Wednesday, August 24, 2011


Even after we left
I know
our laughter remains
clinging to the underside
of the desks.
echoing, rebounding
increasing in volume, in madness
my infinite memory.


Fan on the slating roof
prattles to itself
and continue its complacent
one-foot dancing.


Dawn created indigo shadows
spattered over the pebbled ground
phenomenal things occurred
with every breath the day took.

shadows in sprawling patterns,
in strange ways
finding connections
to the ground it lay upon.

inanimate, intangible coincidences
the ways of the universe

the wind made a leaf laugh
it grows yellow, mellow
dries and dies.

In my head is a dead butterfly
iridescent powder from its wings
filling the fissures and folds.


Come taste my hurt
feel its depth
the congealed blood

touch my wound
the pain within.


Remembrance is a tricky area – a shape-shifting mass of grey mist reflecting at once a dove, a bowl of soup, a cat’s furry paw or the delightful last page of a book – all passing over a pool of still recollections.

Sometimes all I remember is a rush of smells, a long forgotten flavor or a maddeningly familiar texture.

Photo: Leaning against my Dad's old Rajdoot on a Christmas morning about 20 years ago.

A Poem Wish

At times I wish I could-
turn myself into a dryad
and in the heart of winter, hide

weave from there
the poetry of spring.

Some of Us

Some of us have lost our minds
they lay abandoned on sidewalks
and freeze until they implode or crack.
like toys left out in the rain
faces bleached, clothes covered
in goblin excrement
their souls stolen by the cowering storms.

Some of us never find them again
They lay there, blue
running from their eyes
a grief-stricken blue rivulet
streaming down their rosy cheeks.

Some of us don’t want new minds
so we lie under the garbage piles
and see another kind of dream
of nylon hair and plastic limbs

a trapped sigh,
a silent tongue.


Each word you say
is a key that manipulates
the complex mechanism
of my love.


I believe if mushrooms could speak
it would narrate the tale of the rain.

the secret language of spores
of the infinity of things.

Picture: Trees at Fort Cochin


My need spins a disgusting snare
around you and your symbols
my love,
my allegory.

Photo: One year back on a rainy day at Varkala Beach, Kerala. Photo courtesy: Superfuzzy


She laughed with an odd bitterness
of an Eve banished from paradise
before she could taste the apple
before she could taste her Adam.

her hair, premature grey
under the bloated moon, shone
the grey strands like alliterated verses
between a long ballad.

A piece of sky melted,
and in her eyes merged
where a thousand mad moths
danced to an invisible melody
a flame in the storm.
distant, frenzied.

and suddenly she smiled, golden tongue
flicking over a pomegranate mouth
I realized that
she needn’t taste Adam,
nor the apple

because she had tasted the angels.


specters of dead wings
shrieked in the air