This is not poetry

This is not poetry,
nor is it meant to be –
but what is poetry anyway?

Is it the breath of your feelings,
the song of your thoughts;

or is it the realization of what
should have, and was meant to,
remain abstract?

This is not poetry –
it was never meant to be;
this is a recording of thoughts
as they come to me.

About A Girl

When it comes on now, I think of you,
and remember the first time I realized
you weren’t just another teenage boy
who played juvenile pranks
such as sneaking up behind me
and giving my pony-tails a strong tug,
or stealing my school bag and
making me chase you around the school
before you’d return it.

That afternoon,
a whole bunch of us had gathered
in somebody’s living room,
chatting, joking, and laughing;
you picked up the guitar
and started playing
something I didn’t recognize then.

But at that moment,
when I looked at you,
the usual cheeky grin you wore
was gone
as you concentrated on the chords
you were playing, in the midst of
the din of chatter and laughter
around you.
Your face – for the first time,
I saw you serious.

I looked at your arms
cradling the guitar,
and then I noticed your hands,
as if for the first time.
Your hands …

I couldn’t take my eyes off your hands.

There and then I realized:
those were the hands of a man.

Romanticizing

I wallow in my
own filth and stench,
chain-smoking,
a mug of single-malt whisky
clutched in the hand
that trails ash
on my keyboard
as I type frenetically,
seized by a madness and frenzy
my two-fold intoxication
has induced,
stopping only to suck hungrily
on a fag or light another,
gulp down another mouthful
of aged Scotch or pour myself
another three fingers:
I am a poet and writer

and I would die young.

untitled

the music is turned on so loud
because i am not sure
whether i didn’t want to hear myself
or I didn’t want to hear everything else

Disgruntled

After drawing an almost complete blank
       on google.com,
I decided to give the Wellington Yellow Pages
       a shot.

The listing went from ‘Wineries & Vineyards’
       to ‘Wiper Equipment’
without a pause.



Where are the fucking Wings?!

Untitled

The Confessions of a Mask
the Thirst for Love suppress,
welcome Forbidden Colors
and The Sound of Waves address:
“Death in Midsummer
does Spring Snow bring
that Acts of Worship impede not;
The Decay of the Angel notwithstanding,
amidst Runaway Horses comes hope singly
to worship at The Temple of Dawn.
The Sailor Who Fell From Grace with the Sea
to Sun and Steel must now submit,
and face his verdict After The Banquet.”

The Temple of the Golden Pavillion remains
in Silk and Insight shrouded;
while in his eternal resting place
the mangled author’s face stormily clouded.

Chronic Liar

… oh, I suppose you get used to it.
Yeah … you will, sooner or later,
and then it won’t matter anymore –
you stop noticing it.

Actually, I think it’s good;
being on your own is good for you –
it builds character.

What – finding a partner?
Oh no …

I don’t think about that anymore.
I mean, I’m so used to being on my own,
you know?
I think I’d have a hard time adjusting
    to having a constant companion.

I’m used to caring for myself.
Besides, I don’t think I have
    the capacity to care for
    someone else.

Honest.

Untitled

I have beautiful hands
decorated by the stain of mehndi;
I can’t stop admiring them.
I hold them up, showing them off.
People would look at my hands –
strangers on the street.
I know they must be thinking to themselves,
what pretty patterns, what beautiful hands;
they might have even wanted to ask me about
my beautiful mehndi-ed hands.

Yesterday in class, Sonja stared at my hands.
I think she was mesmerized by them –
the intricate spirals and curls
of a reddish-brown tint on my pale hands.

These pretty mehndi prints will soon
       fade away -
why didn’t you look at them?

untitled

Carpe diem
seize the day

cries one
whom the night
has seized

Carpe diem

Chicken and Chips

I woke up thinking about them,
craving them.

I decided I’d get up, clean up,
have a light breakfast
and coffee –
coffee –
I’d run my errands
then I’d buy some chicken and chips
for my lunch.
(And maybe a couple of sausage rolls
for tomorrow’s breakfast.)

I had it all planned out:
I knew what I was going to eat
and when I was going to eat it.

Best laid plans?

How was I to know
I wouldn’t feel like chicken and chips
now that it is time for lunch?

Damn plans.

I’m Sorry

I’m sorry
you said,
quietly, softly.

For what?
I tried for nonchalance
but sounded curt.

That you guys had to see me
in this state
you continued.

I didn’t look at you.
I didn’t answer you.

I wanted to say
I’m sorry
you had to go through
what you did.

I wanted to shout
Stop apologizing!
It’s not your fault,
it’s not your fault,
IT’S NOT YOUR FAULT.

On Her Wedding Day

The mehndi adorning your graceful hands –
that is what I wish I were,
that is what I want to be.

So when people look at your beautiful
bride’s hands, they’d see my stamp
on you - the stain of crushed henna leaves
a transient allegory of our
once timeless bond.

I am only human,
and am neither noble
     nor enlightened;
therefore I cannot truly wish
for the tint of your mehndi
to be as dark as the kajal
lining your eyes,
or for it to be
forever unfading -
the consequences of which
I cannot and will not
be able to bear.

For seven births now
you will be his;

now for seven births
I will have to wait
for you.



19^th – 20^th March 2005

Birthday Rants and Grouses

I
I stumble upon no profound realizations,
I hold out no improbable expectations;

it’s just another ordinary day -
come natural calamities or whatever may.

So I turn another year older -
this doesn’t make for earth-shattering news fodder.


II
Why celebrate birthdays?
Why with a cake?

Why the lighted candles –
why, for goodness sake?

Of celebrations, they are a perversion -
an exercise in utter humiliation.


III
Candles on the cake –
There are so many of them
I can’t see the cake.


IV
Happy birthday to you
Hell-on-earth day to you
Every worst day to you-ou
Happy birthday to you!


V
Dining and wining,
candle-lighting and birthday-cake cutting -
what exactly are you celebrating?

My expulsion from the womb so many years ago today -

or
my being one step closer to the grave?



18^th – 19^th March 2005

On the Eve of Turning Twenty-Four

I think
it is time
I stop keeping score.

untitled

I can’t say -
I can’t seem to say -
I can’t -
I can’t seem to –
what was it I –

words –
no,
thoughts –
the words,
they are on the
tip
of
my
tongue -

they will come

I want to tell you -
I want to tell you –
I want to say to you –
I want to say –
I want –

I –
you –

you.

An Acrostic for a 23rd Birthday

To You:

Color the world with the vision of a seer, and
hearken to the wild winds’ overtures;
indulge yourself in all known earthy pleasures, and
have yourself a kick-ass twenty-third year.

An April Valentine

Be my April of sweet showers, and
       pierce my March’s drought,
be my April of the cruelest month, and
       breed lilacs out of my dead land;

be my April of the recurring beauty, and
       babble and strew flowers –
you are Gaia’s beauty
and that’s purpose enough.

A diamond or a daisy,
I want to be yours;
especially as a Fool,
I want to be yours.

Be my April –
won’t you please be mine?

To The Girl Sitting Beside Me in the Lecture Hall (I Don't Even Know Your Name!)

Just sitting next to you gives me the tingles
(I don’t even know your name!),
hearing the occasional sniffle you make
or the slow exhalation of your breath
makes me aware of being alive
(I don’t even know your name!);
the heat emanating from your body next to mine
keeps me warm in the drafty lecture hall,
your picking up (and putting down) of your pen
makes me take more note
than the lecture you’re taking notes of
(I don’t even know your name!);
your slow packing of your bag after every lecture
makes me wish I’d emptied out the contents of my bag
       before every lecture.

Leaving the lecture hall without having learned anything
       about you,
without having been offered your friendship,
without you beside me –
without you –
makes my steps slow and heavy with melancholy.
(I don’t even know your name!)

To be seated next to you is the reason
       I unfailingly attend every lecture …

Wait a minute - am I having a crush on you?
I don’t even know your name!

Damn You

You shouldn’t have gotten a trim,
you shouldn’t have dyed your hair
      in such an intense auburn,
you shouldn’t have worn your shades
      like a hair-band.

You shouldn’t have walked in front of me,
you shouldn’t have held the door for me,
you shouldn’t have let me seen your pale forearm
      and the blond hairs on it
      (you should have remained a blond -
      or a Goth).

You shouldn’t have gone from The Crow to
      The Birdcage,
you shouldn’t have started looking like
      a gender-bender.

You shouldn’t have gotten me started
      lusting after you -

this is all your fault,
damn you.

Salman Khan at the Curry Takeaway

Having given my order
to the man behind the counter,
I proceeded to take a seat
and was prepared to wait,
when – lo, and behold! –
there was Salman’s visage,
smiling debonairly,
and his brawny chest,
shirted so demurely,
right in front me!

Larger than life
there he appeared,
sporting his Tere Naam hair extensions,
in a crinkled black shirt,
and seemingly devoid of pretensions.

Sallu, ah, Salman,
I’d have been undone -
would’ve done anything
   to have you in my hands –
I’d have made such
   unreasonable demands;
or, if snubbed
in any way at all,
I’d have ripped you apart,
right off the wall …

Oh my, the things I would’ve done -
to think what I might’ve begun -
I could’ve ended up in a police van …

Thank goodness I’m not at all your fan!



9^th – 11^th March 2005

Untitled

I dream in pictures and sensations
but have to write with words

I feel with every breath and heartbeat
but have to write with words

Is it any wonder I can never express
who I see and how I love?

Dilemma

The unexpected
is what is not expected;
the expected
is what is.
But, suppose you expected
   the unexpected,
would you then not expect
   the expected?
Or would you have expected
   everything
   (expected and unexpected),
so that all your expectations
leave no room for the unexpected,
no room for any surprises,
no room for anything but expectations
which bring only disappointments …

Would you have expected that?



9^th – 11^th March 2005

Very Simply

Why the day is beautiful

The sun is up,
the sky is blue,
the breeze dances;
I think of you.



Why I’m warm on a cold day

The sky is grey,
the cold winds churn;
I dream of you
and then I burn.



How I stay happy

Lots of coffee,
lots of candy;
lying in bed,
you beside me.

The view from the library

From the library where it’s quiet
and still
and calm,
I watch the bustle in Civic Square,
where it must be raucous with chattering
and alive with excitement
and very, very windy.

If I had the words,
I’d describe the colors of
  the stilt-walkers’ costumes
and their diaphanous wings,
the chessboard-like group of school-children
uniformed in yellow and green
having their lunch on the grass;
if I had been out there,
perhaps I could then describe
the warmth of the sun and
the strength of the wind,
the songs the band is singing,
and the smoky, delicious aroma
of onions and hotdogs cooking
  on the barbeque.

But I’m in the library
where it is quiet and still,
save the muted rasps of turning pages,
watching it all;
and, but for the view,
I can only try and imagine
what it is like out there.

The lady with the tortoise-shell slide

has a ponytail bouncy with curls;
she is tall,
and has lovely long legs
clad in black pants.
She might have been beautiful –
maybe even stunningly gorgeous –
but I never got to see her face.

Like, you?

… like, no, no, I’m not like that;
Like, I’m trying - okay? - to speak like you
lah.

What?

What accent?
What?
Like, I normally speak like this
one mah.

Oh come on!

Yo, don’t go ’round calling me names like that –
I mean, like, take a look at
yourself in the mirror, buddy;
like, check out the color of, like, your hair …
(like, pot callin' the kettle black, I say)
like, “fashion”, my ass.

Like, I’m not blind, you know –
I can, like, see your sneer –
and, like, what are you – a coward?
Don’t mutter!
If you have, like, anything to say,
say it to my face.

What, like, you think I don’t know
you’re really talkin’ ’bout me
when you talk about “this guy I know”,
or that “so-and-so”?

Like, why am I even bothering to explain myself?
Fuck off, asshole;
I don’t owe you an explanation.
Hell, like, why am I even tryin' to speak like you?

Forget it.
You are the snob here,
you are the fucking hypocrite.

Like,
go fuck yourgoddamnself.

Untitled

i think,
maybe i’m happier
standing by the river-bank;
maybe i’m happy enough
to dip a toe in the river
from time to time –
even just once;
maybe the tiny happiness
a glistening, wet toe brings
  will remain
even after the water has dried off;
maybe i’d be happy
to just remember the fleeting happiness
of having once dipped my toe
in the river;

maybe that would be
enough.

i wish i were a cloud

i’d let the breeze whisk me away
      from place to place,
sometimes gliding at a lazy pace,
sometimes in an exuberant rush;
when i’m happy,
i’d do a happy little dance,
creating a kaleidoscope of light and shadow,
so people would see the pretty patterns
and feel my joy;
when i’m sad,
i would wail noisily and sloppily, or
i could quietly weep, almost silently,
and i wouldn’t feel embarrassed
or guilty after my tears are spent
because i know people would start
to worry, after a while, if i didn’t cry;
if i were a could,
people would look at me
and see what they want to see –
i could be a dragon or a rose,
or the face of someone they love and miss –
but they wouldn’t forget what i really am;
as a cloud,
i’d be transient but beautiful;
anyone who tries to catch hold of me
will go away empty-handed;
even if they thought they’d touched me
for the briefest moment,
they’d soon realize i could never be captured,
and that the almost-imaginary touch they took
would be the closest they’d ever get to me;
i’d be happy because i’d never be caught
by any one person,
but i’d feel sad if it were someone
i wanted to be caught by;
but then as a cloud,
i’d be able to cry my heart out
and not feel ashamed of my tears –
i think that’s the main reason
i wish i were a cloud.

In-Waiting

i’d been waiting
for the longest time
my entire life, in fact
i’d been waiting for you
to find me

i’d thought
once you’ve found me
i’d be rescued
i’d be saved
even though
i’ve no idea
what from

maybe
i’d been waiting for you
to find me
and rescue me
from myself
to save me from me

because i’d built
such vast barricades
around myself
i’d became lost
lost in me
lost
to myself

maybe
i was hoping for you
to extricate me
and release me
to steal me from myself

but all those years
all that time
that i’d spent waiting
that i’d just waited and waited
they seemed for nothing
because you never came
and you never found me
never rescued me
never freed me

and whilst i’d been waiting
i’d became even more lost
more hopelessly barricaded
within the prison of myself

all those years
all that time
that i’d spent waiting
that i’d just waited and waited
i began to wonder if you’d ever arrive

maybe
you never would
and never will
and

maybe
you don’t exist at all
and never did

but i did
and still do

maybe
i should’ve waited for me

because
even if i didn’t turn up
i’d still have existed
even if i’d never lived

or
maybe
i was really waiting
not for you
but for me

maybe
i’d been waiting
for me to find myself
to free myself
all along

and

maybe
all the while i’d been waiting
i was really in-waiting



4^th – 5^th March 2005

Sometimes

Sometimes,
i want to be hopelessly lost,
like a tiny i lost in multitude;

sometimes,
I want to stand out,
capitalized in a bold capItal.

Either way,
you’ll always still be able to make me out,
won’t you?