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>> Saturday, June 25, 2011

i am a series of snap shots
in black and white
moving as drops of water move
in straight line
unmindful of irony

there is no betrayal in my eyes
i kill time with my hands
i am always the old me
my poetry is my story

you sleep to dream
but i do not speak riddles
you smell the roses
and head to the river
they are for dead flowers

i know now why you left...
i have no patience for deep words



of fish and ferns: two (very) short stories

>> Wednesday, June 15, 2011

The boy is oblivious to the muck that found its way on his legs. Dripping ink of black for every step - and he has done many, and in double time. The slippers are a size too big, his sister's, but he didn't have time or Mama would've changed her mind like she always does at a hint of delay. He holds on to her skirt, a purposeful little hand stays hidden in a fold of summery white. 

After what seems to be an eternity, for a young mind and short legs, of navigating through a steady stream of people and palpable stench the boy tenses up. Straight ahead is where they sell live fish. Catfishes to be exact. In trays of woven hemp they squirm, writhe and glisten. The boy's eyes well up with tears, ready to pour at the slightest sign of refusal. She sighs and runs a hand over the wrinkled spot on her skirt where her son's hand had been.

The boy takes out the thread snuck from his mother's rickety sewing machine and has been keeping since the day he hatched his plan. He retrieves the cookie that he nicked from the cookie jar a week ago and goes out the back door to the garden where he had dug a hole. He places the jar that holds the catfish in cloudy water into the hole and proceeds to wind one end of the thread around the cookie. He looks around for a fallen tree limb where he could tie the other.

It is quiet outside where I sit. Only the sound of passing cars from the main street breaks the silence every now and then. Even the leaves are dead to the soft breeze. I had placed my chair on my favourite spot on the porch...the right corner which is marked by an enormous hanging plant, mother's ferns. The tendrils of the plant form  a forest of webs that filter the light from the lamppost beside the gate - creating a cascade of soft, tiny stars that rest on my face and the wall behind me. My head is rested against the wooden panel, a somber universe in the dark, and set down my cuppa on the chair's right arm. Still warm, the coffee. I inattentively flayed the peeling paint that chafed the back of my neck, rubbing the flakes between my fingers before letting them go. My fingers ran out of places to undress finally. All that is left are cold spots with dusty, grainy feel. Ahh my solitude is defined.

I was in front of the computer the whole day. Waiting for you to go online.  Surely you haven't forgotten. My heart sunk with the setting of the sun.

The phone rings 30 past midnight but it's still yesterday in your part of the world. See, I even warp time for you. But I'll be deliberate and patient about the whole thing like I was in front of the computer. Twenty steps to get to the phone, 10 seconds to curb my anxiety, on the sixth ring... 

                                                                                     Can we talk? The last time, I promise.

                                                                                     No. Let's not.

                                                                                     I may as well have fire for breath.

The phone goes dead after the fourth ring. The caller ID says it was not you who called. I look out the window at the glare from the lamppost. No ferns to soften the blow this time.




>> Saturday, June 11, 2011

one, three and nine
and all the others in between
      are limits that converge
      defining my axis 
and the burdens i keep

for they reflect time
i lost or integral moments 
      that remain after a turn
      'round the ellipse
deliberate or by fate

and six cannot separate
me from you inspite of yourself 
      for each line or curve you 
      draw traverses, cuts 
through my finite space

so what now with these 
plots, slopes and arrows straight?
      if a slight quake sets me to 
      spiral down like the 
skin of the nautilus

or do i crest the heights of 
my doom? there is no choice but
      to find the point in knowing
      that some things are
indeterminably certain

like the sound of lightning in mars



the trouble with good things

>> Thursday, June 9, 2011

paint peels
doors close
curtains drop
houses decay

fruits rot
leaves fall
flowers wither
seasons change

skin sags
eyes dim
bones break
youth fades

kisses ebb
lust mellows
whispers drown
lovers forget

dreams die
memory wanes
passion subsides
inspiration departs

ink dissolves
pages yellow
books unbind
stories end



music from movies

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