All I have now is poetry

In another universe
we will meet
when the cooling light of stars will not cancel out each other.

For now,
I let this poem float,
its words swimming around you in circles.

Stand still,
and the letters would tell you stories in ripples,
even if they have to sink after they’ve spoken.

In another universe
we will have walked away,
and will still meet at the other end of the loop.
I will be a new book
and you will have discovered newer sounds in your poetry.
And we will laugh
for having had to walk away
to find ourselves again,
in a place
where the light bounces off our faces
at angles such that
you and I are a reflection
of the other.

All I have now is poetry.

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Short-lived infinities

We share bits of our infinities with each other
holding on to as little as we must,
as much as we can.
Ensuring we remember crumpled fingertips
and stories tucked in the middle of the night.
I chuckle when you narrate the one
about prying cops
with fireflies skimming the body of the lake.

I have nicknamed you ‘FireFlies’.

We create our own inside jokes,
some of them funny enough to bomb straightaway.
Others might die a day later
when we return to our orbits
with little overlap.

I ask questions,
deciphering the book you are,
and you do the same,
unravelling me,
seeking unflinchingly.
Time calls for a speed read,
but we take it slow,
mulling over our words
as they create a life outside us
and sit beside each other
at the foot of the couch.

The eternal skeptic that I am,
my head struggles to wrap itself around the mysticism that is you.
I wonder if my cold logic appears to you
just how your freefalling faith seems to me.
Are they just two opposite halves?

If I think again,
we are both skeptics:
You, from the inside looking out,
I, from the outside looking in.

Time’s running out.
So we use our thick brushstrokes and create pictures
not too sharp or distinct,
just enough to have memories of tonight.
When it’s time to leave,
we exchange our works.
These will have imprints of our infinities.
Maybe, these will do.

Moving stars

You say the stars need to realign themselves.
I think the sky is a kaleidoscope –
we can turn and twist it a little,
tap the far end,
and watch constellations rearrange themselves.

If only it was that simple,
but gravity gets in the way,
and there is only so much you can do
about the damned inertia.

Entering a contest and I need your help

original

Couldn’t have been a more blatant plug, no? I need a hand. Or hands. Or clicks.

Submitted a poem to the Tata LitLive MyStory Contest. Here’s the entry:http://wshe.es/TrfxIv2i
Do click on the link above and vote if you think the poem is good enough; Of course it’s damn good 😉

The line breaks seem to have been lost with the submission. Here’s the original entry:

Being blind is not always as bad as it sounds

I must have been ten or eleven then,
I remember some mornings being coloured
by blood stains outside my home,
Thick red spots lining those narrow streets that developed organically between matchbox sized homes,
those streets crisscrossing around and between houses,
Streets where goons may have passed in the uniformly black chaos of the night,
fleeing from rivals or chasing them,
we never knew which was true.
After all, voices shrieking,
footsteps stumbling, stuttering in the middle of last night could only tell so much
and there was only so much sound
the blood dripping from their sweaty terror struck bodies
could have made.
Now that I think back of it,
Being blind is not always as bad as it sounds.

Those mornings when we walked to school,
We’d tiptoe around red trails,
trails that could be mistaken for paan except that these ran longer
and took more time to get washed away.
It took even more time to wipe off the memories.
No one talked about the blood we had seen,
as if it would stop existing if we did not mention it.
At school, we learnt of Edison and Shivaji and Gavaskar,
resolving to rise out of the morass that stood beyond the school walls.
There was also a bit about Houdini, the escape artiste,
and years later I wondered if I had understood the subtext of that chapter.

Then one day, while I rushed to fill in exam sheets,
racing to beat the clock,
cops gathered outside on the field that was used for football, sometimes.
There, the men in khaki stood around what looked, from the classroom window,
like a river, of guess what the same colour – red,
flowing out of a man.
I was to learn later,
the river had sucked the life out of him.
Some claimed to have seen the dying man stretch his hand to grasp the last shreds of his receding breath.
Some had frozen, paralyzed by the sight of grass getting smeared with the colour of violence.
Again, no one talked about it,
their silence almost willing the bloodshed to never have happened.

But still some stories, some sights stuck in our heads even though we tried bloody hard to ignore them.
The cops, we were told, had snipped the Achilles tendons of a thug they wanted to keep in check.
A severed tendon could let you walk, but not run; how much fear could a limping mobster instill in anyone?
In the summer, when the school ground would swarm with cricket teams,
and it became hard to distinguish one stop-gap pitch from the other,
on field spats could escalate
beyond verbal shouting matches,
and sometimes, stumps would become substitute weapons,
testosterone pushing boys over the edge
where they thought they became men.

I wonder what happened to these guys
who saw everything
and soaked all of it like a sponge,
giving in to its colours,
letting them seep through their pores and into their heads,
drifting with the stream unaware of where it would take them.
I wonder where they are now.

And there were those of us who learnt to look through it all and still not see a thing.
I guess we did fine.

Now that I think of it,
Being blind is not always as bad as it sounds.
I don’t know how I would have turned out otherwise.

I cannot be a poet

This poem mostly wrote itself while, after reading a Facebook post, I thought about the (perceived) rights of poets to speak about issues.

I cannot be a poet

No, I cannot be a poet.
From the endless fount of issues
that may plague the skin of my brothers,
I can’t write a poem about any one of them.
My pen, my fingers, my mind yield nothing.

Don’t get me wrong, I can write.
It’s just that I’m not qualified to write about these issues.
Says who?
So say the poetry clergymen.

I have never been raped,
so I can’t write a rape poem.
Never been depressed to contemplate suicide
so I can’t talk about how hopelessly dark a mind can get.
‘Hell, what does he know of depression,’
I hear the critics say as they hammer the gavel
and shuffle uneasily on their selfmade pedestals.

Being male rules me out from talking about female infanticide or sexism,
being straight rules me out from talking for the LGBT community.
Maybe being human rules me out from taking up animal rights.
But hey, I love dogs,
so I and all you animal activists have to be reborn as a dog, a talking one,
so we can talk about our animal troubles.
Experienced firsthand.
I don’t believe in rebirth, but for the sake of my right to talk for animals, I’ll assume this might work out.

Somehow somewhere,
the arts came up with these rules.
Maybe it was a place where the cult met,
where everyone wore the same dark robes,
and entry was only by invitation.
The cult decided
I could write only about issues I have faced firsthand.
Who made this cult? I don’t know.
I see their rules being waved around like axioms though,
like unbending rays of light,
like the only valid letters in the alphabet.

What made my voice wrong and theirs right?
What made their voice a part of the melody,
and mine a jarring note?

Yes, I cannot be a poet.
You may think I’ve given up too easily, but no.
I asked the art custodians if empathy would do when I didn’t experience their plight firsthand.
‘No no,’ they said,
’empathy can only get you halfway.
If you haven’t faced it, you can’t write about it. Even what you write will be wrong.’

What about actors then, I asked.
What about our movies, our literature, our music?
Do our novelists, our filmmakers have to grind under the yoke of oppression
before they write the first chapter,
before they script the first scene?

And the judges said,
‘They are the maestros, the veterans, so they can bypass this rule.
But if you, my young artist,
if you’re creating a work of art,
we, doubling as your peers and your judges,
we won’t let you get off that easy.
Stick by the rules.’

So dear custodians,
If I have to abide by your rules,
I’d rather not be a poet.
I’d rather not chisel my voice
to speak on your podium.
No I cannot be a poet.
I cannot be your poet,
not the poet you want me to be.

When there is no tomorrow

So the prompt was to have a tagline as the title of the poem. I chose the FedEx tagline; I think the poem itself sounds a bit like Rudyard Kipling’s If. What do you think?

When there is no tomorrow

When there is no tomorrow
and when yesterday does not push itself like an envelope under your door,
when you don’t have to gather raindrops to build waterfalls,
when you don’t have to keep a magnifying glass between yourself and the rest,
when you can laugh like a cloud pouring itself into a bay, not caring if it forms a rainbow,
(talking about rainbows, let’s forget Vibgyor and think of one having brown and black and white and shades in between),
when our mouths can stop being clams and write scripts in any font we choose,
when you can pull out the spike that nails your foot,
and we all, the ones that nail our brains,
maybe then we can merge into the other,
melt our continents and recreate Pangaea,
unfold our bodies without worrying about the creases,
and write songs without muting screams
so that no word is filtered out and pushed into the sea.

When there are no monsters to be hidden under blood
and no angels to be cut out from paper,
maybe then we can start living
without our feet dancing on either arm of a weighing balance.

NaPoWriMo 2017, poem 25

What if?

Noticed a lot of the poems – some of  mine too – I read these days has activist tones. This goes out to several poets, myself included.

I wonder how poetry would thrive
if the spikes of suffering,
of sadness
had been flattened out.

How many would write about
the magic in an orange moon
as it floated above the horizon?
How many would talk about strings of smiles drawn over streets?
How many would talk about tongues fumbling for the right words on a first date,
the sounds that seemed awkward but came out just right?

Would poetry miss the chaos
of brushstrokes ambushing each other
and creating thunderstorms?
What would fuel it when there are no fires to be put out,
when there are no worries wrapped around constellations,
no anger jumping over borders,
no words speared from one class
into the ribs of another,
no cliffs waiting to be jumped off,
no wars to be ended, or started,
about who would annex whom and for what,
and no floods to rise above?

You, my poet,
what would you write
when knives have been blunted,
when fires have been transformed into flowers
with stalks that spell peace in all languages,
when streams of blood have been replaced
by rivers of stars,
when we are all a billion continents
with no oceans to separate us,
when the sky stretches so thin
the space between humans and gods
is less than a hair’s breadth?

My friend, my poet,
what would you write about
if the earth’s pulse
became a steady flatline?

NaPoWriMo 2017, Poem 24