Sunday, 13 August 2017

#Colourblind

I want to write poems in fountain pen ink,
-Hazy purple, on yellowed pages,
On the back of a novel, unopened for ages.
But I can't make a mark,
On this blue screen of computer bark.

I want to buy a guitar from that old pawn shop,
In the old part of town, with a tea stained table top.
They tell me at the store,"Gone are the blues and bebop!"
So I buy myself today's harp-the latest laptop.

I used to buy Rubik's cubes from an old Parsi shop in Bombay,
But the mall there now sells cubes with fifty four pieces of gray.
So I try to meet the changing times halfway,
And buy my food in predigested sachets!

To eat out is in, cooking with calories is a sin!
To kill language to save a few seconds is #hip,
But you better spend hours to find the filter to hide that melanin.
Like the cubes, all is gray in this township.

Sitting in this colour blind sink,
I want to write poems in fountain pen ink,
-Hazy purple , on yellowed pages,
On the back of a novel, unread for ages.


Sunday, 28 May 2017

Rope/ For CC

I carry pocket size chaos on my shoulder,
As I push my Sisyphean boulder.

I sit by the sea with ennui,
As the waves wash away every buoy.

Do not throw me rope!
You don’t know my chaos’ scope!

Hold your sympathetic display,
For I am the autumn moon,I am the highway!
The breadth of my inner wings,
Cannot be measured by man made things.

Do not throw me rope!
I am nefarious! Throw me hope!

I gather my chaos now spread over me so chaotically,
By my mind full of thoughts of excesses sought.
Collecting it in a manner oh so orderly,
Into a chaos pocket sized and 10000 watts.

As I push my Sisyphean boulder,

I carry pocket sized chaos on my shoulder.

/* This is for the sad loss of Chris Cornell. RIP Shadow King and say hello to heaven */

Sunday, 26 February 2017

Someday I'll Fly

Someday I’ll fly,
Beyond the questions ‘what?’, ‘where?’and ‘why?’,
To where answers are only given with a sigh.
To where time does not fly by the bye,
A day,
A year,
Forever,
Are meaningless words to say.


Someday I’ll see,
Beyond the need to be,
Loved as to love.
Beyond the smell of burning clove,
As smoke
    Takes away
All woes.


Someday I’ll  write,
To not stub out ends of burning hearts by the night,
But to be one with beauty in all it’s might.
Someday I’ll pick up crumpled papers of poetry,
Rising
Beyond
Their blight.


Someday when the chords turn minor,
I shall not glance at the world’s pyre.
Even when I’m down to the wire,
I shall dance,dance,dance,
Through
The
Fire.

/* Check out this fine ditty whilst you read these words. There's also a rather rough take of a piece of music I think goes well with these words */




Saturday, 12 November 2016

You remember the days?

You remember the days?
When you walked in sepia streets of nostalgia,
When you rose in roses of stupor,arms and melancholia.
You remember the days?
When you woke with a head spinning in purple haze,
And evenings of fighting demons in Lucy’s daze.
You remember the days?
When the sleepless nights made us feel,
On top of the world, not under its heel.
You remember the days?
You thought you would never sleep again,
And the night when fitfully by slumber you were slain.
You remember the days ?
When eons were  as far as evening tea,
And all your sorrows drowned by the sea.
You remember the days ?
When time caught up in its cheating chariot,
And in your mind anxiety and defence did riot.
You remember the days ?
When you held all the good that came your way in arms clenched tight,
And at time’s clarion call, let go with all your might.
You remember the days ?
When the walking  in sepia streets of nostalgia,
Only gave you neuralgia.
You remember the day ?
After which you didn’t remember the days ?
Even if you remembered, you couldn’t live them, anyway.

/* RIP Leonard Cohen. I'll spend the rest of my days searching for the secret chord. */



/* There's a cover of a Rob Scallon that I think without words captures the feeling of letting go of nostalgia very well */

Saturday, 10 September 2016

Oceans have no memory

When books of poetry fill, swagger dies
The muse sighs- thoughts in a standstill.
A laugh, a smile and then I show you,
Glimpses of dreams cast in china blue.

Walk with me by the sea,
As smoke blows away from mystery.
The oceans have no memory.
In the waves let’s our walled thoughts immerse,
And let the ocean churn up a china blue verse.

Every beautiful thing must slip into oblivion.
But to forget something-one must relive and remember.

Another lover falls to the universe
And the oceans have no memory
Except that of immersed verse,
Cast in china blue and reverie.

/*Ginsberg has a surprise reference  watch for it.*/



Let Mr.Wilson tell you about the water and memories

Saturday, 2 July 2016

Self Portrait in Colour

/*maroon is a combination of red and blue*/

He wakes from maroon dreams,
Into a world of summer autumn colour schemes.
The maroon man with his myriad moods,
At schemes ,chuckles, smirks,laughs and broods.

Red from blood once flowing,
From skin covering secret scars,
That now radiant and lambent are glowing,
Like battle scars on old guitars.

Blue from a music of oppressed art,
Blue borrowed scent,  blue love and blue heart.
And somewhere Bukowski  is sounding a rebel yell,
'Love......love is a dog from hell.'

As his eyes crave the sepia tint of nostalgia,
Blue and red blend , overpowering melancholia.
Hail muse! As nocturne sea brings foam to shore,
As maroon distills into purity from its ore.

City moves in chemically somnambulistic steps,
As poets of buildings large and small perplex.
Between these lines of cathartic ink,
Maroon turns into crimson,magenta or even pink.



Sunday, 17 April 2016

A Bucket Full of Rain

I collapse into the arms of rain,
As it descends from mysterious heaven,
A flowing respite from the summer’s pain,  
Making music -rhythmic and even.

I think of the could-be-muse,
Writing poems of autumn rainbows,
But they are of no use,
Even if they are about rain that flows.
No one cares for my poem, my diadem,
Unless they are written for them.

If you love the rain as you say you do,
Why do you have an umbrella open?
Drop it! Let it flow! Like a music true,
Till it fills up all that was stolen,
And then let down a bucket,
And bring up a poem.




" The poetry books are out of print, but that is as it should be if you're an Indian poet writing in English ."-Jeet Thayil in the preface of 'Collected poems'. 
Poetry is prayer for the godless people - Jeet Thayil 




It's exactly as Dylan says.
The rain is a metaphor for many things , and vulnerability is one of them.