Untitled

Say,
if you’re tried of dreaming
of all that you’ve said -
and some -

why not try dreaming of me
instead?

Just close your eyes;
and behind those silken lids,
watch me as I steal in
and steal you
off into my dreams

all of which
you have stolen
and have long since
reigned.

Untitled

i love the curve
of a woman’s belly –
that gentle roundedness
arcing just below her
belly-button and ending
just above her mons veneris.

There is something
very intriguing about
that curve - something
secretive, something
wondrous - it
peeks impishly out
and teases;
it is as if she is
trying to conceal
an astounding revelation
that is too overwhelming,
too magnificent, to be
completely concealed –

like, perhaps,
that in her,
in that gentle curve
of her belly,
she holds the orb
of the world,
the whole world,
the whole of
humankind,
the whole of
humanity.

Really

Yes,
I think I’ll start
scribbling some lines
about you
every day –

lines about you,
inspired by you,
and scrawled across
the empty lined page
of my notebook
for you;

because I feel happy
seeing the penciled lines
appear
word by word,
because I am thinking of you
in every line that materializes,
because these lines make me feel
so giddy
with adoration,
and so snuggly
with affection
for you.

At the beginning of each line,
my pencil pauses
as the your image dawns in my mind
like the emerging sun at daybreak,
smiling ever so warmly at me;
and as I end each line,
the sunbeam of your smile
is replaced by
the twinkle of your eyes,
brilliant stars at nightfall.

All right,
so I’ve been told
I am infatuated
with the image of you –
an image I’d created
of you -
and not really
with you –
the living, breathing
warm body of you;

but – you know what? –
I’ll never get as close
to you
than to you in my mind
who inspired these lines
about you,
never feel closer
to you
than through these lines
jotted down in pencil
on this lined page
for you.

Cold

It was cold today;
it is cold tonight:

I wish I had you
as my heater,
as my electric blanket,
as my hot water bottle,
as my duvet;

I wish I had you
as my snuggly sweater,
as my cuddly doll,
as my fluffy-wuffy
snuggly-wuggly
cuddly-wuddly
huggy-wuggy.

I wish I had you -
period.



Oh dear,
I’m writing such
foolish, corny, sappy
lines again -

but, listen,
I’m not blaming you -

oh no,
not at all -

I blame the cold.

Fool

All right, the joke’s on me –
I’m a fool,
a fool for you,
your fool.

But, somehow,
you bring that out
in me.

I write these lines

I write these lines so I could read
I write these lines so perhaps I could feel
I write these lines so perhaps I would feel better

I write these lines so I could convey
I write these lines so perhaps I could touch
I write these lines so perhaps I would touch you

I write these lines so I could show
I write these lines so perhaps you would show
I write these lines so perhaps you would show yourself

I write these lines so you could read
I write these lines so perhaps you would feel
I write these lines so perhaps you would feel me

I write these lines so you would read
I write these lines so perhaps you would touch
I write these lines so perhaps I could show how you touch me

Untitled

Stepping out of the stall
after a long, luxurious
hot shower, I come face
to face with a steamed up
mirror, and instinctively
reach up to scrawl your name
across the foggy pane:

A       n       n       a


I cannot see myself in
the mirror except through
each of the strokes of the
letters of your name – catching
a glimpse of my lips
curved in a smile on the
arc of an a, and the
gaze of my eyes through
the stipes of the ns.

Your name is a distinct hierogram
on the misty glass,
on which my likeness is juxtaposed,
clearer to me
than
my self
is –


is this as close as
we two can get?

I know why the blue sky makes me blue:

the sheer joy of being alive
on this beautiful day –

I cannot share it with you.

These Lips

This pair of mute lips cannot call
your name; they can only slaver,
and await your lips and touch.

Place your lips on them
and caress them with your tongue –
while they blush before, they now
burn an intense, urgent red.

A single bijou hides between
their folds, burnished with an
inner glow – yours for the taking,
an opiate to my soul.

Come,
taste me
and drink from my lips;
let your breath ignite
the smoldering flames within –

these lips may be mute, and
cannot call to you,
but they would gush

and I
would sing your name.

It

was it an accident –
was there a speck
of dust?

was it a reflex –
was there no implication
at all?

was it friendly?
was it inviting?

was it you?
was it me?

whatever it is,
whatever it means,

do it again,
do it!

one time,
two times,
three!

more?
more!

do you deny it?
do you mean it?

it means something,
doesn’t it?

doesn’t it?

is it friendship?
is it love?

is it something
in-between?

whatever it is,
whatever it means,

this is it!

you and me,
honey,

we are
it!

believe it!
believe it!

believe it.

This is written with Anna’s pen.

This pen is Anna’s.
These words are mine.

This hand holds
her pen.

Her pen holds
these words.

These words hold
Anna.

Anna holds
me.

Untitled

I watch the girl,
I see her cower and twist,
I see her struggle.
You can fight it,
you are strong,
I call out to her;
Do not let it win,
I urge.

And I watch her try to run,
try to escape the chilly,
cruel fingers that stroke
her neck, then creep down
her back and seize with
malice her
lungs and heart and
soul.

You are strong,
I continue to call;
fight it,
I urge,
fight it.

And I watch her gasp
for breath,
I see the blindness in her eyes,
I feel her heart beat speed –
I fear she would be
lost.

You are strong:
fight it,
fight it!

And I can only watch

The Queen of Hearts

The Queen of Hearts is sad.
I see her restrained smile,
her eyes betray her weariness.

She gazes into the distance
and not at me;
I wonder at what she sees,
or is trying to see,
or if she were even seeing
anything
at all.

The Queen of Hearts grasps a flower
in her left hand –
her scepter of four-petaled symmetry,
not of rule,
but of tentative offering,
of self-defense.

Her reflection is turned away
in the opposing direction,
also gazing at an indeterminate point,
as blind as she is seeing,
as fractured as she is joined.

The Queen of Hearts holds no heart
in her hand,
she holds nobody
in her gaze,
but she holds the whole world
blindly
in her fractured
soul.

Untitled

i want a pair, oh my,
oh my, i want a pair!

pretty crimson bracelets,
bright scarlet on pale wrists!

a pair, a pair!
a bracelet for each wrist!

carve them on
one by one

see them glisten
on my arms!

oh pretty, pretty bracelets,
i want a pair on my wrists!

a pretty crimson bracelet
scarlet on each wrist.

Untitled

How small you appear,
how minute,
how insignificant –
oh, yet
how you hurt and
how you pain me,
reminding with
every sharp, biting
sting
of how blind I’d been,
of how I shouldn’t have done
what I did.

Old Friend

Ours is a curious friendship.

She comes and goes as she wishes, of her own accord, in and out of my life; she has never followed anybody’s directive, never listened.

I never know when or where she’d turn up, but I’ve long ceased to be surprised.

How can I?

She has become, by now, an old friend – my old friend; and when she comes, she brings with her her enigmatic aura and her bewitching charm.

I can never resist her – not completely, by any means.

When she appears, she makes me forget about how long she has been away, and I never ask why: why she went away, why she is now back – why, to me.

I guess ours is peculiar relationship – really a strange sort of flirtation.

She and I, we attract each other.

Sometimes, this attraction frightens me - though I doubt it scares her; I don’t think there is anything at all that would scare her.

I can only guess why she goes out of my life: she loves me too much; and she comes back into my life when she cannot stand our separation any longer – she misses me as much I miss her.

I think of her when she’s gone, wonder where she’s gone, wonder when she’ll be back.

I know she will be back in my life; she always does.

She has now gone away, and I miss her so.

I imagine if one day she should suddenly appear, suddenly materialize in front me and grab me, grab me by my hair - I will not be surprised; but I wonder now how hard I would try to fight her off.

If I would try at all.

Maybe I wouldn’t.

Probably not at all.

She hasn’t visited in awhile now, but then she has always come and gone as she pleases; wilder than the wind, she blows me away to cry.

But I know – I know - when the day finally arrives that she wants me too much to stay away, must have me too immensely to care even about me, I will wake up to find my hair twisted in her grasp, her nose glancing mine, her lips a breath away, tantalizing mine …

And even if it hurts, my hair in her strong grip, my body pinned beneath hers, I will lean up to meet her, to surrender to her …

Because I want her just as much.

My eyes close.

I let her take me.



10^th April 2005
(Edited: 14^th April 2005)

I wonder

which these is worse:
to love it that you hate –

or
to hate it that you love?

An Acrostic for Damnation

Gutter-speak spewed he
of the murkiest degree;

fool that I am, I
understood not what said he, so
called he, “patrician/victorian/aristocrat woman” me –
keen of wit and observation? Well, hardly …

you, king of gutters,
ordure and of pee,
understand me here clearly:
reject I here your perverse decree -
“somethin morbid” for to write,
ersatz darkness that is erudite …
leave me the hell alone, you habitual damnation – and
fuck yourself go you for some time eonian.

Value

(for Yu, and women everywhere)

Time and again the mirror to you doth lie,
and deceitful half-truths to you would show;
all these you accept, and to them resign:
they show a woman aging, and you deem her old.

Soon think you your worth has begun to wane
and you bow your head in misery and shame;
you worry that your life’s potential is now done,
and self-pity and despair would soon you claim.

Where, you wonder, have your youth and beauty gone –
where their promise, and where their dawn?

Woman,
if through man’s eyes your Self you assess and see,
by his own prejudices would you blinded be:
your infinite potential and your true worth
would be obscured by a bleak and hopeless dearth -
all your promise and your veracity
would by his own lack overshadowed be.

Henceforth, against your own yardstick
always should you your Self measure –
for man’s standards are truly shallow and fake –

your Self is true,
your immeasurable worth should you always treasure.

An Athetesis

Sir,

My acceptance I here rescind
and previous promises I void;
the slate is now completely cleaned –
I hope you’ll not be too annoyed.

You should know – all in honesty –
I’d given my agreement impulsively.
Now that I’ve had time to think it through,
I’ve realized I’d been a fool most true.

Please take you back this gauntlet thrown
(or does it belong to yet another git?) –
yes, it is a little damp, I do admit,
but wonder not at it: for 'tis only spit.

If the shoe fits

Take a moment, sir,
and try this on for size –
are you discomfited, does it bite?
If it does – sir, the fit is right!

Dearest SH

Though your reply was short
(almost perfunctory),
you signed it off with love -

and that has made me
so happy.


                          Love always,
                          s.

Advice

(especially dedicated to The Damsel)

In every life he exists, this tedious attention ’ho,
whose life-long ambition is his astounding Wit to show.
(But while to Wit and Fame he may long kowtow,
his achievements will always fall below –
poor bastard: however much he be gung ho,
his limited intelligence we all see and know.)
Comes he into your life, you with challenges to goad
and gratuitous accusations your way he’d throw –
for, if truth be told, has he any other goal?

So you wonder, to what tribulation his appearance you owe –
what malevolent winds this malodor your way would blow?

Ah, fairest of damsels, feel not woe!
Whenever meet you this obnoxious troll,
remember this advice (and its deed in tow):

forget about paying him a quid pro quo,
it is hardly worth it - let your annoyance go –
for to irk you has been his fatuous goal.

A spirited kick to his nether parts should you bestow,
then be on your merry way, and ignore you this asshole.

Apology

I’m so sorry
my Sinister Hand
that I didn’t
even realize
You were hurt
injured -

You carried on
like it was
something
mundane -
without a single
grumble
or complain.

And when I looked
at You and
saw the
mark the
blood
I was aghast
at the injury
you’d sustained
and marveled
that You
didn’t seem to be
in
pain.

I’m so
terribly sorry –
I know how I’ve
let
You
down!

In this right-handed world
You have been
ignored -

even
disdained

but You
always
carry on
Your unsung work
and stoic silence
You maintain.

You are silent

You are
strong.

Dearest Hand
step out
now

yell
howl
growl -

let the whole world
know
that they’ve been wrong;

let those Right Hands know
You

are here
were here and
will
always
be
here.

Demand apologies

like
this apology
I’m offering
You

demand
that
everyone

repent.

Secret

I’m so glad
I let the girl
with the tufty
ponytail
go ahead of me
in the photocopy
room –

standing by the photocopier
with her back to me,
i realize she's the bearer of a secret
that only I could see:

there on the back
of her slender pale neck
inked boldly in black
is a modest symbol
that I recognize and know.

I won’t tell her –
but just so you know –

I share a sun sign
with that girl.

On the brighter side

You are halfway round the world
and I miss you so;

but I take comfort in knowing
– with you in humid New Delhi
   and I in blustery Welly –

that I’m already in your tomorrow.

absolute secrecy

even though
you
are
a thing of
beauty
I must hide you
well
from view

veiled
and shrouded
from the
disapproving
public eyes
and the
curious
friendly ones

I am sad
your beauty
will now have
to go
unappreciated
by all
but me

but don’t
you
be sad

one
day

like the

frond
of
the
fern

you
will
un-
furl

to reveal
your
whimsical
glory
in
all
its
splendor

until then

accept my
unworthy
admiration

and let these
swathes of
veil
conceal
you

for these
veils
of secrecy
and
mystique
this
enigmatic
masquerade

will
only
intensify
your
luminous
beauty



6^th - 7^th April 2005

An Afternoon with Dragonfly

I
Come, my Queen;
come, ageless Sovereign and Dream -
I wordlessly repeated,
the words running invisibly over
and over again through my mind.
Come, my Queen …

Sitting in that drowsy, sunny room,
my eyes were closed and
my head drooped,
I marveled at
how I finally understood
and experienced
the still point of the turning world
that Eliot had written about –

all around me, the insistent, incessant buzz;
and with every stroke of her electric brush
she brought me anew
to the still point of the turning world;
with every stroke,
she painted anew
moments after moments
every single moment
in the moments
in my mind -

not just once,
but over and over again
with every electrifying brush stroke,
boldly strong
or
flittingly delicate.


Come, my Queen;
come, ageless Sovereign and Dream -
I chanted over
and over again
in my mind;

and She came
and claimed me.


II
The buzz was my lullaby
as She intoxicated me.

Sometimes
when I felt She would
overwhelm me
She subsided
and left me aching
for more.

The sweetest thing,
the most intoxicating drink –
She was all that
and more.

Don’t stop!
I wanted to cry
to Dragonfly,
but bit my lips
and took what she gave,
less
or more:

I didn’t care
any
more.

Dragonfly gave her all,
I took it all
and let the Queen
intoxicate me
more
and more

and more.


III
This afternoon
in her sleepy, sunny studio,
Dragonfly
left her art,
her mark,
on me.

And when I left her,
I left
with a thing of beauty.

Someone

i like Someone
who likes someone else
who likes someone else
who likes yet someone else
who likes yet another someone else
who likes yet still another someone else …

eventually, i’m sure,
this daisy-chain of unreciprocated affection,
of liking someone,
will come back to me -
somewhere out there is a
someone
who likes someone
who likes someone else
who likes yet someone else
who likes me
who like Someone else

wouldn’t it be nice though
if i could do away with
all those someones else
    in between
so that i could finally
like someone
who likes
me?

Paradox

i am happier when i’m sad
bluer when the sky is blue

i am more sober when i’m drunk
more intoxicated without drugs and drinks

i dream more when i’m awake
feel more awake when i dream

hence

if i feel so dead now when i’m alive
perhaps i’d feel more alive
if and when i die

Beautiful thing

Beautiful thing,
it was filled to the brim;
its appearance arresting,
and its siren calls alluring.

I looked at it
every day,
but never had the heart
to sip at it.

And so the days went by.

Two weeks later now,
I still look at it,
and I still have
yet to sip at it.

It’s not that I
don’t have the heart to
- not anymore, at least -

now,
I just don’t
dare to anymore.

Untitled

Come, my Queen,
to this subject bestow Your kiss -
she has long desired this undying bliss:

this body here,
wholly willing, lithe and young,
has since been in supplication flung;

take this heart,
leave not behind its life and soul –
they seek You on each celestial pole;

these open lips
gasp wretchedly for Your breath and touch,
and beg You not this insolence begrudge.

Come, my Queen;
come, ageless Sovereign and Dream -
claim this servant from her reality grim:

place Your lips upon her trembling ones
and with a kiss, claim her for Your own,
that she may live anew in the Unknown.

Waking up on my twenty-fourth birthday

I have no idea why
I suddenly remembered
the first time a boy
held my hand.

It was that trip to Sweden,
on a coach
crowded with instruments
and noisy with teenaged
boys and girls,
like you and me.

I was sitting beside you
(or maybe on your lap)
and we were talking.

Out of the blue,
my left hand was meeting yours,
palm to palm;
we were measuring the
size of our hands
against each other’s -
it was wondrous how
mine looked so small
on yours!

Then,
without another word,
our fingers simultaneously
curled to clasp
each other’s hand,
and our conversation
ceased;

we were contented to
sit back and enjoy
the silence that had cocooned
the two of us -
happy to let
our touch do the talking.



19^th March, 3^rd April 2005

Bruised

One of the first things I said to her -
other than ‘hi’ – was:
“Do I have a bruise on my forehead?”

She might have been startled, surprised,
by the question –
maybe even flabbergasted
(as I myself was; I mean,
  it is a really asinine question) –
but her eyes dutifully flickered upwards
to where my finger was pointing at,
and she squinted at the imperceptible spot,
then said,
“No.”
(Well, at least she
  smiled at me …)

See,
that’s the thing about bruises:
sometimes, you feel the tenderness,
the pain and the ache,
and you expect to find a bruise –
but you don’t;
other times, you don’t feel a thing
until you look in the mirror
and find a vibrantly ugly, mottled bruise –
then it starts hurting,
even when you just think about it.

The bruise on my forehead was the first type -
it hurt but never quite managed to manifest itself
into the multi-hued shiner I expected;

but the bruise that Anna left me -
it is the second type.

Somehow, she has managed
very quietly,
very stealthily,
to leave a huge contusion
on my heart.

I imagine it is the most beautiful one
I’ve ever seen -
dazzlingly intense and colored
with every hue of the spectrum -

and it throbs and aches
whenever I think of her.

Untitled

Juliet’s true and final Paramour,
You were never satisfied;
Always in want of a little more,
O the Flames of Desire you ignite!

Of the seven Shades of Love,
You are the seventh and the last –
The one everybody is in awe of,
The one nobody is able to bypass.

The first is of Attraction
When two souls meet and spark,
And the second is of Infatuation
Which is sometimes dazzling – sometimes dark.

Passion is the third in line,
Both resplendently vivid and forceful;
Then comes Reverence divine
That turns each lover prayerful.

Soon it comes to Worship’s reign
And lovers beneath the pedestal revere;
But Obsession soon to power lays claim
And all the brilliance of Love’s lights disappear -

For you are next, the seventh Shade and last,
The one no lover is able to bypass -
The one most absolute and inexorable:
The final chapter, the Immortal Lust.

Juliet’s true and final Paramour,
You were never satisfied;
Always in want of a little more,
O the Flames of Desire you ignite!

Here I welcome you with open arms:
My neck is bared and my palms upturned;
I await your devastating charms -
For I always to your sovereignty return.

Here I am, all of me for you to claim,
Here I am for you to initiate into the arcane.

I worship you, my Immortal Death,
An Immortal Spirit, forever undead;
And now with my final waning breath,
Won’t you claim me on our wedding bed?



24^th Jan 2004 - 2^nd April 2005

On the way back from Akaroa (or, My Hilly Heart)

What is straight? A line can be straight, or a street, but the human heart, oh, no, it’s curved like a road through mountains.



A Streetcar Named Desire, Tennessee Williams

As you navigate your way
through the seemingly never-
ending and meandering roads,
speeding at 100kmh around the coast,
or negotiating the tricky, richly
vegetated inland tracks,
your eyes intensely absorb the views –

the broadness of the flat land
and its geometric patchwork
of various greens and browns
speckled with the white and brown
of grazing sheep and cattle,

the hills and mountains
that form an ersatz chalice into which
the clear sea spills, temporarily
obscuring its immensity;

and I wonder,
are you there yet –
will you get there?

The journey appears endless
but it is not all devoid of beauty;
and from time to time,
you stop to capture memories.

Yes, it is a rather scenic route,
and many far wiser had said much
in favor of the journey
over the arrival at one’s destination;

but, my love,
however much you enjoy the sights
and this picturesque journey,
please do not forget your destination.

The road may not always be easy
(at times it is admittedly rough)
and yes, it is never straight –
some stretches even treacherously difficult –
but do not give up before you get there:

I am waiting for you
right there –
here at the center of
my heart.



30^th March – 1^st April 2005

1st April

is the day to be April’s fool.

But I will remain a fool for April
all the three hundred and
      sixty-four days
till it is once again the day
to be April’s fool.