Will you let me write
Or must it be in perfect
Rhyme
Could I write in thought
Or must I conform to reason
Ought I to write of themes
Or can I
Be impassioned about
Aberrations
Perhaps
Articulate myself
In the language of
The stammerer
What if my subjects
Were bald men
Suffering incontinence
Or must I poesy
On the beautiful and the
Trauma of acne
Will you let me write
In free verse
Sans punctuation
Or must I conform to
Weighty words
And pause where expected
Will you condemn
My priorities
Label them inconsequential
And just ‘not on’
Will you let me write
Or not
Consuming life about you
I was caught unawares
Innocent desire to know
To venture
Maybe possess
Unprepared
I ran my fingers along its
Cold, sharp, oiled regularity
I stood apart
Admired it
Challenged it
Satiated
Accepted it.
Glimpses of
you flashed
Before me as
the waves
Hit and the
Current
enveloped
Clear ripples
caught the sunlight
And in their
golden bronzed highlights
You smiled
With the
fresh breath
Lust of ‘97
Outside the window, through the bars
I see below, trunks a twain
beneath perhaps
at depths of the earth, they are
entwined together
in roots of yearning and
string conviction.
Above the surface,
Reaching skyward
The twain part
And individually stand
one upright lush
with green and yellow
the other a slant
of bronzed brown
they sway alike in the breeze
Yet do not detract
from the others ease
However separate they complement
However tall they reach
However far apart
At base they touch
Beneath entwined
A life of strength
A life of trust
dependable
Individuals rooted,
15th
march ‘98, a sight outside a barred window. Hostel .
The breeze bristled past the leaves outside my window; he looked like he was laughing over some happy secret that he shared with the leaflets, giggling uncontrollably with innocent gusts, causing me to smile.
Later I looked up at a star filled
sky, where the lit enigma dropped from above as if it were suspended by
glistening gossamer cob web. The wind now whispered and talked in hushed tones,
comforting…. The leaves swayed in
empathy
A feeling of harmony complete in silence
Our need to capture moments and print them down , to render them eternal seems so futile. No matter how hard we try, there is no way we can shackle and bind these moments of delight. It appeals to me , this inability to possess, and mark and stamp down
There is a sense of freedom in this futility, the moment is free, un imprisoned , in expressible, effervescent, vanishing, fleeting, enigmatic …..
Eternal
hostel’98- lying down on cement tennis courts.
While I listened
subconsciously to an attempt of commanding voices asking questions, demanding
answers both of which were quite futile…
…. I thought I’d be a blade of grass
But then again, I would not bend to the breeze, I would not sway to its pleasure, my life I would lead by my dictat, not by the breeze at the drop of his hat….
Expanse of space, stark and white
Extremes of which stand the two
Distance defined their existence
Then the space began to fill
Energy play and free will
The figures moved , less apart
Distance defined their existence
Words of black in refined script
Filled the white with intellect
Wit took over and then came woe
The alphabets turned from script to scribble,
From brilliance to blotch
Words thrown about, they ricocheted
First in anger, then shadows of sound
Expanse of space, filled with matter and contingencies
Extremes of which stand the two
The sheet no more stark
“Why”
“Things change”
The space is maintained
Distance defines their existence.
Rain
The constant croaking frog
The room is aglow.
Bathed in candle light
Shadows stretch against the wall.
Dancing,
I am a-wandering.
A pleasant thought
I touch, outline, caress
Face, knees,
You.
Warmth swells
I feel it light up my eyes
I catch myself smiling.
A sudden ‘click’
The whirring fanTube light blinds vision
Shadows flicker
The candle is extinguished
Reality
Nov98- hostel madras electricity cuts
Fingers entwined
The face – no sign of recognition
Aura’s mingle
The voice – a confidence acquired
Emotions rage
The ambience – a comfort acquired
It’s driving
me crazy this loving you from afar.
Crisp sheets crackling
Twisting figure
Sweat stained shirt
The fan whirring
Face contorted
Mosquitoes disquietening
Furrowed forehead
Clenched teeth
Deep breaths to ease
The anguish
Dec’98- what Christmas?
As you walked away
the Other day
slumped .Your bag,
Dragging it behind
you
I watched your every
Move.
Your gait was marked
With uncertainty,
Faltering
Wondering whether or
Not to take the
Next step.
Wondering at the freedom
Of choice.
I called, to catch a
Glimpse of your
Unsure grin,
To ease the moment,
I cheerfully waved a
Loud goodbye
But behind these
Laughing eyes I could
Have cried.
The sands of time
Trickle through my fingers
Fine and golden brown
Consistent
Keeping pace with
The pulse of the age
My hand is outstretched
Fingers play in
Gently falling sand
Thinking of a time when
My dimpled fingers
Wished to clasp
To retain
To have
Control over its flow
I wet it with saline water
Churned it with gurgling laughter
As it slipped through
My fingers
I reached out again
This time with desire, anticipation
Anguish
I wanted to possess
Sand slips through my fingers
Just as it always did, gently.
Force, embargo, fortitude
and will.
Nothing held
I accept,
But still reach out to hold into
Permanency
Dec 98
A couple of words
Suggesting boredom and politesse
Slowly painfully corroded
The ego
Extinguished the soul
Arid.
A couple of words
Choked confession
Strained laughter
You slipped back into
Some preconceived space I
Had taken for granted.
A couple of words
Some reprieve I thought
By natural course
Would refresh and
Make whole.
I believed it true
Till
I found I can sketch
You
No more
Jan 99 - over
Access
And one chooses, otherwise
Claustrophobia
Closeness is enclosure, stifling
Leisure
Proximity enjoyed with, another
Epiphany
That which I should have, known.
Wet
The earth soaked
In the goodness
Of morning dew
Smells of vitality
Exude
Wet
The base of being
Drenched with an
Experience
Taste of yen
Savoured
Wet
Eyes trickle
A saline purity
Overflows
Sense of release
Purged
I saw love in my window
And some sunlight too
It light up my table
And wrote me a song
I felt love in my arms
And under the covers
It warmed up my bed
And cuddled me too
I hear love at my doorway
And knocking within
It s tepped o’er the threshold
And entered right in
I spoke to love yesterday
And today as well
It whispered sweet nothings
Played kiss and tell
I called out for love, out through the window
And in the door
She ain’t in my arms now, not yesterday
Nor today
Maybe tomorrow she’ll light up my
Table
Maybe tomorrow she’ll come back, to
Sing.
March 99 –
I think I
fell on my head and wrote in absentia!!!!
Sculpted
Like a pair of divine celestines
Carved and nitched
Into a cold hard stony face
Lips
To be savoured only
By the lustful
And the lunatic
Pity
I fall into the latter
And must die the mad hatter
No claims to fame
But, flattered, tempted
I played the game
Ensnared
Ensnaring
We played the game
Of kiss and tell
Unleashed the pythons
Of the mind
Hypnotic craving
Defined the breath uneven, crazed
Fanatics
Novelty
Sustained it, infidelity
Deleted it
An excuse, accusations
Withdrawal
The excitement had died
All too soon
Nouveau
Had ashn’d with doubt
With routine
Even the aftertaste is bitter
Caffeine and nicotine
Substitute
Sex and wit
There was love, could’ve been friendship
But as the cliché goes
“ it takes two to tango”
so I dance alone
THE WORD
‘Soft, brown, seamless,
sultry - taking the form of the palm only to leave it wanting….’
Of all the senses, do you think touch is the
most real? To see with the fingers, to smell with skin, to taste an aura… we
are truly animal in the basest of forms, and yet I do not find that to be gross
or savage.
The ‘word’ is an impostor, posing ingenuity and sincerity, when all it spouts are clever manipulations, high sounding, profound and intelligent. When has the word been of any good unless it has called for an act?
The intangible is enjoyed and desired in as
much as it can be attained by the senses. In all argument, one must accept that
feeling is tangible. . . . . if this
be denied then all smiles are illusion and all tears are but a passing mist,
the tearing of the gut – a hypochondriacs delusion and ‘the urge’ is a sign of
mania.
I can smell you off my fingers
You linger, scent around my
Wrists
I can feel you on my face
Your breath, tickle along my
Ear
I can taste you in my mouth
Your longing, nicotine on my
Tongue
I can see your words coming at me
Your lips speak, absorbed by my
Eyes
I can touch you, desire, it beckons me
Your body traced, outlined by my
Fingers
I take you in with all my senses
I sip, swirl and swallow
You in a glass
as wine
The tactile is always reached out for
In fascination
To touch the unknown
To be a part of
To consume or be consumed
And yet
There is the need
To possess
Even in being possessed
The desire to have
And to hold
In succumbing
Or overpowering
We must
Touch, be a part of
And eventually
Become
The other
Denying it identity
Taking it all
Till what remain
Is
Decomposition
Decay
And a
Desire
for more.
I am alone
In a morning lit room and yellow walls, carelessly thrown cushions, music as background (unattended by ear).
I write , my tongue rises and falls in its enclosure the warmth envelops it and soaks in a pleasure.
I like being
Alone.
It is the loneliness that
Kills.
This day however
I am.
And it is nice enough.