Dilute

I’ve been drinking half-latte since you’ve gone;

seems fitting – this dilution when alone,

that the strength and taste of coffee should change-

half the richness, the spoon’s lonely one-mug plunge,

the very rims of cup, contents and home.

Nearness underpins all manner of things,

the scents and concentrations of my mornings,

the places and glasses set at my table.

Distance makes my words flicker, disables

them in fade-out grey, slightly shifts the meanings.

The worlds spin the same, and my life too turns

regardless of when you leave and return.

I drink my coffee, I write the verses down;

I chat with friends, mention you’re out of town;

I find new frames for words like ‘lone’ and ‘yearn’.

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.

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.

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.

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 :

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.

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!

Secret seeds

A rose bush had once bloomed in the garden