Another Almost Made Up Poem and other poems

I see your glowing face glitter in the darkness

around me, no, your face is not glowing, it’s lustrous,

sweeping me up into the radiance of seas,

even as a whirlpool of shadows engulfs me,

there are moments when you become permeable,

absorbing the soul in such a way that it begins to sing

and jive, and sparkle, and flutter; Toey, I quaver,

“oh, come on” you intone, your eyes

“have their silence” and I often feel that

“in your most frail gestures are things which enclose me”

and “the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses”

I see you pour Kilimanjaro into my cup —

my cup that never brims over, always both

half-empty and half-filled, never full, which

is fine by me; I’m both half-filled and half-empty,

so no sweat, by the way did I tell you

how much I like the idea of incompleteness

and emptiness; a frailty in my bent, a foible in my being

as I sit and pore over cummings (ee, initials, in lower case)

in the dying light of the night, with hours slipping by,

you light up the caverns of my soul, and add fuel

to my febrile imagination. Night keeps dripping away.

I must have launched some metaphysical rant

for I hear you blurt out, “stop fossicking

through life for meaning, just live,

like millions do”. You’re right, I must live

like millions do, and, may be, only die differently.

“can I meet some other end?” I ask you, “why must 

I also die like millions do?” I enquire. But you remain

silent for a long time, then say, “you’re off-key,

missing the point here, why must you do this?”

the air I breathe is frowsty, rancid even, I hear

of a hanging faraway somewhere, and bloodletting

in the city I sorely, I’ve told you so often, love. I hear

of the barbarians at the gate in our own backyard.

For a long time, I hear nothing, feel nothing, see nothing

you bring me back, “Go, finish your work,” as dawn

conspires to set us apart. “I can’t; whatsoever I finish remains

unfinished,” I utter with some sadness. “It’s as if I were wanting,

forever-in-the-making, unwhole, incomplete, inchoate.”

you look at me with your perfect eyes, and stroke my hair,

I'd have liked if you had hugged me, but I don’t tell you this

and keep sinking into the well of weltschmerz, feeling

the deep, agonising tugs of anomie, with, what's that word?

hikikomori making a clutch at my soul — there’s ire in it,

there’s angst, some ennui, some love, and some loathing.

“into your carapace again?” you enquire. I don’t know

what to say, I never know what to say, and keep staring

at you till I disembogue, empty my soul out

confined, contained, I come undone

in the brooks of your being. It's better like this.  

A poem travels 

From limbs to lips

In slow, serrated jangle 

Mowing the seductive symphony 

Of silence 

Like a prophet of doom 

Holding aloft the holy grail 

Clasped, not abundance 

But only more deprivations 

Refusing to provide 

An exegesis

On the exigencies of life 

Or death. 

Is beautiful. But real life, I tell you, oh! dear, please note

Is different. I knew instantly just what exactly you meant

When you said that. A confession, here, then: It rent

My heart. And I wondered the veracity for hours 

Of your simple words, the truth that even now towers

Over my own world, my being and everything I do

Real life indeed is different! Oh! How true! How true!

Real life, come to think of it, preys upon your soul

Who has it ever left unscathed? On whom has it never taken a toll?

It's as if we're, in our lives, in many ways, something else

But real life, it be darned, makes of us something else

Where must we go, I wonder, with our fragile, fragile dreams?

For real life, everywhere, lurks around the corner, it seems

Everyday, it gnaws on us, poaches upon a bit of us

Everyday, it takes a bit away from the whole of us

And thus life goes on, with boulders of broken dreams rife

Such is life! And such, oh! dear, the suchness of real life!

Morning arrives

Like some forgotten melody

In fragments, charting

Its own syncopated tracks

Lost in its own lyricism.

Sleep is comforting

In its silence

Waking up is never easy:

It throws you

In the throes of noise. 

And then a long spiel on worldliness.

And then a long spell of silence. 

The parkours around town —

Free running, at will.

Going where your feet takes you —

You keep embarking on.

Disinterested, at times,

At times, disinterring

Yourself from yourself.

Some secrets the city — and the body — 

Hides in its sightly, sinewy

Knots and crevices.

Frazzled, forlorn, at times,

As you go frolicking

Around town.

Here, a veil of darkness

Surrounds me

Here, I breathe

A stank, stale air

As I sit amidst

Poker-faced people — 

Devoid of liveliness, 

Devoid of life.

There have been times

When I have been tempted

To tiptoe to you

Join you in your jaunts.

But, almost always, 

Something has clenched  my feet.

Everyday, I fancy

To fly to you

Everyday, I imagine 

I've torn into that tumour — 

Of sullen, sodden sloth — 

And run away to you.

Everyday, I feel my feet

Quiver with anticipation.

All these days, I’ve just been whiling away my time, seeking delight in things banal and weary

Taking shine to mundane stuff, taking trivialities a trifle too seriously, so with all things dreary

I have wandered, in vain, for years to find a voice that could anchor the myriad anxieties within

A voice to make sense of the world around, a voice amidst disparate roar, a voice amidst the din

For long I’ve struggled to find the right language, find the right words, the right tenor and tone

For long I’ve found myself lost in symbols of speech, for long I’ve been silent, silent like a stone

Words have often been taken away by someone or the other and I’ve often been left in the lurch

Words have often abandoned me, that too when I’ve found myself of that perfect word in search

Today, I’m mired in reticence, congealed in taciturnity, quietness has clipped all my wings

Today, I suffer with bouts of silence, and don’t quite know what and when and how to say things

Tomorrow, when I know how and when and what to speak, would you be around to listen to me?

Tomorrow, when I rise and shine, would you promise you won’t let the sun go down on me?

Nibbling on crumbs of sleep

In remainder of night's pale light

Meditative, a bit pensive and deep

A pair of eyes looks into the night

Some shouts, murmurs and whispers

Resonate in the empty sphere

Some words, some thoughts and gestures

Are all in the now and here

The eyes are shut, but witness

Whatever that happens around

All moss, all mass, all mess

That continue to gain ground

The time has ticked away

The night begins to recede

A pair of eyes blinks to say

"I yearn to learn to secede".

Even in its deep sleep

The night keeps

Rumbling to wakefulness,

To a life of its own.

Your eyes — half-shut, half open — 

Stare at me

From different

Time and space.

Your gentle lashes linger

In sweet shadows  

That tiptoe to me,

Ricocheting some memories

In the deep, black stillness.

I can feel your gossamer gaze

On the nimble, naked night.

I can’t be dreaming

But if I say I’m up

I know

I’d be lying.

Half-asleep, half awake, then?

Like half-dead, half-alive?

Here, here, you see,

That desire to be 

A bit of this 

And also

A bit of that.

Half-this, half-that.

You'd know.

I know.

It was just

A short while ago

That I survived

A web of humans. 

And the little tragedies

They unfold

In their own little ways.

Someone’s asperity,

Yet another’s ire 

Someone's pugnacity,

Yet another’s mire.

Some indiscipline,

Some indolence,

Some misconduct

Some benevolence

Some outright

Stupidity and abuse.

And some facetious —  

and some malicious —

Utterances!

Ah! the joys of the agreeable, and

The trauma of the otherwise!  

“Who hired her for that job?”

I keep on stirring

My bile before you.

Who knows for how long!

For a moment, I almost

Want you to writhe in

The same furnace of anger

That I burn in.

But you are different.

We are different! 

Or are we?

I can hear your words:  

I can’t help it, I swear.

My oozing out (your words)

Of love, respect

Or care or compassion 

Doesn’t help.

The world is as it is

And will always be

The same. 

Life is beautiful, you see,

But the world, as Pinter

Whom you and I love, said,

Is hell. 

I hear you ask.

No, no, nothing!

I wouldn't have bothered,

I swear, 

About the world

Or anything.

But for the night

That stubbornly seeks

The redressal

Of all the day’s grievances.