White Roses

No faith is to be redeemed

When a smile is the only prize.

Nothing to be said.

This swallows it, this distance

Between you and I.

Our hands might meet

In prayers.

It is not the lovers' touch,

It is the whiteness

that can’t forgive.

Nothing to be heard.

This repels it, this silence

Between you and I.

Future, and one’s own dreams

Like iced cubes on clay cradles,

They melt into an hint of talc.

It is the petals, selfish,

That can’t foresee…

Nothing to be acted upon.    

This hovers over it, this audience

Between you and I.

No faith is left on the stage,

It is a black box, theatre of emotions.

Little space for a sequel.

Nothing to be done by.

This delivers it, no consilience

Between you and I.  

White roses and their petals smile

And say their goodbyes,

The only prize.

The Idle talker

Winter appals

Him or… her

Through the crispy air

The idle talker walks

With bound feet

And limping hands.

A baggage of plastic thoughts

Between the legs.

The idle talker grins and grins

When the sky is dim and

The sun does not limn.

At the local pub

The idle talker

Speaks, sips

Through the smoke

And reams

Of purple chairs,

Through a dried mouth

Of an evergreen

Like tin ware.

Handcuffed to

The buttocks of slim seats,

The voice talks, talks, and talks.

And to the winds

At whim with no tunes

It even sings, sings and sings.

The idle talker has not dreams

Nor plans- its thoughts are done

In the murky élan

Of natters.

The idle talker

Has no wishes of women,

Nor of men,

No real joys from either of them.

The idle talker smiles

At the sun and the candlelight

Of a TV screen,

Collects plastic bags and

Bottle and eggs

With an artificial,

Invisible Net.

The idle talker’s smiles

Itch the skin

Of the Other, who

Sullen and thrift buys

It’s words,

Words, words, words, words…

Oh my lord!

They travel light,

Balloons rest only

In the heights,

Amid hairy kites halted in mid air.

The idle talker does not drink

Tea, does not lick milk.

The idle talker

Does not even rhyme nor mime.

A lover’s hiss,

A deathbed wish,

A football funs’ scream,

A heartbroken fist and

The razzamatazz of

Weary housewives

A hasty stroke,

An indelible papery wrinkle

A sigh, a coo or a boo…

A sneeze, a sneeze, a sneeze…

Winter appals

him or… her.

Globally Warmed Ageing

I am a late autumn, I let wasps fly

I let butterflies sigh, under the glass ball

Of iced candles. November is a killer,

The morning darkness wraps me

And tries to mummify me, a blackbird forced

To stare at its temple. Neither gold nor dust. 

The wind could not slay leaves

This year; a confused tree decided

To give shelter to a black timid

Butterfly. The moonlight is murderous.

It reveals only the eerie whiff of

A backdoor cat who, like a cynical criminal,

Slips into the nearest barn of stars to steal

Their shadows. Winter is an unusual lover,

He brings me sun. He brings me warmth,

My skin unfolds like a burning leaf

By the wind’s hair. His voice smells

Like the leaves of a dried wind. I open

 My mouth I blaze. I part my legs

I freeze. His moustache prickles

Unapologetic, unasked for.

Black butterfly! In the barn

You gush through the alarmed

Voices, the raising hands of the tree.

Do not trust the accomplice moon!

It is artificial, it does not

Belong to the sky. It tells lies.

 It batters the fly in a temple

Of sly darkness. When you die,

 November will resign, it has

Already killed the season

Of many, while this winter,

I am not a lonely leaf in the barn,

Where the perplexed tree oversees…

Summer is perfected.

Encounter

A different voice

Tumbles

Through my sheet

At the sound of water drips

At dawn.

I lift it

Massive cargo

Of flesh inside

Rolling down.

In between,

The slash of a breath...

A receiver

Closes up my pants.

I lift it

Reduced to

The meat of a feather

Pausing a gaze

At its own inconsistency

A stranger's voice

Mumbles.

For the first time

I say my name.

Certainly I never thought…

You’ve got two pills in your hand

Which one will you choose?

The one I gave you

When you were not

Even a thought, a sigh of

Your father’s breath

A tear of the page -I wrote

Your name on, later on,

Unwillingly so I did-

Back then,

A winkle had more life than you.

You still kicked your way through.

Maybe If I had stopped you then,

We wouldn’t be sitting here to

What it looks like the sight

Of a retreat at flashpoint.

Certainly I never thought

It will turn out like this.

Maybe I should have recognised

Behind the cripple’s smile …

Even then, when your hands were

Not bigger than a tea spoon

The deep brown

In your eyes matched

Those wooden boxes

That go steep down

To the bottoms

Six feet underground.

I should have recognised

Why you always wore

A pale moon of a face

As if the sun was

An uncomfortable

Contingency that never suited

You like the humours of

A despicable presence. 

So which one will you choose?

Remember, mine

I gave it to you only once

There cannot be a second time

Look, can’t you see? It’s all fine

Families still wave at the train

From a field of weed.

‘I can see bees, the bees!’ you say.

Have I made you so blind?

That you only see in my living 

Room orchids struggle

In the darkness as if it all

Had been my fault

All along.

You should really stop.

Poetry will never make

You wise, those are only

Strokes hanged on to

Their own blights,

Meant to die in the observers’

Eyes like momentary sighs …

The day bites and flies

And nothing looms

Or so you say.

The other pill. The other pill.

It smells of an inky black

Black. Black.

Don’t kiss it. It might

As well swallow you.

And you tell me,

How you will face the heavens.

They are not fond of

Those like you,

Used to silky long robes,

Most of you have

Never dug the ground.

That’s why your skin

Creeps under the sun

Like a lazy sound.

Even autumn foliage is

Tougher than you!

They might start to wander why

You left in the first place.

Wasn’t your home spacious enough,

Didn’t you have enough friends.

Didn’t you have enough free time
To mirror the camera
As if the camera was there
Only to mirror you.

I do not understand. I do not understand.

You are no more a daughter,
Than I ever was,
Youth is the metaphor of your name,
I have orchids, now, instead of a room
And even my living room is yours.

I should have sold you
To the first trader on the
Streets of Beelzebub.
At least he would have made
A soup out of you.
And I would not be sitting here
My knees hooked me to prayers.

I am the worst beggar, ain’t I?
And just because
I can’t open your fist
Don’t start saying
I am no good mother…
My pill was neither black
Nor humorous
And I used all the care.

No please don’t cry!
The other pill. The other pill is still there.
Your grab is too tight and
It has taken half of your nose
And your ears have already been sterilised.

Give it to me! Give it to me – I say
And insist. I will drink it through
Not you, if I only could…
Certainly I never thought
It will turn all out like this.

A recycled tongue.

Permanently cursed,

Symmetrically cut

In the middle, on either sides,

Branches of a tree.

I shall make it personal.

Just re-attached, it retracts.

Disgust comes with a sigh

It might chew itself to death,

Unspeakable postmodernity.

I try to make it mine.

Perhaps it is because

It has no spine that

It bends, shapeless

Monstrosity, worse

Than any other liar.

At the bottom of the sea

It might have been,

it missed out on a

Romantic momentum.

It was most probably

A dried pebble in a sac

Among other dirty sins.

There is no symmetry

To the sounds. It is not

Only you that cannot

Understand it.

Its movements rebound

In the hollow of sleek

Waters. One day it will

Die, a dry web into

The ground. Its bodily

Flickers will never be

Mine. It cannot belong to….