Progression Of An Elegy

A poem is coming;
oozing through a tiny opening
of the block —

a bullet hole
from the left to the right hemisphere
in the skull of this Waziristan child.

A poem is coming
wrapped in a blood-stained sheet
upheld in a charpoy
over the shoulders of the bereaved
of a drone strike;

is coming,
screaming to be heard,
staggering under crimson curlicues,
intruding onto the blank peace,
of your apathy.

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.

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.

You Hid I Seek ..

Call it prose, or a prose poem but it is rough for sure. Its more or less sort of a forced vent which had to be written and posted just for the sake of pouring out a random idea that lurked in my mind for a few days. Hope it isn’t offensive to those who expect better quality stuff from me.

When you hid behind a thick oak tree

in a childhood game of hide and seek,

that we played one dark eventide,

I never knew I’ll be rendered blind-folded

to grope for your touch for a lifetime to come.

You were abducted by time that plunders

in the ripe environs of swelling nights

as I bumped onto objects, muted and dumb,

hurting my heart which bled

leaving behind a trail of red

through the journey of passing years.

The map of my life is reminiscent to

the colors of the day of Valentine

which reminds me of the little

game of hide and seek that

we so fondly played in our childhood.

A Hurting Departure..

132883178_c00a26b0dcIt was fine then; when
your separation octopused
my soul and devoured
it calmly, stealthily.

Now, the departure of
your thoughts is hurting
the very place, which
placed them for eternity.

Do me a favor, if you can!
Tell them not to shout, not
to mock at the hollow
they forsake; tell them
leave it quietly to
a natural crumble,
brick by brick
to the ground!

Photo Courtesy: http://www.flickr.com