Just another day to scurry back home. Like ants, we keep our heads down and follow the trail. Wrapped in the metal armour of cars and buses, our ears filter out noise like the shutter of a camera, and still fail, as the pinpricks on the road perforate eardrums and transform them into sieves. No … Continue reading Sound logic
I write because my fingers bleed words. There may be times when they won’t, just as they have been before, and I know this hurts more than the bleeding. Either way, I must draw from this fount, whether it trickles or overflows. I write because I cannot gloat too long at a well-crafted line, at … Continue reading Why do I write?
I'm at the junction where Queens road meets MG Road meets Kasturba Road meets chaos and cacophony. Ten seconds till the lights go green, Enough time for candy floss sellers to wriggle between cars, and thrust their garish pink wares arranged radially on a towering wooden pole at passengers shielded by glass panes in AC … Continue reading Traffic lights, hawkers and cavities
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 … Continue reading Entering a contest and I need your help
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 … Continue reading I cannot be a poet
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 … Continue reading When there is no tomorrow
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 … Continue reading What if?
The ghost that twists in the basement is a remnant of me. My fears have fed him over the years, giving shape to his collar bone adding flesh to his thighs. Every road that I have yearned to take and refused to venture on has given fodder to this ghost. A few years ago, I … Continue reading No room here
When I can’t comprehend the reasons you give for slashing our skins, dividing it into squares and allocating each piece to a pigeonhole, the artist here, the funnyman there, the sportsman here, away from the box housing the intellectual, we are told, “you can’t be all that you want to be.” It sounds like a … Continue reading Growing older
Dear motorist who drove past me, almost scraping my skin. Do you see the road as a plain sheet devoid of traffic? Does a cyclist seem to you a dot you can shrink further into nothing? Do you think you cause no damage when you force me off the road or drown me with your … Continue reading Dear motorist