Leave your books behind.
Like knowledge, is a traitor,
Erase every hoarding of your horrible past.
At last, when you enter her world
Of fraying edges and falling angels
Don’t barter words where touch will do and be the truth.
For once allow her silence to sear, strip your life-layers
Because she who knows the truth will not know the tale.
(First published in Thanalonline)
And you see the two-crows-for-joy-pass that are sitting on
overhead cables and the evening moon,
a mere silvery slice against fluffy translucent sky.
And the remains of your school where you spent your twelve
longest years and lived through everything.
And the bus-stand you had to draw for your art-class in yellow
ochre or asphalt grey and the emptiness that now occupies the
place where a tiny café once stood.
And the tree where they fed you lunch before you learnt to walk
back home. And I thought of my parents.
Brilliant people talking of the intricacies of their life and the corruption of
morals and the bygone days and hunger in their childhood and their deaddear-
departed parents as if to teach you what to talk to your children.
(And you are their child,
so you speak their lines.)
Still returning home,
And there are rusty mammoth girders that outline the sky like
the derelicts of lost dreams and crossed hopes.
And girls so flimsy pretty yet unsafe in the little worlds of lip
gloss and love affairs that you could have smoked them into
And the dry decaying dead leaves crushed with varying noises
and carrying a spent smell that clings to your hair.
And the shy forest noises that violate your fixation over sight
and sound and smell and touch yes touch.
And I thought of my lover.
A primitive man who would invade
your aloneness on insomniac nights
and challenge your assumptions of
love and your sophistications and fill
your ears with the four letter words of
his ancient language that have begun
to sound to you like earth songs to
which your body awakens.
(And you are his love,
so you listen to his lines.)
On the way home, the small
lessons you learn of life. . .
Love, or the promise of love,
its lack of choice.
This large world.
And its littleness.
Posted in Love, Poetry
Tagged culture, home-coming, inheritance, intimacy, language, Love, lover, parents, poverty, school, Tamil
And both of us become strangers onto each other
Do not worry about me.
We will look beyond eyes and run into each other
As usual, for the rest of life.
I do not know what you would
Treasure of me in your mind.
But in billboards planted
Across my fervent heart,
I will celebrate you as the man
Who made me woman.
And there are the small things that I would always remember:
Your affinity to catch colds; my rising fevers on seeing you
Your headaches, your backaches; my avowed helplessness
Your falling asleep while waiting for my reply
Your asking me to remain with you for all of time. . .
All your delicious lies. . .
Over the phone,
the sound of your drinking water,
the soundlessness of your yawn. . .
the camouflage of who you were talking to
the new meanings you gave to worn-out words
Yes, all of this.
And that once,
You called me a goddess.
And I got your words
I will have them painted
Try to choose
Or take them all.
Glitter on innocent
Raspberry lips that plead
For touch, for closer
Composition in coffee
Cream blending with bitter
Chocolate worn on business
Ravenous red, for fiery
Animals in us, tamed,
By love in dying
Colourless words, invisible
Reserved for needy
Love, remember the rain
And our fading words
On lonely nights
Straying to a steady
Chatter or studied
Which still linger on lips.
Remember that some words
Which once beheld promise
Now hold our bodies