The lens that brings light to my eyes
dims and distorts most of it.

Yet my eyes are all I have
for seeking the few oases of truth
that melt into mirages.

Everywhere and Nowhere

I stand in the middle of
everywhere and nowhere,
with my feet rooted frozen
to the point where all paths meet.

My mind is in a whirl.
like a kite cut loose
being buffeted by gusts of upheaval,
going everywhere and nowhere
all at once.

The Limitations of My Senses

My eyes can see only so far;
they look so ahead
that they can't follow
the earth's curvature
to its very end.

My ears can hear only so much;
they listen so little
that they can't comprehend
the laughter of playful dolphins
and the cries of cut trees.

My hands can touch only phantom mirages;
they never turn towards
the gnarled roots of ancient forests
or the callused palms of a caring mother.

My nose can smell only fragrant privilege;
perfumes often mask
the stench of sweat and blood
that stops my world from falling,
like Atlas' mighty shoulders.

My tongue can twist only in some ways;
a muscle so atrophied
can't stretch
to include the voices
of the plundered and oppressed.

My mind can hold only so much wisdom;
the eyes of my eyes
the nose of my nose
and the ears of my ears
often lose their way
in the bewildering maze
of meaningless facts and figures.

Landay

A cloud just drifted over the moon,
and you were just here- now you're gone too soon.

Note to Self

Nothing will happen
till you cease to rest against
the bulwark of crumbling glory.

Nothing will happen
when you look above,
for a call from the muse
you'd long left behind,
in rusty abandon.

Nothing will happen
when you wipe the dust off
dead ideas and tired metaphors.

Nothing will happen
till you peer clear-eyed
into the fog of the future that awaits you.

In short, nothing will happen
till you put pen to paper.

The Idol Maker's Prayer

To you who sits serenely on her chariot,
thronged by hordes of mad devotees;

to you whose brilliance bursts through burnished bronze
 never quite buried under layers of silk and fragrant garlands;

to you whose smile is a lotus just starting to bloom,

I, being a petty mortal, am always aware
that the whole world dances to your whims.

You are
the fecundity of green paddy fields
and cracks on parched earth of a long drought.

You are
a house filled with the laughter of children
and cries of women with barren wombs.

You are
the comfort of full coffers
and the emptiness of a beggar's bowl.

But as I lie prostrate before you,
I desire nothing,
except to mould you with my own hands.
All over again.

No matter how hard I try,
I can never numb this
piercing pang of separation.
I can never forget
that I birthed you
and you birthed me.
But who birthed whom?

You're a daughter I'm about to lose
to your bronze counterpart;
he's dying to wed you
just to bed you
in the sanctum sanctorus
of a timeless temple.

You were
the germ of a Goddess in beeswax
as you flowed through my fingers
and filled yourself out.

You were
pliable clay with which I caressed
the lotus blossom of your bosom.

You were
bliss that became solid
like the clay that caked your body.

You were
a spurting stream of molten beeswax
that gushed out in the heat of the moment.

You were
a hollow womb
yearning for more than just pleasure.

You were
green glowing bronze
straight from the furnace of frenzied devotion,
with which I filled the aching void of your being.

You were
a babe becoming a Goddess
in her secure cocoon- a womb of clay.

You were
agony tearing me apart
when I cracked open your hardened cast.

You were
no longer mine
when I carved your eyes
with a golden chisel,

For
you became Devi
when you opened your eyes to the world.

All that glitters is not gold.
All that's gold does not glitter.

When i have nothing to do
i hate to have nothing to do;
and when i have something to do
i hate to have something to do.
Whether to do or not to do,
tell me folks, what should i do?

My First Sonnet Minus Meter

When will this dense deluge abate?
Has time locked up this instant of gloom
and thrown away its key to freeze my fate?
Clouds of foul moods as dark as doom
come with gusts of tempestuous tempers
to lighten their burdens of torments over me.
They are so many- i can't remember
when it was i was happy and free.

I've barred my door and closed my windows;
yet their panes rattle my peace of mind.
I've retreated inside to cushion the blows
but all my efforts have been undermined.

It's cowardice that cuts deeper than a knife.
God, give me courage to walk through strife.

A Suitable Girl for My Son

This is a poem that describes the sad plight of many Indian women who are thrust into the marriage market. I wrote this from the point of view of a mother-in-law. Please bear in mind that i don't at all endorse anything i've written here. I'm completely against it.

Let me see what she has in her purse.
Let me total all her assets.

Is she tall and pretty and fair?

Is her skin as
velveteen and unblemished
as a newborn's buttock?
Is it a warm shade of peaches and cream?
Does it give a pearly glow
when she pulls back her pallu?

Is her hair
long and thick and lustrous?
Does it ripple behind her back
and fan out like a monsoon cloud
when she loosens her bun
to retire for the night?

Can the curve of her waist be discerned?
Are her breasts big enough
to fill my son's palms?

Are her hips wide enough
to securely cocoon an heir in her womb?

Has she been to school and college?
Can she speak English like an Angrez?
Will she be an arm candy to my son
for his numerous work parties?

What wealth can i wrest from her father?
How much will her dowry
add to our coffers?

Are her rotis as round as mine?
Can she darn torn clothes?
Can she whip up a feast
at a moment's notice?
Can she keep calm in the face of
bawling babies and domestic catastrophes?

Will she stay at home to do the
cooking, washing, bartan, jhadoo and pocha?

Or will she abandon her family
to shamelessly chase dreams?

Let me see her and then decide
whether she'll ever be
as good to my son
as I am to my husband.

Some terms which need explaining are-
pallu- veil
roti- it's a form of unleavened bread
bartan- dishes
jhadoo-sweeping
pocha-mopping
Angrez- Englishman

Wipe Your Slate Clean

Wipe your slate clean off all
the world has written on it.

Wipe off every single prejudice
that history and culture have
conspired to blinker you with.

Wipe off all you've been made
to like and dislike.

Wipe off
the good and the bad,
right and wrong,
happiness and sadness,
joy and grief.

Wipe yourself off yourself.

You'll see the world
like you've never seen it before.

Pallindrome

Think, write, scratch
go on go on go on go
scratch, write, think.

The Pianist and the Ballerina

He tunes his piano
She ties her pointés.

He sits on his stool
She takes center-stage.

He plays the opening note
The spotlight flashes on her.

He can only hear the crowd's loud cheers
She can only see eyes upon her regal body.

He glues his eyes to his sheets
She fixes her mind upon her movements.

His fingers move mechanically along the keys
Her limbs sway to the tune of precise timing.

He has played this score hundreds of times
She has rehearsed her steps to faultless perfection.

He lets his memory guide his fingers
She lets her limbs free to do their own work.

He steals a glance at her
She opens her ears to lilting melody.

Those sheets of music cease to exist;
He's busy composing his heart's birdsong.

She is no longer a puppet in the audience's hands
Her soul leaps joyfully towards new-found release.

She is his music
and he's her dance.

Addressed to No One Anyone Knows Of

You can
piss on my feelings
all you want;
and get away with it.

You're a giant
and i'm a peashooter.

You're friendly popular
tried tested and trusted.
(Or so it seems.)

I'm the caustic irreverent
'rebel without a cause'
(Or so the world thinks.)
My existence itself is profane.

You can easily dismiss me
with a languid wave of your hand.
I'll be swatted away like a fly.

But each blow of yours
hammers steel into shape.

One day you wouldn't be able
to wish me away,
not when there are many of me.

I'm scared of falling in love.

I'm scared of surrendering
my whole soul to the most powerful
illusion that ever fools man.

For me falling in love would be
seeing a mirage of an oasis upon
the desert of my lonely heart.

I'll trudge several painful miles
to go the distance towards this
beautiful projection of all my dreams.

I'll grow weary with each step i take,
till i find it's never been there.

Sallekhana

I've tried to describe the Jain ritual of Sallekhana, which is fasting to death. The vow of sallekhana is taken when one feels that one's life has served its purpose; when one has no wishes/ambition/desires left, and no responsibilities remaining in life. It is also allowed in cases of terminal disease or great disability. The purpose is to purge old karmas and prevent the creation of new ones. If you want to know more about it, you may read 'The Nun's Tale' in a book called 'Nine Lives' by William Dalrymple. You may also see the wikipedia page on Sallekhana. Here's the link- http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sallekhana. 

Sallekhana is not suicide. 

Sallekhana can never be 
a violent reckless freefalling 
plunge into that self-destructive 
hellward spiral born of despair. 

Yes, Sallekhana is a fast 
unto death, but is death the End? 

Isn't the human body a mere 
vehicle that takes the soul on 
its journey towards the greatest Truth? 

Can one life ever be enough 
to know all there is to know? 
For the body is an object 
that will slowly come to ruin. 
One day it will fail to serve you. 

Death by Sallekhana is just 
like phasing out an old car as
lovingly and gently as one 
weans a babe off the Mother's breast. 

Predator

It is a starving animal.

It's mean angry and scary
when lean with hunger.

Purity of purpose
has sharpened its senses.

No smell or sight or sound
can hijack its attention
away from prey.

Even when hunger
burns out its insides
it's never too weak
for the thrill of a chase.

It needs to strike with ferocious deftness and
inflict pain by ripping tender flesh with dagger claws.

It needs to watch its prey's futile struggle
till it goes slack in its jaws.

More than blood it needs to taste power.

Poets United Mid-Week Motif ~ Equality

The colour of your skin is a
function of sunlight and genes.

It serves to protect you from
the harshest rays of the sun.

The contours of your body
are a map of your homeland.

They tell the tale of survival
in various rugged terrains.

Be proud of what you're endowed with
and enlighten those foolish

frogs confined to wells of
stagnant notions of beauty.

Remind them that Nature made all with equal love
and show them the vast sea of diversity.

Aurora (alliterative) Australis

In the coldest corners of our world

on the longest darkest winter nights

Celestial flames lick the sky in twirls. 

Fiery red and green dance violent whirls 

against velvet black backdrop unfurled 

by God for this dazzling play of light

in the coldest corners of our world 

on the longest darkest winter nights. 

Let my words and my words alone
be all you need to know of me.

Let only the distilled essence
of my purest thoughts spread fragrance
till where it can in this vast world.

The rest of my existence is
an insubstantial wisp of smoke.

Only that which matters will make
its way into your minds and hearts.