I Dreamed Living Moments of You


70

I really did love you in a sense
Afars, fellow citizens, passerbyers
Would be friends, fellow students
Bustling colleagues, strangers on the street
.
Old people trying to walk
Children laughing with their parents
Young woman in the metro
Looking at her reflection –
/
I looked at you all, with unfeigned interest
Studied your stages, passages, patterns
Myself a poet among so many who
Truly lived, by being, exempt from watching
.
I really did love you all in a way
Non-intimates, in your pleasant varieties
Though I could not melt your woe
With any common and good relief, I was there
.
Dreaming next to your solemn and candid moments
The two of us are dead now, it happened all so quickly
What I learned, was in fact, to survive you
That only love mattered, that universal sympathy.

Graffiti Before Apocalypse


69

It’s a final exam to believe
In cosmic consciousness, it’s difficult
To believe that a new world is waiting/

When the budget tells you
Quantum physics doesn’t matter
Ghost in the machine, the crocked/

World keeps getting faster
The overall emptiness of matter
Better exploited, transistors more atomic/

The world keeps getting smaller
But then why do you still feel so damn far!
It’s a universe language, to want/

To be loved, to care about the state of things
But it’s a diffusion of responsibility
When the old boys club keeps/

Giving you the chills, at how
Patriarchy and military spending
Still rule the world, it’s hard to trust/

Humanity, when you realize
It’s still the bankers who own you.

When Geography Meets Biography


68

My sky, lights up with questions/
When I am with you
Like an applause meter of naturalness
Acceptance, is a beautiful thing

With references, of quiet friendship/
I don’t need clever turns of phrase
But simplicity, that spells out the
Beautiful names, like laughter unbidden

I’d cherish that, like lightning/
Out on the evening veranda
Or raindrops heavy with moisture
That long for the ground, the quiet Earth

So strong and stable, so in need/
Of a little water, that’s how I am with you –
A running light, of golden miles
As far as the eyes can see, it’s comforting

To know, that I can find contentment/
Light-jeweled in the parks
Turning in only conversation, forth & replied
Like a deeper comfort into the night.

26.4.2013

These Heroics of May


45

The sun is alive in my belly/
My navel of blowing May
The soft gold of my birth-month
I’ve waited for this

Over fields where I turned/
Your bronze name in my head
Over and over, like buds and springs
Of all the loves I have ever witnessed

The high stars maintain/
The dripping hope of last-songs
Today’s melody, well it’s for Spring
I am fixed in her like a Galaxy

The secret of her fragile skies is this –
That I’ve had a shinning head
For outrageous dreams
As the smallest movements in my mouth

May is for heroic kissing/
For lovers who burn with lucid plundering
To build new lives
Where we have once been cheated
To replace that with fertility.

Perfection of Neuromarketed Solitude


44

It’s so simple/
To wake up a lonely man enough
Until it becomes the only possibility
I’ll work hard all day

A new leader of destiny/
With the concise grief
Of weeping men, I’ll take it
Sow a dynasty, cheat fate

In the freedom of my pilgrimage/
Hardened, I’ll build a lonely country
Where I am both, President and Serf
I’ll break from love &

I’ll scorn fraternity/
Float my soul in my own cherry wine
It’s so simple
That’s what this world is coming to

I’ll polish my own tongue/
With kisses for melodious memories
That’s I’ll invent
Like a virtual network

Of my own imagination/
There will be brown petals of fire
Around my acts, circling my poems
My cattle will be the milk of muses

Like layers of autumn leaves/
Of all the beauty I shall witness
Something forgets in me, to count on others
It’s so simple

To wake up a lonely man/
And accept it all, perfectly.

Ballad of Last Light


43

The sun is tangled
In my prayers for sunset
It doesn’t matter than
I’m at the goldenth hour of my life
I’ve been changed to a bird

So many times, it’s difficult
To count, was I a Phoenix?
Or was I a Dragon?
I fell in Love with Asian
A long time ago, lifetimes ago

Terrified by the clash
Of wind and grass
I became an ethereal thing
I commit daily suicide
As a human being

And walk as a spiritual creature
In literature, the sun is tangled
In my silver hair
Between sky and water
I’ll leave my songs

Pet the Serpent of knowledge
In darkness, I’ll set myself a home
Pulling a flower out of moss
I’m a hung man’s last shivering
The sun is tangled at my feet
In my invocation for dawn.

(For We Know Silence Already)


42

You tell me that silence
Is closer to God, than poetry
Who am I to disagree –
The best words have always been inner
Like empathy, breathless & unsaid
.
You tell me that silence
Is nearer to your heart than your writing
Though you write from a truer
Place than I do, I can feel
The peace in your few aching words
But I can bring your silence
.
It’s built in my calm, my meditation
Before I had a voice, a body, a life
I was a gift of silence, unborn –
You hand my poems back to me
With a slow smile and I retreat
.
Back into the silence of our
Shared understanding, it’s sweeter
There, than before – when all
I was, were poems strewn across the floor.

Language at the End of the World


67

To lighten up language, I’ve/
Dug deeper, soared higher
A grassroots entry into oblivion

The little landscapes collected/
Of a billion lives, varieties, in-commons
To become a single blade of grass

Or a single bead of flowing water/
That’s the first conundrum
To identify with everything

Purely, without pretence/
I do not barter light and dark
They simple are, like the macrocosm

Of my internal states, I mirror them well/
With is neither grief nor joy
But only peace, nature, what is –

Time will tell if I listened or loved/
This world well, with my lack of vitality
To lighten up language, I’ve

Blown in your direction, across/
Buried cities, with little saliva
In my mouth for the end-of-times

I’ve dreamed apocalypse would be/
Not so different, as the sweet oblivion
Of a dying world, that thrives if only
For it’s artificial growth.

The Wrong Ends of the Rainbow


66

At the brink of extinction/
The author forgets themselves
The scar tissue from which we write
Breathes the wounds of the world
It’s not unusual how at the heart

Of every poem, is a journey/
At the tips of discovery
The world changes by how
It is perceived by us, let’s make it
An art, to see the world with new eyes

Darlings, I’ve read your poems/
Like the same old world we look through
With the endless interest of living
We find use in discussing the same things
At the ends of turmoil, ruin, transformation

The author is the story, there is nothing else/
Worth relating, I write out of my charms
And spells and happy western skydrops
Countries of narratives, I couldn’t even begin

To truly describe, how the light cools/
At the idea of last incidents, forever loves.

The Light of Mornings-After


66

I find joy hidden in indiscreet places/
Faces crossed in ascension, pure
The unwrapped courtesy of an elderly couple
Holding hands, after exhausted labours
Possessing, more tenderness than I do!

I find joy in the cemetery trees/
That bloom, as if the flowers
Strewn beside the graves, gives them compost
Warm and lush, energy insatiable
All things have a heart, invisible but alive

Like all that Love that isn’t dead/
It was transformed into other things
Suppressing one secret, for another form
Let the labors go on, lives and flowers too –
I can admire then, the architecture

Of my own doom, the way things grow/
From passion to indifference, the way trees
Wave goodbye to different eras of our becoming
I find joy in the profound trance of in-betweens
Like the slight breeze on the lake
Where as a child I used to gaze.

Like the Quiet Pinch of Ovaries


65

At the cutting edge of the recurring now/
It must have been a trick of time
That brought us together, stop-motion universe

Laughter in reverse, some lapse /
Of concentration and epiphany of choice
A direction so mutually unassuming

It seemed natural, like retreating /
From a downpour, or taking a break
When we truly didn’t require one –

Something must have told me, nudged me/
As if a long afternoon, with broken continuity
The future is a lapse, where our heart

Falls, the flower petal we step over/
Without noticing, the riot of the unseen
Hands of change, ahhh! That’s enough

To make one happy, The birds feel it/
The seagulls abandon everything for it –
I’ve felt it a few times, maybe less than some

The human torch of the flame moving on/
The floor of a melted life, turning forty
Honey, news and loneliness

Where did my life go – with what force of memory/
To which latitude and why, these are things
That require constant negotiation, careful

Acceptance, at the end of days/
I stacked in a corner all the things I could let go.