Friday, December 23, 2011
Monday, December 19, 2011
Friday, December 16, 2011
The moon is half dead and all the ships are sunk
Returning, like a squirrel in snow – watched closely by the stars,
You listen to the mountains as they sing out your grief
And you listen to the leaves as they chant out your cold wrath.
You are returning home now.
Aware of the inevitability of flesh,
With memories of the empire toppling before your eyes
and recollections of faces that haunt the pale shadow of your feverish dreams,
You feel like a spirit lost in the ancient forest –
trapped by oaks that stand like astute sentries;
You see the last gods departing from the realm which was yours once,
You hear the dirge of your fellow-losers,
You run from the frozen wind as it shoots sharp arrows at your withering ribs,
And you know that all is lost.
And you know that you, who had left home in search of gold,
who had ran wild through the seven seas like forest-fire,
who had sailed beyond where the light meets darkness,
who had the sun and the moon and the world by his side for a while –
had found what you sought to find,
and had gambled it all away.
You are returning home –
Naked, burnt and destroyed.
Were the stakes too high?
Did they draw faster than you?
A serpent raises its hood and hisses from inside your hollow,
and the night bleeds for you;
And, as you beat your retreat,
waiting, for the thunderbolts to strike you down,
and for all your hatred to engulf the world –
you reach a river – and you see a strange boat
that shall carry you across for a dime.
But you have no dime, and so you kill the boatman
and you row across to the other side –
that you have not lost.
It back comes to you – like a rapture that floods the veins of a dead man who springs up
from his grave and rushes to light –
the strength to live.
Now you know that you have nothing more left to lose
And you know that your children will grow up to become strong and brave –
And they will gamble once again.
And perhaps, they will win.
And thus, we carry the crosses of our fathers and mothers –
through the squall and the tides,
through a million dazzling strokes of lightning,
through visions of rainbow trapped doom,
through put out candles beside pianos,
through music choked off by gunshots,
through flowers eaten up by black insects,
through revolutions twisting the rubik’s cube time and again,
through hoisted skirts pulling us to the mark,
through silently suffering prisoners bound by blood and chromosome,
through greed, caprice and wisdom,
through toasts raised to the fervent mortality of being,
through the worship of instincts leading to pain and bodhi,
through the cobwebbed void in which we are doomed to keep on swimming,
and through the consummation of acceptance,
we carry them.
And we place our cards, just like our great ancestors did,
hoping to win.
If we win,
we raise the stake and we decide to deal once more.
And if we lose,
we hand out our burden to our children
dreaming of their future victory.
And our children do the same thing when their turn comes.
Chandradhar, I salute you –
Not because of your bravado or vanity,
But because you managed to pull your ace out when it mattered most.
you knew it while you were doing so.
The strange thing is that, in your case, your children actually managed to win.
But that is beside the point.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
This is a wasteful, tiring day, and i have seen many like this
Same old everything, doorbells ringing once a while
Thinking of how my father and mother will always be within whatever i see and how i see it,
given the fact that the i came out of him and swam through her to find my nest inside,
and of how i slept in the darkness – my last unencumbered sleep.
And thinking of faces i have seen before,
Of the desirability of warmth from the senses
Of how i want to watch a soothing movie with Florence Nightingale some day
Of women i love and of women i want to love.
It’s not ennui or staying up all night and drinking that makes me this,
And it’s not carrying time like a crucifix or a pushing gigantic rock uphill only to see it roll down
These things have their strange way of slithering their way in
The worst part of living is just this, ‘being here’
And the worst thing about leaving is to see your faithful dog staring at you until he becomes a part of the horizon.
No new music in the laptop, feeling too lazy to get aroused at anything
And here i am.
And the weatherman just said that it might rain in the evening
That will surely make the night sadder than the day
Just like the moon is sadder than the sun.
Are you reading Bukowski right now, just like i am?
Are you scribbling your thoughts down?
Are you gaping at the splendour of ugliness as well?
Are you as ugly as i am?
I haven’t seen you since the day i left you by the fountain
You were reading a book, with pictures of sunflowers in it
And the previous night when you fell asleep after we made love
I saw the moon pouring down on your forehead
I kissed you forehead, i remember
And i slipped a letter inside the book which you had planned to read by the fountain
the next day.
But that day, i.e., the day i left you, you took a different book with you.
I loved your whims.
And so i left you.
One has to leave what one truly loves.
Did you read my letter?
I haven’t seen you for a long long time
I miss you and i miss the tiny mole between your breasts
And i miss the poster of Al Pacino which you had gifted me once and which i have lost.
But the best part is that, i miss your ugliness
That was what drew me to you, because it reminded me of myself
My mother was beautiful, but, unlike her, you were ugly
That’s why i loved you as much i love you.
Conspicuous, like flesh, we walked down the dark corridors
And we fought with open knives
And we drank, and our remorse was far too great to hang on to
And our heads were filled with every bit of junk we had fed ourselves
And one day, it was time to leave
So we shook hands, and we left
And then, when the entire city got flooded
We met, once again
You were with your girl
I was with my dog.
The girl and the dog died halfway through
And we knew that we had no destination to reach
However, our paths were different.
And so we parted again,
And we shook hands once again.
From my poetry
Revealed to me
And what else can i say?
Tell me more.
If you’re my mother, i shall fear my words
If you’re the empress of my adolescence
I shall refuse to bow to you
But if you’re the dark i aim to reach some day
I don’t know what i’ll do.
Maybe i’ll kneel down to pray
Or maybe i’ll attack the stars with my dagger.
The germ that caused my illness
can be found everywhere
From bleeding skies, burning cities, from bombers who cry and poets who kill without remorse
From drawn up curtains and from skirts pulled up
From vast and vacuous spaces inside our thoughts
That germ can creep up from anywhere, anytime
And once it infects its victim – things start getting bleak and dry
Words become desires and desires become words
And then, one day, the transformation is complete
And you can’t make one from the other
And things get serious.
And when the great doctor comes, you see him and you know that he can cure you
But you don’t want to get cured
And so, the sight of him standing there and staring at you
But he persists. It’s his duty to do so.
You expect the doctor to pull out a nasty looking syringe from his bag
But he merely walks up to your window and throws it open
And he points outside –
As you look, despite your reluctance, you see that all the people outside are suffering from the same disease.
you get mad at the doctor
and you get ready to punch him –
But by the time you turn to him
You don’t find him there
He has left the building.
Or maybe he never came.
And then you look out again to find all the people smiling at you
‘surely you are happy, aren’t you?’ – they’ll ask
Surely you are happy, and so are they.
They never had any disease, and neither did you.
In extreme cases, you can blind yourself before the doctor arrives
But the moment everything gets dark, the germ dies out on its own.
So, as you can clearly see, you are bound to get fixed,
or the other.