Autophony

Rays erupt on a winter morning. As buds erupt on shankhapushpam Flowers, the clouds thunder among Silent birds. As lightning in search of earthing, His feet praying for nirvana, the wanderer thirsts. Much of what he’s Learned, must now be unlearnt anew, Alone in a noisy train with lonely men He rumbles wordless into the night mist. (Published in Whispers as part of the " Captivating Titles " activity, July 2016)

Memories are often miasmal , putrescent; a squad-drill of old complaints marching by that you soon wish were etherised , euthanised lest, despondently , you are forced to grapple with those; the nocturnal sounds of a forest you wished you didn’t set foot in; a gambit indeed that you played thinking it fashionable at the instant and now regretted... indeed with appetites for regret; meditating on them there is no shunya, nor do they let you be forgetful of them, vicious in the pursuit, and no, they don’t digress either to dwell on joy, no sir, they're silhouettes that follow, to the grave mud. * This poem was part of a special exercise in Whispers, April 2016 . It is written around 12 words chosen from 12 poems of T.S. Eliot, 1 each, in order: “The Hippopotamus” “Hysteria” “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” “Morning at the Window” “Rhapsody on a Windy Night” “Sweeney Among the Nightingales” “Aunt Helen” “The Boston Evening Transcript” “Burbank...

with the sun on the rise o'er the sea is this yellowing leaf yellower in the bright white of day Published in Whispers, October 2015

still waters and stiller these thoughts of mine far in the sunset the flamingoes taking off one by one Published in Whispers, October 2015

I recited a poem by Wordsworth once. The one about the solitary reaper Singing all by herself of "battles long ago", perhaps "some natural sorrow, loss, or pain." or even "familiar matters of to-day". I will say the audience were moved. They asked for his Orkut profile, And what his latest status message, is on Gtalk or Facebook, surely something deep. Do I have his email address? And hey, is he on Twitter? Published in Whispers, December 2015

Fading memories and unwashed hills of clothes Back from vacation to the job that one loathes Published in Whispers, September 2015

Thro' thund'rin cloud an' silent glen This noisy train wi' lonely men Published in Whispers, September 2015

foggy morning the river flows from nothing to nothing first sun the ashen-faced river suddenly gleams Rorschach blots what the ripples reveal and conceal fighting the currents to stay in the same place river fish silver half-circles the sea on the night of the full moon Published in Whispers, September 2015

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