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ﺷﻜﺴﺘﻮﻥ ﻛﻲ ﻛﻤﻲ

اي ﺳﺎﻛي ﺗﺠﻬي ﻛﻴﺎ ﻏﻢ, ﺗﺒﺮي ﻣﺴﺠﺪ ﻣﻴﻦ ﻣﻴﭙﺮﺳﺘﻮﻥ. ﻛﻲ ﻛﻤﻲ ﻧﻬﻴﻦ ﺗﻴﺮا ﻛﺎﺭﻭﺑﺎﺭ ﻣﺪاﻡ ﺭﻫﻴﮕﺎ, ﺩﻧﻴﺎ ﻣﻴﻦ ﻣﺴﺘﻮﻥ ﻛﻲ ﻛﻤﻲ ﻧﻬﻴﻦ ﺗﻴﺮﻱ ﻭﺣﺸﺖ ﻛﻲ ﻟﻴﻲ ﻭﻗﺖ ﻛﺴﻲ ﻫﻲ, ﺗﻮ ﺑﺲ ﺁﺏ ﺷﺮاﺏ ﺑﻬﺎﺗﻲ ﺟﺎ ﺧﺎﻧﻪ ﺑﺪﻭﺵ ﻃﻠﺐ ﻫﻲ, ﺟﻮ ﺯﻧﺪﮔﻲ ﻣﻴﻦ ﺷﻜﺴﺘﻮﻥ ﻛﻲ ﻛﻤﻲ ﻧﻬﻴﻦ‎ Published in Amaravati Poetic Prism 2016 ed. Padmaja Iyengar, Cultural Centre of Vijayawada & Amaravati

Bleeding

I haven't, in a long time, bled myself. I haven't scratched flesh, watching in dread fascination, grotesque shapes burning, searing, yearning, dying and birthing themselves. I haven't watched the blots spread into new territories of being I dread to enter. I haven't, I haven't watched meanings do their morbid dance, preen in their vanity or thrash about or flail limply even. I haven't stood by to watch the reek of ambushed dreams rot by the roadside, the gutter-water rushing over them. I haven't, in a long time, bled myself.

The Wanderer's Curse

There is always a Me, and a Them, But there never really is an Us, They'll let you in, yes, They'll be nice to you, Share their food even; But there's always that little space They keep in between, The r not rolled correctly, The colour of your skin, Or the way you smile at the women; They're happy to help you try, But if you do roll the r the right way, There's something about eating cheese That you won't get right. The best jokes are not for you, They'll cuss just out of earshot So you can hear the hiss, And they might talk to you about return journeys More often than you think polite. Stay apart, Wanderer, You never did belong, You never will.

death

i have seen in my time then the death of a baby the death of a dog the death of dreams the death of many things yet and that is a big yet i seem to live on to have the will to live to see more deaths the death of a star the death of a puppy the death of an ant but fungus grows on those dead bodies and so life thrives so maybe that is a lesson still can i really live through the death of a friend the death of a frog the death of hope or a cherished principle maybe i can i am still alive

Children's books

I'll stick to reading children's books. I've made forays into adulthood: all it seem to have is the acrid smell of burning dreams. ...there are no fairies in the world of adults, though plenty of witches; no redemption, merely a grave; love is so full of conditions it doesn't seem like happily ever after. Puppies grow up you know, And teddy bears wear out. The books have no pictures - or they do: terrible word-pictures of the fallacy of human existence. I'll stick to children's books. Published in Whispers, July 2015

Poems in the sand

There are poems in the beach sand, Eroding in the wind and waves, Left behind there by ephemeral imaginations, That concern neither the crabs sidling over them, Nor the rich red sunsets, Nor the clouds hanging low in the romantic depression That only poets bother with, Nor the sandpipers skimming over the waves; But they will never be completed, Foaming away into the sea, The poet's illusions drained away, Into the eternal indifference that is the universe.

My love is like a rafflesia

My love is like a rafflesia With a fragrance that is causing anaesthesia Large and red, red and large Like a rose-coloured barge Upon the river Thames But I am not liking your friendship with that man called James It is the only blot on my love pure and simple Which is like the soft soft dimple On your smooth and buttery cheeks On which I am taking many peeks Only my love is not parasitic Like rafflesia but it is stalagmitic Growing slowly and maturing with time Like an old pond with green slime I am truly in love with you But everyday your behaviours are teaching me something new. (Originally written for The Dreaded Poets' Society )

Intoxication

There is little to be had from drink, A few bottles and then there is Just drunkenness: a sleep without sleep, And mumbling, thirsty ranting; From opium or cannabis, An escape into Xanadu for a while, Into colours and sounds and happinesses Before wandering into regret And then the blank of unconsciousness; Sex is the salt of human skin, Beautiful in its caresses and cosseting, Or empowering, warrior-like In the abuse of a woman's body; But the best of all is blood, The greatest power over a man, The glistening, oozing drug That satiates on mere sight — no needles, no pipes —, The throbbing, twitching body, The spurting gash, the chilled steel, And that final, final eros, It pleases, it pleases.

Division of Labour

The division of labour between poet and person I think, is very cumbersome: The poet is of course free - To live in a truth of his own contrivance Strewn with an abundance of roses or miseries As he sees fit; The person often has a wife and child And so the slavery of billed existence. But he is the one with the eyes and ears That the poet so parasitises on To turn sights into spectacles And sounds into symphonies Or all into a dystopic, pus-filled rant. It is in this obscene dance of words yet That the person finds freedom - However fleeting - from his personhood Entrapped in flesh, that presents him mirages To drudge on. Cumbersome indeed then, this schizophrenia Of being real and imaginary In the same fragile frame. Published in Amaravati Poetic Prism 2017 ed. Padmaja Iyengar, Cultural Centre of Vijayawada & Amaravati

Going home

Railway toilets plastered with washing soda; The rasping of nylon streamers against Fly racquets; Chinese toys beating about Before the vendor quickly bundles up And flees; Jasmine garlands and Incense-stick Boxes sharing space with Severed goats' heads — their eyes staring glassily at you to match Your startled glance; the smell of fried flour and Potatoes, and of withering cabbage stalks; Taxi smoke, gasoline and soot; Sweat — anxious Sweat —Whiffing by on hurried steps and a Quickly muttered apology on pushing You out of the way; Mysore masala Dosas frying on a street griddle — all Beetroot and carrot and tomato flakes; A promise of naked women in USB drives, and hard-bodied nude males Promising fairer skin from giant billboards; Death of course, lurking everywhere, sometimes Peering from a bier; Suburban life-forms In their TV-equipped habitats not Peering out of lit windows; and I — I just go home, as I do everyday. (Published in  Setu Bilingual Journa

Halfnesses

Somewhere between the truth, And our world of comforting lies, Is the world we seek to live in, Half earth, half fantasy; Happiness is what we call it, Though a stagnating lack Of worry would do as well, Maybe it's a race we're running Against our own aging selves Chasing a childhood memory Always a step ahead of us: A visible phantasm, a mirage Concocted from our own imagined pasts With guilt conveniently buried In the shroud of forgetfulness And yet - there's always a yet - There is a listlessness, ennui, That we never got what we wanted And the regret, unmessianic, Of not knowing what that was Till the commas of life stop abruptly. Published in Whispers, April 2016 as Commas

Standing Guard to Kamakhya

They've seen much, these statues Standing guard to Kamakhya's Dark, mystic sanctum; There's a nose lopped off here, An ear eroded there, By wind, by time, by swords. They've been nested on by doves: Love-making, chick-rearing Guano-shedding doves. They've seen cows amble around Bestowing sacred dung While bulls bestow sacred blood. They still stand, these statues, Their medieval silence further stifled with vermilion and ash. They see the pilgrims wilt — lined in their rag-covered faith — shivering in morning drizzle Like oleander petals and mango leaves; temple offerings to an invisible goddess. They see the pandas in red bearings; unbearability writ large on their pouchy faces, Against the tall, thin trees Banana, papaya, margosa, shading a sacrificial goat. They see the Brahmaputra which is always a presence — a brooding, looming presence. And they see me, eager tourist encaging them in camera stills: Another spectacle to see.

The Noodle Song

O dock-a-doodle dack, Boil a noodle black. Boil it in Artsakh (Nagorno-Karabakh), Boil it in Tibet With salt and alkanet, Boil it in Darjeeling That will be a good thing. O zock-a-zoodle zed Bake the noodle red. Bake it in Alaska, Kansas or Nebraska. Bake it in St Andrews With raisins and cashews. Bake it in Singapore, And just a little more. O cock-a-coodle coo, Roast the noodle blue Roast it in Santa Cruz Hormuz or Veracruz Roast it in Tripoli With white ravioli Roast in Wollongong But do not keep it long. O mock-a-moodle meen Fry the noodle green. Fry it in Mandalay In oil of Olay, Fry it in Cameroon Under a waxing moon, Fry it in East London Until this song is done.