How do I find time?

I left it under the potted plant

Where my neighbor bends upon to smell a flower

And asks me about the full moon. 

He says 

There is glory in the gardens of the others

But here, the slugs ate away all the bloom

And made it seven words shorter

From a love poem

You were willing to write. 

I fight the winds

And grasp his hand

I tell him, I am a gardener of words

–Often other than the unkempt personal pronouns–

I collate 

A bag of off-shoots

Till they look like they have eaten time 

Over which my neighbor once bent upon, sorry,

Right before I unmade him

And went to sleep. 

Image source: hiveminer


Law of attraction 

Of a neon glow

Traveling throug a space-tunneled gullet

Into a bloated starry sky

Where to each eye

Her own reality.
Billions of stars looking down from the sky.

Billions of eyes looking up to the sky.


Because she is never stationary

And always moving about like Van Gogh’s winds

Whenever I stretch out my finger into the cold dark night

She stretches in a great cosmic yawn

To caress my arms

Until we melt in our atomic marriage

Of neither star

Nor human.



Mariano Peccinetti, Mount Moon

As I must grow old 

And wilt

With the laws of gravity;

The horror is surreal

Of balding the moon off her throne

Into the sterile. 

How is that they must define us as a lack 

And in the same breath

Call the lands which could not bear the life

A null 

A void? 

So must I be

Either empty or full?

I wish I was easy as the glass. 

Northern Winds

Jakub Schikaneder’s Snow (Twilight in Winter) 1899


happened a soft autumn day

where I let my untamed foot fall

off the silk edge of my ordinary bed,

to let it fight with the tarnished wooden door

hunch-backed by a snoring inverter

when past the dust-coughing jail-skins,

there came a ruffle from the

dark of tall surmounting trees


nodding outside,

breathing on my ankles,

in all oddity of the oncoming winter.


Then I had dug under the culture’s paws

Asked them, of what of the Winter gloom—

That gentleman

So languid upon my prickling skin,

In me,

He had protected life.




There rests a diabolical caress

Of sandpaper bed-sheets

Till my feet are sore

From the coaling livers of the winter-verse.

Oh, to look for light switches in the dreadful dead-dark,

Paranoid chants that the curtains must not move—

All my sacred pathos intruded

Into the

Red demonstration of corpse-like darkness.


Do the old—as the Laker Poet once cried—must only lament what can no longer be felt?



In my heart, I invite

The night

I had shut down my famished words

Again, a prayer

To be fertilized with meaning, I ink

I conjure up my sprite:

In the hearth of a breathing cold

The tepid haunt of a sea nymph


Upon one changing breeze of the earth

Colluding with mist,

Into a body of unknown

That I uncloak, even though I am dressed

In great perspiration

I try

Once again

to reclaim the night.


Author Notes

I had an epiphany just now. I actually had a dream about different models of ceiling fans today–funny that I must write a poem dictated by the winds.

‘Something watches and stirs in the dark, it is alive.’

A sublime affair

A space overcomes me


I was sitting beside the lemon detergents

When I slipped by my elbow

and found myself upon a cotton tree,

long killed by one milk-selling municipal lady


Upon the highest branch,

his hair became the dark of the clouds.

a sullen autumn around, afraid I looked.

Two hushed stars in his bottomless eyes,

and he said,

it was summer still.


Upon a grain of thunder, he sprawled like an ocean current

And gasping like the roar itself, gave out his steep palms

Out of which a waning lily coiled out,

a ladder escaping from his fingertips,

as if the guitarist’s chords

tied up by the hair of heaven


I gave my heart to this man who was no-man

But a space, that overcomes me.


Every rainy night,

as they say,

I forget to breathe

And in me lays the flower, finally awake.


Walk the talk

July 2, 2016

Dear reader,

I do not mean to be anachronistic in this stylistic nostalgia of ‘dear reader’, but that is how I feel today. It just might be a conversation with one of my scattered selves that I’ve decided to share with you. Yet dear passer-by, I have now defined you. If you will choose to stay here like myself, I will sit by your knee and tell you all my, most ordinary stories. Of Thoureu’s art of sauntering. Where poetry falls into prose and where people who say, ‘oh, you are trying to write prose today?’ are stared at with silly-unkind mischievous eyes. Arts are nothing if not play, as I propose that this letter shall dive down from heaven to be stirred in your often-impatient mind like sugar in warm milk. Like touching several textures at once.

I have a lot of qualms and illogical desires flooding past me like sneaking foxes. But when I write, they sit by you and me and we pet these wild prodigies like dogs. Such is the summary of the whole mind.

The other day I was walking and I saw that the sky was favorably dressed in clouds as if a giant man with a swollen belly, smoking out beautiful cotton-candy smoke. I walked and if you live where I live, you’ll feel injured by the weight of  faded-jeans blue sky too. But not that fine Friday sundown, I didn’t.

The whole day I had my desires fleeting about. I almost felt that I had left my door open in the noon and that the perverse sun had come uninvited, to sit close upon my heart like some nightmarish incubus. But that can be mortally-worded as dehydration. And I decided to sing aimlessly, as if to let out all the water that I’ve swallowed in this reverse-drowning. It helped. The silence afterwards was of a mystical séance. A bad-throated séance-leader was my old fan. The silence where you could hear the gurgling stream of your own mind. That which is only audible around wishful walking and in-depth dreaming. Dreams where someone is throwing handful of cool mud at you, burying you and preventing you from waking up, especially after you’ve slept more than nine hours of your share. I wonder if that is what death feels like?

When the heat came back again in my heart, I switched on the T.V. and wondered why this even need to be put in a future letter or why can’t I forget about this ordinary twitch and nervousness like most people all around. But I couldn’t, thus the T.V.

Anthony Hopkins came on in Surviving Picasso and took the centre stage of my life. Like most divine interventions, I didn’t enjoy it much, or so I thought

When I stepped outside my house to run an errand. I plugged on my earphones like you take antacids to digest complex food that your stomach may feel clumsy with. Funny, I thought. Only yesterday I had to submit a poem on the theme ‘colour’ and the amount of fight I put up with simple themes, is amazing. If you will tell me to write about the flower-pattern lining inside your professor’s shoulder bag that I’ve never even seen, I’ll invite it for a dinner. Yet I found the muse when I had already fulfilled the prompt. An androgynous muse, who changed its gender every time I took a playful step. I was blinded with all the colours, even though my first thought was, maybe Picasso is not my type. The sky was like a mustard colored duck swimming in her own feathers. The road smelled good. The leaves…the trees that had looked rather miserable as if down with a viral fever yesterday, now looked as if they were dressed for an evening ball where all taboo-sparkles and confetti are allowed. I walked so tall that my shoulders ached with the strong grin they made in my silhouette. A stranger came by and noticed my air, asked me my ‘good name’, I flew away like a skittish bird, still entranced. The joy of being lost in every fiber of the world. It sat in my heart and the road I walked, I engraved in me. That night I dreamt of most beautiful colours in the most playful way. I realized, in me lived something that liked and hated things on its own accord. Something so natural and independent of a conscious me, it would corrupt the moment I’ll write it.

Liberated in a small ladder-house, I write till my blood colours my veins red and I blush with happiness.

Such was my walk. And I hope, such will be this awfully ordinary letter to you. To breathe in false glories is something we do every day.




Stepping out in the Stormy


There is a tunnel inside my heart
Without a lover with a clock;
I cast upon it
the glue of sedimentation
Here, nothing is unsettled
Here, words are perfume from
Clanking wooden doorways
Magnetic with presence of
a vast entity from beyond.

He lays upon my skin,
Tendrils sharp,
Laborious with love
Of a self disclosed
Of the Vast
To the miniscule.

There is a tunnel inside my heart
With a lover without a clock;
There, all divisions take a truce
There, I am your reader
And you are my poet.

Ghost Of A Wind-Chime

I have a curious hobby to sit outside my house, no matter how much cold or sunny, the day is. I believe this is how our emotional systems work in strange fashions. Some of which includes, dreaming about long-forgotten times. Bringing the inside depth at the tip of gentle lashes, carefully not to make them shiver and yet they do shiver, when they realize you had literally been talking to long-gone past and friendship of your life in dreams. Real dreams. –

“Though you are long gone. To the places you always wanted to go. But sometimes I dream about you. It is helpless.”

No matter how much I romanticize the things, the rationality saves the day. These memories are but linked with the idea of summer. Childhood comes along with summer. Holi (Indian festival of colors) So does Freedom. Lilies. Roses. Sunlight peeping out of emerald leafs, sudden rainfall, Mud and water mingling down the earth, creating a strange sensation in my throat as if the atmosphere is absorbing me and somehow, I want to drink the thing from which that heavenly smell is born. Olfactory I tell you, connecting with my sense of emotions.

Last night, my winter clothes were being shoved around in the house until I realized, I left their mighty carrier in the balcony, the good old chair, facing the colony garden, quite without a company, except some bats which must have flung around it, in my absence. And as I ran to rescue me rather than it, in order to avoid good dose of scolding from anyone, I suddenly felt emotions for this inanimate object sitting in the balcony.

It looked very calm and serene to me, reminding me of a protagonist of the book, that I have been reading the very same afternoon. Catherine Earnshaw of Wuthering Heights, the day she was to die.

Here is my balcony at night:

2014-02-14 20.39.17          2014-02-14 20.39.55       2014-02-14 20.41.23

The night was wonders in itself. I sat upon the ‘inanimate’ chair and imagined all sorts of things. I mused about poets who fell in love with the stars, for they were such wonderful things. I fancied the idea how these are not just little dots in the sky, no diamonds. Planets with chunks of diamonds, maybe. Or Suns, maybe. Or Dimensions beyond human imagination, yes, almost perfect. And to nurture an idea of loving these dimensions, the first of summer breezes that occupy the night, conveyed very well. For you see, the thing with the wind is that, when you create a sparkling idea inside yourself and there is no one to hear you, just no one, the wind nods in appreciation.

It says, it knows you well.

So, while the wind appreciated me, I heard that familiar wind chime. It was not my property, I was sure. It was real or not, I was not sure. But nonetheless, it transported to me the times that my memory usually account for a big blur. But I managed to tame some of its wild birds, anyways for the wind had certain hypnotizing quality to it.

I saw ourselves, in her T.V. room. It is still blurry, we were really small, I guess, eight or so. I can recall her messy black hair and her never-dying competitive spirits. I recalled how we used to fight a lot and on all sorts of queer things such as who got the best chocolate flavor for milk, Copy rights on the favorite star which two people, supposedly, cannot share at the same time, same with favorite colors and other weird things that make no sense at all. But unfortunately for her, it always ended as me being the good girl in her parent’s eyes and she being the badass villain. This miffed her a lot and yet we were the best of  the friends, so best that I have sudden memory-attacks of her, even after ten years of our parting.

For good, I recall one memory quite perfectly and it is suddenly strange at the same time, that how clear, the memory has become.Here-

I always admired the design of her bedroom which remains same, till today, after so many years, however, I have no longer access to it anymore. The bed was adjoined with a marble slab where one could sit and peer at the garden from a large window. And hey! I see it. The wind-chime! It hangs over our heads reminding me of flutes. It has these silver bars in it with a tiny hole inside each of them. It had beautiful blue strings and yet it is one of those wind chimes which is meant more for music and less for beauty. And I feel I could hear it, even when I am near my own window.

Its distinct music was thus, forever imprinted on my mind as the horn of my school cab which carried me regularly for 15 years. The vanwallebhaiya (the cab-driver) had this distinct skill to make patterns of sounds out of a cheap horn that I could hear and follow from miles away in the act of recognizing its owner.

And suddenly Poof! I have no longer access to it.                                                                                                                                                                         I remember photographing the van in a mad-spirit when I found out once that it was parked nearby.

Oh, It all overcomes now. As I roam around with the ghosts of past, these two become the most real of the unreal.

Moving on to the memory, It was a bright Sunday and our parents were busy chatting with themselves when I sneaked to her place and asked her for a sudden help in my anxious spirit. I remember telling her that though my father just received 1000 rupees from someone, I am still willing to ask her help. She looked at me curiously and told me that 1000 rupees is not much money.

“It is not?” I was perplexed.

“No!” she laughed at me and waved her hands dismissively, while I narrated to her the problem with which I was I going through. I remember how anxious I was when I told her “I need to win a friend”. It is like becoming the prime-minister of the country, I told her. And to my surprise, she reciprocated my seriousness and agreed to help, very adventurously. Now I can write a separate blog about this classmate of mine, who I wanted to be friends with. I had the “privilege” of knowing her till I was fourteen. And even in these fourteen years, we never came any close to be ever, termed as “friends”.Ever.

She is currently on my facebook friendlist though. No, I guess she deleted me. Better that way.

Anyways, my friend and I loved making cards. Be it birthdays, friendship day, Parent’s birthdays or friendship requests, as in this case, we just loved making cards. I remember we sat the whole afternoon on that marble slab decorating that one card while she lent me her best glitter pens. This was the moment. For me, it was the best deed that one could do for me, ever Ever and ever. She lent me her glitter pens!! Boy, wasn’t I amazed and happy? She dictated me some good lines which I cannot really recall but since I have these old cards that I made for my mother, I can imagine what would they be like.

“Sky is blue, I want to be friends with you”

“You are the best person in my class'”

“Please be my friend :)” -(This one is accurate)

“Keep smiling. May god bless you”

And lots and lots of glitter pen stars. Besides, she helped me design an envelope! Oh what a goodie it was then! I was so impressed and convinced for the first time. I believed, there can be no power in the world that would make the classmate of mine, miss popular at 7 , refuse me. But if you have seen Mean girls, you would have realized popularity only comes with heartlessness. Well, I realized it quite before when I saw my beloved envelope in the mini green dustbin of our KG classroom (Look! I even remember the color), the very same day I gave her the card. Oh It fell upon me like thunder. I still remember the sinking feeling inside my chest for I dared not to pick it up, fearing that I would further deplete my image and would break into tears afterwards. But still, after what had happened I kept a strong front. Never did I told this to a single soul, until now. And as I am having these flashbacks, I feel I am that small girl again, I feel her agony too. After all you have to be devil to refuse and discard a card penned with glitter-pens, precious reminders of decade old friendships when you are freakin 7!. But I must tell you, this devil’s future wasn’t all goodie-goodie. We heard a lot of weird rumors about her in the school. Even though she used to top in exams (in case you were wondering how she got popular at 7) but then began the epic, Sophocles style downfall (I am sorry if I sound dramatic for I am in satisfaction with Karma-kinda-revenge).

Supposedly, she blackmailed her parents a lot, by scaring them off with suicidal intentions for almost everything. One of my friend claims, even for fake lashes and colored lenses. Well she did wear them, but I don’t know the complete story. The other rumors, however were a lot degrading. Now, I don’t know about other countries, but sleeping with boys in school isn’t normal here at all. This one, I have sources to confirm.

Anyways, I’ll let her alone for now. And would like to thank my friend, whom I never confessed that the devil threw my letter/card down the bin. I wish I could have come running down to you so that you could have convinced me and have told me, I am a stupid child but I guess it is too late to ask for such a wish now.

For the friend, I muse in stars, (we used to imagine we own stars in Orion) is long parted and is like any other stranger who walks the earth.