, or all three that can be described by Blood, Boobs and Carnage, or any combo thereof.

Here's my selection :

Sunday, 10 May 2015

Love-lodestone





My love for you, my Mothers, was the stuff
of deep breaths and deep days and moving enough.
Halting words like grits on the tongue and palate;
and loose ends of your anchal mopping me up.

Monday, 4 May 2015

All done & Zonked out : A-Z Reflections







It's been heaps of fun and a bit exhausting, but most fun things are also tiring. I am glad I survived, and have the big, beautiful survivor badge up. Feather in cap, pat on back.  If you have completed the A-Z too, congrats to you!