The Second guessing

“Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold”
– W. B. Yeats

You omit
before you write yourself
lest you become
the colossal weight of
what lies under the ocean, that be,
the weathered face of the mad king,
the woman who had jumped off the roof,
a past lover of your lover,
a past-lover.

The ocean is no man’s alone
and yet it floods us all
with it’s seismic wreck,
spinning:
it batters old and new structures alike,
it eats men alive
and leave them language.



Settling

If poetry is settling,
what is a stirring spoon
in the muddied water?

There is no metaphor
that sits at the bottom of the glass
that may leap up
with a momentum of a frog
and catch you
mid-throat
before you swallow your indigestion once again,
and mold into
yet another insoluble

Till the new war
opens its mouth
and the mercenary irrigates the bomb,
the glass will became fertile again
with the notion of end
as with blood.







Plato’s anxiety

 
Image result for platos academy
Plato’s academy by Raphael

I have been waking up
and trying to fine tune the breath
in the belly
before the instrument goes out to play
on office desks
and impostor-ed classrooms.
 
They tell you
they tell you wrong,
the spirit does not
reside in the shell of the language,
it has to be summoned
in the body
and its word.
 
I try and breathe
to summon myself.

Exile

 There was a curve in the road
 Where I left you
 And then I suddenly became aware
 Of the public space floor;
 It was a desolate throat without water,
 It was blackened 
 At the same spot
 Every day
  
 By a man who differed with his left foot
 Or the woman whose trolley car had canines,
 I waited and absorbed the floor
 Like a sad old mop. 
  
 And the limbo before the sunset
 Did not itch the back of a woman
 Sprawled in the irony
 Of white sheets
 On the floor
 Without a mattress
 Without a cushion,
 Waiting to exile the land the next day,
 Sleeping on an airport.
  
 At that time,
 I felt as if I had forgotten to pick up my keys
 I walked as if weeded out 
 Mismatched
 Letting go of rubber bands
 Handbags, violins,
 Wondering to myself
 How odd it was to be alone
 With one’s own mind.
   

On abiding the seasons

I.
I remember the cold in my body
it had arrived
in the middle of a succulent August.

There was daze in the eyes of the sky,
it had blunted its own vision
and melted down the buildings off their roads.

I was in the white room
they had barred the windows
and I could not tell the knock.

There was that life-explaining roar of the wind,
may be,
they did not let me listen.

II.

I remember the cold in my body
in the pit of my heart,
it had arrived
in the middle of a succulent August.

The August was grey
and hinted an October,
but they had opened their obedient mouths
and smelled the plastic lilies.

Their colors were gay,
and not like a hermit’s hut’s kitchen;
they persisted
and those who couldn’t,

they left behind.













Holding

There is the circling of eagles
in the deep blue sky
and the sound of the flute,
as if emanating from the tendrils of
the new monsoon borne porcupine-ed leaves
and there is then,
the drilling noise
that must overpower the hum of the traffic
or the worker woman’s bangles,
clinking with the fidget of
the soul moving inside her palms

In all these
spaces
I tell you to find yourself
the emptiness
that is pleasant in the
patience of a house plant
that stares out the window
everyday
and feels the rain in
dripping shadows–
I offer you cold loneliness

for the times
I cannot offer you
the warmth
when my fingers touch the sides of your hand,
the spaces between your fingers
the moving of your neck–
the bed of your amorous speaking,
from where you will inform me of my once-again
distant absence

Then,
I give you my absence
for you to hold and believe my presence
in your palms once again.