birthday

Your love for me
Is as natural
As the parabola of the wires
Between electric poles.

I have found
True love.
You are more happy
Of me in this world
Than me.

Torrential Rain

Today,
We ate in silence.
We walked in silence.
We watched Cinderella in silence.
I read and she translated,
in silence.

We were not fighting.
We did not have a fight.
We were not about to have a fight.

This silence was not growing
But comforting.
We went on in silence
Each confident in the We.

The longest summer

We, you and I,
adjust to telephones.
Speaking, listening,
Sighing, longing.

Not that
They were ever complete;
Making the wait
Interminable.

Your writing
speaks to me.
I can hear your voice,
the certitude of your tone.

Each day ,
I make plans.
New ones,
Combining, conceiving.

I think
What will I do
When I meet you
After all these days
Rushing, running,
In a frenzy,
Thinking everything,
Fearful
Of forgetting plans
Or
Numbed into completeness;

One evening, in the whiteness of my dining space

Somewhere, I stopped looking outside the window
I bought a television.

I forgot the smell of fresh air,
the shrillness of unedited sounds.

My story
became my photo gallery.

Shifting homes,
I found my stable equilibrium.

Electricity cut

Darkness
engulfs the house.
The phone has died
for the dying light of the torch.

The insane world of algorithms
have collapsed
like a heap of
unreceived messages.

You and I
are finally alone,
unplugged,
offline.

Its been long
since I played
Pink Floyd.

Our conversations
sans faces
in the darkness
are like on the telephone.

Electricity should go more often,
albeit in winters,
And, you are right,
inverters are useless.

My tea portrait

i love you the most
when I pour
the cup of tea
for you

you are busy
on your mobile
not looking
at me.

I find
myself
the most rhythmic
in pouring your tea.

you can
even drink it cold,
doesn't matter,
you are immersed.

I love you
even in your forgetfulness.

Our favorite word - Everyday

Somewhere,
I fell out of writing.
I was not thrown out.
I receded.

I was talking,
but not to anyone in particular.
I became a measurement tape
of my voices.

I met you
with the certainty of Haley's comet.
As if, always preparing
for the grand sighting.

I talked to you,
incessantly,
as if in the
Eternal sunshine of spotless mind.

I changed,
see even my handwriting has changed.
My diction, the line of my vision ,
the S shape of my spinal chord changed.

We speak in different voices
but the same tone.
Somewhere, while walking cities,
our speeds of walking synchronized.

Somewhere,
I started liking soup
and, you started
going for movies.

Somewhere, the law of attraction

also became the law of gravitation.

Untitled poems

have you lost something?

something that's asleep now,
like in a stupor,
forgotten,
curled up,
knee in mouth;


yes,its time itself.

Making pictures,
incomplete pictures,
not that color,
not that sound,
not the people,
not the city,
not the swoon,
not that fearlessness.

Memory makes me smile,
gives me the greatest of pains.

mojave

It is gurgling
at some distance
like a swift stream
rushing down the rapids.

I don't know
for sure;
what's determined
has no color.

Nobody is
greater than time.
It flows,
an unknown force.

Just raindrops
making slimy dents
into the loose soil.

the rain that occured
yesterday,
seeped into the earth,

taking the abandoned
leaves into the ground;
something seems subdued,

maybe it was the invisible din,
something is sublime, new,
washed off the dust.

When poetry starts becoming pastiche,what should one do?

Raw,natural,
wild,untamed,
rough,
unrelenting,
forceable,
rushing,leaping,
climbing,
eyeing

into darkness.

however,whatever,where ever

Staring at the wall,
you suddenly close your eyes
too tightly
for any light to penetrate.

You build darkness
in the light,
fool yourself
listening to the invisible,
inaudible rain.

sometimes

sometimes,
walking down the empty
road on a hot afternoon
a dust storm takes you in
and you're helpless.

The spirit is all knowing

Running like a wild dog on

the worn out roads of countryside,

I search for the rain,

search for the visions

of you and spring.

Its dry as a desert.

Huge mirages with 

no oasis.

The spirit in us

is silent, thirsty,

waiting to go

home.

I write this,

my spirit being

nostalgic.

Some cities refuse to die

Some cities don't die.
They refuse to.
It just appears
to be dying,
in permanent decay.
This small town
I was born in,
its one of those.

The air is
heavy here,
each whiff
filled with
memories.

The decay is
forever here;
crumbling walls,
many lakes-
vestiges
of ancient Kingdoms-
names,temples,
forts
fading into
obscurity.

Unlike big cities,
children still play
cricket here.
Football is an outsider.
Dialects, people,
weather, predicaments
refuse to change.
The decay set in
long, long back.
So long,
nobody can trace
how long.

The city I was
born in
refuses to die.
It appears elegiac
when Sun sets in
evenings on
one of the many lakes.

A beautiful breeze
filled with music
reverberates
through each night,
refusing to die.

Haiku-I

Rivers at the foot
of mountains
streams always, like blood.

Never running dry,
its sad, happy,
stoic, meditative.

The valley
thick with forests,
sunbeams like spotlights.

Dust dancing,
like dazed drunken
actors of a bankrupt company.

I find strange
noticing these,
unlikely of me.

But, your presence
makes me
nuanced, subtle.

Nothing but dust

We are nothing 

But dust in the end.

All this to achieve immortality;

All the throat cutting.

Few will remember you

As light in their lives.

Those, whom you gave darkness

Will forget you, happily.

We are nothing 

But dust in the end.

Untitled

I am alone
in this crowd.
People do talk
to me
but fail
to converse
with me.

I know
its cliched.
when the world
does not
understand you.


I want to
swim
in the
great oceans
with no
islands
and
no Sun.

But,
I don't know
how to swim.

Moon in the River

I want to
drown
in silence
of  a river.



Wind makes the bamboo
bow and scratch
the river's surface.

The moon
in the river
is rippled.

River,
in its rush,
takes a few boughs,

moon
is blemished,
its face scratched.


Wind subsides.
Bamboo rises,
moon is full again.

Obviously, its difficult to understand

Grey Sky.
Remote Clouds.
Feigning rains.
Unbearable heat.

Sadness of summers
laden with dark clouds.
Growing heavy
each passing moment.
Two people refuse to talk,
sitting abreast.
Due to very trivial reasons.
Cloud growing.
Silence like raindrops
making it heavy.
Poised to come down.
Two people are the
dumbest of all,
refusing to talk.

One pigeon
doesn't know
where to shit.
Pigeon bubbled
the cloud from
its beak.

One man is bad.
Why God gave him
eyes, he can't understand.
I don't blame the pigeon.
Only, he should time the shit better.
Like on the eyes of a
man, who is bad.