Two Poems


First published in Le Zap XVI 

Observations 

1. Metro Poem

Laden with shopping bags

this poem rides the rush hour tide

at the metro station.

Coffee in hand, a packet of sugar

gripped between its teeth, a bag

strapped across its chest, hair

struggling to escape the floral bandana,

talking relentlessly into the bluetooth headset,

it makes its effortful way into the waiting train,

leaving behind a silage of memory.

 

 

  1. Train Poem

Inside the stuffy train compartment

a woman reaches inside her blouse for the

hidden money and gives a frowning glare

to the man staring from the seat facing her,

a  little boy  gazes out of the window

with a look of wonder at the world

 unfolding before him, his sibling

toys with her mermaid length braid,

twirls it between her lips and nose

like a mustache and looks around with a

glint of mischief in her eyes, two women

inch their way through the crowd, tagging

a couple of noisy kids, find an empty seat

and settle there, wedged together like a sections

of orange, the train passes enters a tunnel

and in the dark a teenager’s face glows

in the light of his mobile, disappearing

as quickly, a man dozes off on the shoulder

of his companion who is staring at his own reflection

staring at him from the darkness outside,

an elderly man in bright red shirt adjusts

his reading glasses and buries himself

in a popular newspaper, a woman

smiles to herself as she closes the novel

she is reading, her thumb carefully marking the page,

the man in the suit, a laptop bag hanging from

the shoulder suddenly abuses loudly,

hastily lowers his voice and continues to pour

his anger into the iphone,

In Contrast, a dry, bleak lifelessness prevails

outside the window, the hellish

summer sun spitting fire, devouring all

life on earth, bare trees, barren fields,

small towns, each a glimpse and then gone.

I close my eyes, the music of the wheels goes on

clickity-clak clickity-clak clickity-clak.

My Mother – A Poem


First Published in Le Zaporogue XVI by various authors

 

My Mother

 

He sat beside me

silent as a breath

memories of that summer

wrapped in the wet crumpled tissue

that lay on his lap, his wrinkled hand

resting on the walking stick,

and then he spoke;

“Your mother’s hands were brown and soft,

just like the phulkas she made, she was

an earth woman. I often closed my eyes

when she sang, her songs rose from the

soft rhythms of the water wheel, the tinkling

of bells around the bullock’s neck, the

sweetness of the mustard flowers, and

the crackle of the wood fire of her stove, they

carried with them the scent of damp earth.

Often I would quietly slip in and listen

to her sing as she went about

doing her daily chores, her wet hair

rolled in a towel or loosely tied

in a bun with one or two tendrils

framing the face.

It was a cruel summer that year,

the river had dried and the cattle

kneeled and bowed their parched

heads to the river bed pleading

for a tickle of life, the fields

turned brown and the leafless trees

stood naked and exposed, as if

atoning to their unknown sins

under the merciless sky.

It was on such summer day I

found her hanging from the cross-beam

in the ceiling, the wood was old and

rot riddled but it held her weight

well enough. Her hair, shorn off,

lay in a jumbled pile on the floor,

next to it were the clothes she had worn,

the milk on the clay stove and boiled over

and dried, the milk bottle smashed against

the wall, the house smelled of rage,

lust and struggle. In the courtyard,

the clothesline had collapsed under

the weight of sorrow, the swing lay

dismantled and chained, a lone witness

to her shame. The makeshift hammock

hung limply from the tree,

a kind neighbour had quietly

whisked you away as the town burned.

Clasping your infant body

 like a broken doll and a

picture of your mother in my pocket,

I took refuge at a patchwork of shelters

that had sprouted on the smoldering land.

A few of us sat under a small covering

of rags, tarpaulin and sheet metal,

holding whatever was left of our

precious belongings, somewhere

a man sharpened the knife on a stone,

click clack, click clack,

the blade glistened in the dark,

another one sang, his low mournful voice

made the night bleed with absence and loss,

but the sun rose just as it always did,

bearing no sense of loss, and with it

we too rose carrying our wounded

identities and slipped into the folds

of anonymity.

A few days ago I walked through that part

of the town where I lived and loved,

where she sang her songs, our old haunts,

the old well, our ancestral home,

nothing lives there anymore,

even the ghosts have moved on,

but the river now flows to the brim and

in the fields the mustard flowers

bloom in abundance, the earth, they say,

still sings the songs of estrangement, in

memory of that summer and

 the sky pours it rains.”

Mélange


wrap the darkness around me

I want to feel its inner surface

bone cold, lustrous black liquid silk

let this night be my grave

shhh…make no noise

my wounded heart sleeps

 *************

I turned you into a poem

I could never say out loud,

But deep within me

your name is a song on loop,

love has set aflame the night in my eyes,

the purple moon rides across the rufescent sky,

there is a carnival tonight

and I am fishing for stars.

*************** 

 my body tends to remembers

things i told it to forget

like the gaze of your thumb

encircling my breast

and all the conversations 

 had in the language of 

breath, tongue and lips 

***********

wrapped in the icy warmth of silence
memories have turned green
under the empty aching blue
of your absence.
I collect your whispers and
arranged them in tight sentences (lest they flee)
try to make sense of it.
In your absence
sadness of things speaks for you.
Your abject indifference has seeped in
and taken shape of everything around me.
Words have long since turned strangers
The cell phone has turned into a paper weight. 
No, if you think I am saying all this
because I miss you, you are wrong,
One doesn’t miss oneself but
gutters too have limits when the sky pours it’s rain 

**************

 

Overwhelmed by his scent,

she throws her arms around his neck,

 draws him close,

her breasts, full nippled,

brush against his chest.

Surprised, his arms stretch forward,

his hands  gently reach for her waist.

Afternoon light streams through

the window of the barroom,

and in that moment their lips meet.

He crossed a continent to be with her.

In their imaginations, in a virtual world,

they had merged their beings for months

now close at last, they talk, they laugh

and kiss as they explore,

Soon the moment will end

and all that will remain

will be a nostalgia,

echoes of  memories and 

moments shared

in nondescript bars,

cafe, and hotels.

 (inspired by a photograph by James Goddard. ) 

Time To Rejoice- Six Poems And A Story In Le Zaporogue XVI


The sun is shining bright and Delhi is jubilant.

This is how I am celebrating. With HOT CRISPY JALEBEES. I have more than one reseon to rejoice.

The much acclaimed Le Zaporouge XVI, the latest edition of Seb Doubinsky’s annual of literature, art, photography and illustration has been published and for the fourth time I have my work included in the magazine along with some fantastic writers/artists. It is a great feeling to be recognised as a writer and I thank Seb Doubinsky ( a great storyteller and fantastic poet) for this honor.

This special edition of 289 pages include Jerry Wilson– Tara Lennart – Celina Osuna – Jonas Lautrop- Laurent Maindon – Anne Krautwald – Franck-Olivier Laferrère – Manu Rich – Marcia Marques Rambourg – Justin Grimbol – Carole Cohen-Wolf – Tikuli – Valérie Debieux – Philippe Tertrais – Simone Rinzler – David Royal – Virgil Petite-Vallée – James Goddard – Alicia Young – Olga Theuriet – Dominic Albanese- Benoît Jeantet – Donna-Lee Phillips – Jacques Sicard – Mark and Janice Van Aken Williams – Stéphane Prat – Jean-Philippe Dreillard – Agathe Elieva – Serge Muscat – Yan Kouton – Maya Byss – ShaneZooee – Matt Bialer – Andréas Becker

product_thumbnail

 

It is a must have impressive collection and  you can get Le Zaporogue XVI ( ebook PDF) as a FREE download here : ZAPOROGUE XVI

Or  for the FIRST TIME buy it in print too ( the back editions will also be available in print soon.) : Zaporogue (Paperback) 

So proud to be a part of this.  The good trend has continued from 2014 for my writing and I am hoping for more as the year ’15 progresses.

Here is an excerpt from one of my poems –

My Mother 

“Clasping your infant body
like a broken doll and a
picture of your mother in my pocket,
I took refuge at a patchwork of shelters
that had sprouted on the smoldering land.
A few of us sat under a small covering
of rags, tarpaulin and sheet metal,
holding whatever was left of our
precious belongings, somewhere
a man sharpened the knife on a stone,
click clack, click clack,
the blade glistened in the dark.”

Do read the rest of the poem and many more poems and stories that I enjoyed reading in this edition. Do give us your feedback.

Follow the FB PAGE by clicking on this link.

To know about more of my online and print publication click HERE 

My Debut Poetry Collection turned ONE this January you can read about it HERE 

Once more Thank You Sebastian Doubinsky for giving me the opportunity to share my work.

A Surgery, Some Good News and A Short Blog Break


A very happy new year to all my friends and readers.

Sorry I have been missing since so many days. I had a surgery for retinal detachment on 1st of Jan. How did I manage that? Well, I guess I manage to do the impossible more than the mundane :p I am thankful and glad that it was timely detected and corrected by one of the finest doctors.

I began the new year with a new sight and vision. My right eye (the one which was operated upon) is healing beautifully though it still looks kind of vampirish. :-D  I am on a short blog break but will get back to regular blogging very soon.

Meanwhile , there is some good news I wish to share.

Three of my poems got published in  Silent River Film and Literary Society Magazine called Life And Legends .

Here is an excerpt from one of them:

“I am visible and not visible,
present and absent, existing
and not existing. Thoughts
merge, ideas coincide, the
universe continues to evolve.

I, in a shifting reality, lose all
control, just as a poet does,
when he disappears into the
morass of his own words.”

I thank Kalpna Singh Chitnis for this honour. Thank you Kalpna for this perfect year end gift.

 

Another good news followed the publication in the form of BlogAdda Best Posts of 2014.

 

You And Me- Gratitude was selected as one of the best posts of 2014 by BlogAdda Spicy Saturday Edition.

 

Thank you BlogAdda for this honor. This really means a lot to me.

 

I shall resume regular blogging in a few weeks so till then keep smiling and keep me in your thoughts.

Once again thank you for always being there, for the love and support.

Onward we go.

PS- please ignore the typos as my good eye is still very sympathetic to its partner. Sometimes it just gets too emotional and loses focus. :)