A River
a river
once ran
through
my girlhood
bearing boats
and fish
and laughing
broods
of naked
children
browned by
365 suns
solar days
of innocence
unsullied
as its water.
today
the river
has met
the ocean
its pure white
foam
bears
treasures
of lost
islands
fruit of
the womb
and shoals
of kinship.
the river
is now ocean
the ocean
is sky
the sky
is my skin
a nimbus
of light
***
Samarkhand
sun-kissed
minarets
swathed
in gold
bazaars
fragrant
with
braided bread
tumescent
cherries
and
watermelon
your calm
belies
the ravages
of time
inscribed
on your streets
so ancient
they smell
of
Timur-i-leng
and his
marauding men.
Samarkhand
city of shadows
garden of soul
locked in slumber
sleep gentle
in your repose
***
I Held the Last Light
I held the last light of dusk in my fist so tight to
not let it go but it ran out like a river from the gaps in my fingers so frail
they could not hold back the deluge of luminosity that filled me with its
shimmer and the light it washed over my table my books my teacup my weathered
keyboard my being and swept it all into a solarium of contentment–even as the
black sky leaned heavy on the window pane.
***
Like a River of Ink
Like a river of ink your words stain the insides of
my existence with beauty and knowing of the infinite journey of a universe
where all the suns, the moons, the stars and constellations parade to the
drumbeats of each pulse beating at the centre of my heart like dew dropping on
a leaf of time.
***
Ripping Night
i ripped open
the night
to reveal
its dark secrets
and found
day slouching
in a corner
i found
strangers
entwined
in webs
of stories
untold
found white
graffiti
on black walls
singing
possible dreams
and soldiers
burning guns
into ashes of love
found ash
becoming clay
that became
a crucible
for tears
of desolation
found day
crucified
and night
opening
its doors
to the winds
of love
***
Mother
her lotus eyes
held secrets
only
she knew
her smile
radiant
held legends
of childhood
stealing guavas
in the afternoon
dipped in salt
shared with
a muslim
friend
forbidden
in 1942
a child bride
she grew
into a
child woman
a child
mother
a child
grandmother
only she
knew
that salt
and friendship
would seal
her life
with
iridescence
***
Pigeons
a scribble
of pigeons
in the white
parchment
of sky
flew querulously
intolerant
of an
unscheduled
rain
the trees sapient
in years
sang melodies
of wisdom
as earth
and water
met once again
Brooding Dust
brooding dust
writes a poem
to be blown away
wind
***
So Easy
it
was so easy
sliding through
the
Emergency Exit Only
out of DL 106
over
Budapest
into heaven
***
The Rain Tree
the
verandah
holds
a rain tree.
small,
its roots
tethered
to a clay bowl
permit
capricious
green
fingers
to
map its course
in
neat layers
of
branches clothed in
lucent
leaves
kissed
by the sun.
it
might have
inhabited
a forest
or
a country courtyard
or
offered shade
to
the weary
on
a village trail.
but
here it is
in
my verandah
nurtured
everyday
with
sun and water
and
music from
a
home stereo.
sometimes
it sings
green
songs
that
echo in the
sun-baked
room
and
every day
its
jewel leaves
make
ciphers on
the
ebony floor
i
am here, it says
to
drink your words
and
breathe the
fiction of your life