An Exercise

Cav is generous in help and I’m indebted for his gesture. He gave me a theme of ‘memory’ with words like ‘grove’ ‘midgets/midges’ ‘tingle’ ‘dusk’ and ‘window’ to be used in the development of a concept. I tried it abliet with a frozen mind resisting to unshackle and came up with a raw, rushed up (I wasn’t hastened, though) story. Here it is. It will be shaped, reshaped and even written off, in light of you people’s suggestions.

Sitting poles apart

in his cozy room

he would crave to be

a part of the scence

when he’d watch

on his tv screen,

the glistening Himalayan peaks

kissing the Indus-blue cheeks

of the sky that would blush

into all the possible hues.

As if a speck of a mettle

enchanted towards a gigantic magnet

he found himself moving

towards the mountaneous range.

Standing at the feet

of the Nanga Purbut

he was a midget

filled with the naivete

to surmount love.

Pinching the body

of the slumbering beast

he crawled up

unaware of the pitfalls

waiting under the sheets

of white snow.

The arrival of dusk

emboldened the air

that lanced through

his mountaineering gear

as he was tingled

before being gobbled

by a cavernous hole.

It all happened in a trice;

his body writhed like a fish

in protest of decption,

his heart blissed out

and froze like that

of the beloved

and his mind rolled

in a backward motion

showing him the glimpse

of his wife sitting across

the window pane

staring deep at the

grove where they’d play

hide and seek.

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I will taint you ..

As you refuse

to own them —

the illegitimate words

that fertilized in the womb

of my mind,

(when your thoughts persuaded

my passion to produce

love poems)

I’ll throw them at your face,

I’ll taint you,

I’ll hand you the guilt

of their birth out of wedlock

if I’m ridiculed for their creation

this time again.

A Rebuttal Of Fate

We are built
to be eroded
with the blows of time.

Now when I lose a piece
here or a chunk there,
I hold it tight, the treasure of

love, kept in the safety of heart
sealed with ego;

just don’t hand time
the stilettos of your lashes
to exhume it.

Preserved, this love
will mock the vicious ways
of our fate,

that crumbs us to death
after luring us to life.

Its been re written in light of Cav’s and a few others’ suggestions. I hope its better this time around;

We are built
to be eroded
by the strokes of time.

Time chiseled
to amputate the idols
I sculpted in my dreams;
now it wants to lacerate
my chest, looking
for the reservoir of love
kept in the safety of heart.

Just don’t hand time
the spears of your lashes
to exhume my love–

preserved, it will
mock the turns
of our sadistic fate

interested only in
keeping our ruins intact
after granting us
a handful of breaths.

In Love For The Night

Slumber in the shades
of your locks is naivete
hence I walk deep in
to the core of your soul
to heal my dreams away
from the piercing claws
of the sunbeams.

Night, o’ night,
why can’t you fight
that big, burning beast
who gnaws at your dark self
bit by bit, reducing you
to nothing.

Unlike you, I won’t
expose you to the perils
of the day; come dwell
in my craving chest
till you gain enough might
to wipe the false purity of white
off the face of the earth.

The Songs Of Silence

The symphony of your soul
harmonized with the beats
of my heart
in a melodious tune,
which nature composed,
echoed in ourselves

but the orchestra faded
in the rising clamor of a
scornful throng – they feared
music may enchant us
to the forbidden tracts of love.

We laughed at their naivete
as we sailed above the reach
of their graveling din
to share the songs of our silence
and meet in an eternal embrace.

An excerpt From Arundati Roy’s ‘The God Of Small Things’

I haven’t finished it yet. I’m in the midst of the novel and I’m totally awestruck by the sheer class of Arundati’s writing style; the structure of her sentences, the diction, the punctuation and the similies– Ah! the magnets!.

I couldn’t resist to share with you an excerpt where the writer details the procedure of the electric incineration of Ammu; the mother of Rahel, 7 and Estha, 11. Look at the melancholy oozing out of the paras.

The steel door of the incinerator went up and the muted hum of eternal fire became a red roaring. The heat lunged out at them like a famished beast. The Rahel’s Ammu was fed to it. Her hair, her skin, her smile. Her voice. The way she used Kipling to love her children before putting them to bed: We be of one blood, ye and I.Her good night kiss. The way she held her faces steady with one hand (squashed-cheeked, fish-mouthed) while she parted and combed their hair with the other. The way she held knickers out for Rahel to climb into. Left leg, right leg. All this was fed to the beast, and it was satisfied.

She was their Ammu and their Baba and she had loved them Double.

The door of the furnace clanged shut. There were no tears. The crematorium ‘In-charge’ had gone down the road for a cup of tea and didn’t come back for twenty minutes. That’s how long Chacko and Rahel had to wait for the pink receipt that would entitle them to collect Ammu’s remains. Her ashes. The grit of her bones. The teeth from her smile. The whole of her crammed into a little clay pot. Receipt No. Q498673.

Union Of Souls

Our longing gravitates
as much as the separation
widens and our souls
step out of their shells
to meet in the celestial heights.

Entwined in ecstatic trance
they satiate with the purity of bliss
before a glance at our parted bodies
stimulates their altruism for the grieved.

Our souls re-enter
their momentary abodes and
sprinkle the magic they hold
to soothe our craving bodies
until they themselves lose
their essence.

And the urge to rejuvenate
takes them by the hand
for another embrace.