First rain of the season: a ghazal

It snuck up on me when I was sleeping, the rain.
It had drowned out the alarm beeping, the rain.

When summer gets right under the skin
it has everything in you leaping, the rain.

When life becomes a little too much to take
it reminds you of all that’s keeping, the rain.

Likened to manna and love but how
it could leave you weeping, the rain.

Charu-Khepi loves laundry sun-dried and warm but this
holds together rhythms of sowing and reaping, the rain. 

For Indhu

I have been counting down
to your birthday
It was the day you got your diagnosis
I was told and I picture you in the hospital
wondering what to say to all the people
sending you life’s best wishes and love.
Again, I think – I should have called!
Again, I think – we should have met more often!
When you did not reply that day
I thought the “viral fever”
was pretty bad and that soon
maybe in a week or two
you would be back in form.
I still cannot make sense of your absence.
Yet, every time I see flowering trees
(the Jacaranda, Copper pod, Sampige
Pongam, Tabebuia – still make our city special
and in my mind’s eye – I read the poems
you’d have written for them when I see them
flaunting their falling flowers)
every time I make a delicious coconut based curry
every time I smell chakka (I know jackfruit was
your muse) – I think of your bright eyes dancing
and that smile, the words tripping out
I think of your sharp sense of humour that saved
many on many a day – and I know you are here
even if you are not there. 

The season of poetry

It is almost over now the season. Quick!
Write me a poem I can store in a glass jar
something that will catch the light on the shelf
that the jar sits with two succulents hanging for dear life
yet not willing to let go. I do not know what makes a succulent’s
life tick but not so with a poem. I will water it with my eyes
and let its words touch my lips, every single day.
I will savour its flavours whether the day is dull or bright.
Write me a poem for the keeping, won’t you, dear poet?
The season is almost over now. Quick! 

Reading an anthology of poetry

Reading an anthology of poetry
I flipped through the pages
deciphering words and images
culled out from memories
over many lifetimes
from stored sensations
carefully captured thoughts
fast evaporating dreams
and I was-just-passing-by ideas
that stayed to make
meaning as metaphors.
I found my eyes straining as
my head and heart gently squabbled
over which way I should be led
when a page fell open
on flowers and ferns
found on a mountain walk.  
And suddenly, even as
the printed words faded
the poems came alive
to my touch and how
they made pristine sense!
Not all poems are written.
Some are pressed. 

Bahinabai

Speaking to me from pages that fell open this morning
the poet said, “Words and meanings belong to the invisible realm.”
Invisible realm – did you say, I asked and as she spoke
the blank page filled up with words – hers, of course.

PS: Bahinabai (1628-1700) was a Varkari saint-poet who considered Sant Tukaram as her guru. The line in quotations is translated by Jerry Pinto and is from the anthology Wild Women, edited by Arundhathi Subramaniam. 

Lines from Marvel to my Muse

“Had we but world enough and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.”
I told my Muse, quoting lines from Marvel
and she said, “Oh yes, we have enough world
we do, but that time’s running out – it’s true!”
“So, what shall we then present as today’s poem?”
I asked and she said, “What does it matter?
You’ll soon enough be dead!”
No “Coy Mistress” this and how clearly she
isn’t about to even blow me a kiss!
She sees me watching her lips and walks 
gaze turned away, coolly swaying her hips.
She knows so well I’m dangling at her feet
and holding my breath – for every sign wrangling.
Oh, she sees me swinging between heart and head
holding out for everything that’s said and unsaid.
Such, dear reader, is the poet’s predicament
that even her Muse doesn’t pretend to hear her vent!
If today, these lines do not a poem make
blame it on the Muse for this poet’s sake!

 

Seeing through you

to see you
to look deeply
into you and find
the mountains of resistance
you hold to being seen
to climb them and find
across those mountains
seas containing creatures
fierce and fiercely shy
to meet and befriend them
so they stop stopping you
to rise through those waters
up to meet you on your shore
where with a trillion trees in you
you stand, to hug those trees
and wonder at the fleeting rainbows
thrown on your skin and smile
by the sun and rain flirting
all out in the open and
to see you again
and again and again
and find you’re not a filter
for the magic of this universe but
you’re the whole universe – unfiltered. 

Beware of poems

beware of poems
that wake you at 3.33 am
and have you bending
forward and through
your knees to rise up
on the other side
to kiss your middle back
beware these poems
can be as twisted
and unreadable
as thoughts that
keep you awake
many nights and
make you miss
the actual yoga class
so helpful to observe
the jumbled scratchy mind
and bare branches of trees
always always
butting into poetry 
leaving you wondering
who plants poems
and who writes trees 

Today I have no poem for you, dear reader

Today I have no poem for you, dear reader
No verse with image to imbue, dear reader

See that peacock perched on the distant coconut tree
That the bird could fly so high who knew, dear reader

My mind is vacant as the summer sky of clouds
It cannot from old draw out the new, dear reader

When I sat down to tease some poetry from the air
I only found dryness, no morning dew, dear reader

Love, longing, loss, death and despair are dark
No words I can find of lighter hue, dear reader

Listed out in all depth and detail on a digital screen   
My daily tasks are in an endless queue, dear reader

Days like this I sit still and wait for words  
Did you hear that kitten mew, dear reader

Charu-Khepi wanted to gift you a ghazal this evening
Her poetic sensibilities vanished on cue, dear reader

 

An African Tulip Tree in an Acrid City

The African Tulip tree stands naked
under the scorching summer sun.
Uncaring of the heat
two birds sit in its branches
ranting, chanting (it would be a stretch
to call it singing). Both green plumed
the birds hold court in an aloof way
not seeking company, praise or criticism.
They call out more to themselves than anyone else.
I listen from the terrace – fascinated
by the lack of rhythm in this unmusical concert.
Only nature knows the code to this programme.
She who bears white radish and bleeding beets
both in the same belly – she knows the language of these
rants or chants (it would be a stretch to call it birdsong).
As she knows that beneath the nakedness
inside the curvy, brown branches now catching the sun
fresh green leaves await release into the air of an acrid city. 


(Poet Post Script: World Earth Day is everyday but do we know or hear it?) 

walls

they keep you in
they keep you out
they shield you from harm
they cut down your growth
they could have your back
they could hurt your back
yet, one day, when you scale the wall
it won’t be for the view
one day, when you scale the wall
it will be for you!

 

maybe I am a paper boat

maybe I am a paper boat
not very symmetrical but special
figment of a child’s imagination
made hastily from handy materials
floated playfully in seasonal waters
cheered on and bringing cheer to
children and adults on a dreary day
and when the storm passes maybe
I will reach the mud, be taken in
and then slowly find my anchor

maybe I am a paper boat

 

of life and death

sitting with grief
grief sitting on my shoulders
jumping with joy
joy jumping in my heart
I meditated on death
I meditated on life
beaten by both
my eyes blurry
I couldn’t see even
the tip of my nose 

what do you believe?

some believe in god

some believe there is no god

some believe in a one and only god

some believe there is only one god

unable to believe in anything but fallen leaves

this much I believe that even if there is god

in a form, formless or in any proportion

that god does not believe in religion 

Sanctuary

I have two sacred guides in my life.
One is my mentor and the other my muse.
My mentor is an excellent listener
deeply empathetic, leads by example
is very well networked, abundantly
patient and experienced – to list
just a few of her qualities. My muse
she’s stunning, self-made, striving
yet thriving – a path finder she is
and a spinner of sunlight, air and water.
She’s very stylish, very determined and
a veritable creative guru in the art of being.
Though they haven’t met in person these
peepal trees – in me, they’ve interacted
intertwined – grown in and out of each other.
Stand under either peepal tree and know
what it means to receive sanctuary.

 

now

blank screens
silence
unspoken feelings
held back thoughts
swallowed up songs
cancelled dreams
untravelled paths
unopened chapters
unread books
unwritten letters
held back kisses

slay them

now 

OMG – word stories!

The word was first used in 1916
OMG – who knew!
And someone in the 1960s
found it Laugh Out Loud funny
that a Little Old Lady was – what
maybe crossing the road?
Years later, they find LOL
outdated as also ROFL
or ROFLMAO and just punch in
a face – calling it an emoticon
because it does all the laughing
sometimes blinking and rolling its eyes
tearing up in sheer amusement it cannot
feel, in proxy for a person who can feel
who can laugh but would like to do so
without moving a single facial muscle.
In case you feel like calling me a poetaster
for writing verse on such inanities
please know that I could then
call you a criticaster too. 

Amaltas

Amaltas flowers teach you
that there’s a lightness to
abundance – an ease, a sense
of rhythm and flow you may
know only in seasons but
it is there with you, for you
if only you knew. Watch me
the flowers say
hold yourself lightly
let the wind sway you
your time is now and here
even if the sun is harsh and
the earth hard – simply shine
and shower on and when
that inner call sounds
let go and freely fall. 

moonrise

when they had no more bite
left in their fight, they rested
and in the single breath that flowed
the earth softened and the moon rose
high in the sky in many colours

 

Vaasa thinnai*

red oxide seats
red oxide steps
zinc sheet
veranda
sparrows
mangoes
guavas
monkeys
children
questions
laughter
ice-spice
elastic
paper boats
crocodile crocodile
evening light

tell me if you miss anything else

*roughly translates Tamizh for ‘the front porch’