Tuesday, March 13, 2012


the prisoner of a heart,
the conqueror of a body,
sauntering in the garden of life,
how complex are your thoughts?

A languid slippery street
of useless thought.
But do your wits urge you
to frame that scene
against your acumen?
Why do you waste so much time
 in contriving ways to arrest time?
Are you a fossil of a moment lost?

Time and again you burn
in your internal flame,                                           
emerge like a wingless bird
on a windless flight.
Are you searching for clarity in those clouds?
Does your wanderlust lead you
to some kind of truth?

When you imagine beauty, is it confined to the world?
Or is it an endless stream of lucid dreams?
When you create your magnum opus,
will you be brave enough
to give it your whole heart
and yourself dissolve into its reflection?

When you see people shuffling
in their sundry dyes,
do you struggle to see things
in black and white?
Every day the twilight disperses
a virgin palette,
and you laugh at the brevity of life.
Tell me, sir, has your life been your art?
A shimmering souvenir for inspiration?

Do you see art?
Plunge your sensations in the sieved form?
Or do you marvel at the fact
that you can witness it,
and that it is you,
and you are.

Or do you paint the eyes of your mind
and walk on?

Monday, March 12, 2012

In the land of my father,

there are landscapes
sculpted with summery imagination,
there is life
stemming out of scattered shingle,
antiquity in its breath
that become textures in cities colored bright.

I count the lands that I have seen
and those from your eyes
through the tales you’ve told me,
I will only have to count the stars
festooning the sky
to count the hearts
that you have touched.

Seated under my trophies, you asked-
What use is a flute without a song?
A body out of character?
Answers without deeds,
And it is only now
that I have found
my slight life’s meaning
written almost lyrically
in them.

In the land where you parted
with your wear ,
we slipped into your attire
with straight backs
and humble heads.

We were the birds
who carried your shroud
with brave eyes
letting our hearts
cry some diamonds
as we held on to your
bare spirit.

We let it steer our stories
today, tomorrow and forever,
as we attempt to grow as tall
as the great outlines you set
and call it triumph
if we could
by our end
become a wisp of your impression.

Saturday, January 7, 2012

A Weakness

He did not pass a glance
when he arrived,
with a body
and a beating heart.
I saw him
shaking hands,
and opening his mouth
to laugh that laugh.
From afar
he saw my back.

He came around with an empty glass,
softly sighed,
made me cognizant
of the controlled movements
of my own chest.
I poured some wine,
to raise the fire
in my mind.

It led us out
of the masquerade,
and for a while
he followed the trail
of some star
in his head.
When the distance of the star
became excruciating,
he came closer
to me.

He spoke
in a language I did not understand.
With every pensive look
he committed,
my skin slightly jumped
and danced.

There was gloom in his stories
and life in his eyes.
We wove
a memory,
and shared
a smile.

we ran out of the pleasant
too soon.
His hands were clean,
and face flawless.
there was
a button less
on his fancy coat,
inefficiently masked
like the clique
we had run away from.
It was such
a tragic mask,
I feared
it might have no color.
That it might be
as pure
as white.

The wind turned West.
Under the plastic tree,
he clicked his tongue
and I shook my head.
We concurred
on a change of scene.

He saw
right through me
when he shut the door.

That there was 
an inferno
scampering down my arms
even in my stillness
and especially
in the insincere censure,
moist greet
on my lips
that I was keeping warm
for words not to be said.
I let
his fingers say phrases
on my neck.

Then he moved the air
And the air moved me.