A Teller of Tales

Translator

2009-02-12T09:04:00.002+05:30

Stranger to both lands,
Native to one,
Feeling the way,
(Blind and blindfolded)
From where I am
To where (I know not)
I want to be.

Blossoms Unseen

2008-12-31T15:12:00.002+05:30

There used to be a girl—
Do you remember her?
She used to dog your steps,
Follow you around,
Listen to you talk,
Hang on to your every word,
Blush when you smiled at her.

You remember her, right?
A bit shy, that girl,
She had big black eyes
That did most of the talking
And a soft sweet voice
That we hardly ever heard,
In all those days and years.

Have you forgotten her,
The girl on the edges of the crowd?
She looked so very longingly,
But never spoke to you,
Because she was too scared,
Because it meant too much,
Because she loved you so.

Do you remember,
Or have you forgotten her?
Did you never even know
That she was there?

masks

2008-12-26T21:13:00.002+05:30

black anger
that demands release
in scarlet tears
must yet be appeased
by salt, torn
from a raging heart,
and half-fed,
retreat behind,
be held captive by,
a solemn countenance.

how easily are they fooled,
who wish so to be,
till even those who
saw it in the making
doubt its veracity,
and all the fragile bridge
comes tumbling down
at a single wrong touch
and you and i drift,
again, inexorably apart.

A Teller of Tales

2008-12-12T14:11:00.002+05:30

A teller of tales
Is only as good
As the worlds she weaves
And she has always woven well,
But the world she weaves best
Is the one those around her
Call real.

Of love and suchlike things

2008-12-04T15:25:00.002+05:30

For Telemachus

And here, in the midst of all our solitudes and lonely nights, here, away and apart and aloof from the crowds around us, I reach for you and hesitate and falter and draw back, and the moment passes, and if its shredded wings brush your skin in farewell, you show no sign of it, and we-- you and I both, my dear, and I assign and equally apportion the blame-- turn down safe, well-trodden paths, away from all that whispers of danger, and speak only frivolity, and set our faces firmly against the promise and warning of all that could have been, and, at the turn, your hand slips from mine, and we go our separate ways.

Adieu, my love.

Bound.

2008-11-30T18:07:00.002+05:30

You pull me down--
Wrists tied and ankles bound,
And a blindfold over staring eyes--
Drag me to 'reality'
And try to paralyse my mind.
Mock my flights of phantsy
Hurt and harm and try to tame,
Bury and burn and drown me.
And yet, fingers tight 'round my throat,
You whisper soft words, my love,
And your mouth is warm on mine.
And were I to give you me...
But I cannot and shall not,
So the question doesn't apply.

(This ties in with Bereft.)

Those Who Have Died.

2008-11-28T08:37:00.003+05:30

Those who have died,
Caught in the cross-fire,
Going, or trying to go,
About their daily lives,
Have never known why they died,
Not then, and not now.
That has not changed,
Perhaps it never will.
And collateral damage—
Such a pretty phrase for such
Devastating, mindless deaths—
Has always been part of war.
But those who kill, at least,
Had known, once, why they died,
For land, or wealth, or faith,
Or sheer bloody-minded revenge.
The blank, hateful eyes of these boys,
Seen behind masks or sighting down
The greasy barrels of gleaming guns,
Have only anger in them, and despair,
And a blind, unrelenting hatred,
Do they know why these people have had to die?

(It feels somehow fake and inadequate to write this, because I'm sitting at home, and have never faced such horror. And have no right, perhaps, to try this. But it's all I can do, and I can't not do it. Please gods, let at least some of those people live.)

Bereft

2008-11-10T13:07:00.004+05:30

You have left me,
Master, mistress, rival, love,
And I wish it and un-wish it.
And beat my wings--
Plucked, pinioned, broken wings--
Against winds I cannot battle,
And long for my rusted shackles
And am heartsick for my cage,
And plummet to the ground,
And cannot bear to fly again--
No wrist I can come home to,
For you have left me,
Master, mistress, beloved, friend,
And I wish it and un-wish it.

Me

2008-09-29T20:46:00.000+05:30

'I contain multitudes',
But only one can reign;
I shan't fly on coloured wings
From a shredded shell,
But, snake-like, shed my skin
And save my fangs.

Sleeping

2008-09-29T20:45:00.000+05:30

In this darkened room,
Childhood around us
And dessicated innocence,
I watch black-fringed purple lids,
Closed in sinner's sleep.

Fever Dream

2008-09-01T09:04:00.003+05:30

Common familiar faces
Fronting the heads of
Antique and imagined
Demons, heroes, gods.
Simple, sordid things
Inflating into myth:
Myth deflating sadly
Into daily life;
And this fever-dream
That watches with its
Thousand shuttered eyes.

Silence

2008-09-01T09:02:00.001+05:30

This is the moment
Where the world forks
And both, for a moment,
Are 'the path not taken'
And the pending decision,
A split-second away,
Sings solemn siren-songs--
This is home,
And I am at peace
In the grey spaces
Where silence resounds.

To Zephyr

2008-08-01T19:53:00.003+05:30

I cannot, as you can,
Drag ephemerality down,
And deftly persuade her
To change her nature:
Immortalise, with a few deft strokes,
A fleeting smile,
An averted face,
Curls, cascading just so;
But must resort, therefore,
To clumsy words,
Which must number a thousand
To strive against your art,
And even then can only echo
That which you portray;
But 'tis all I have,
And all I can hope for
Is your satisfaction
At this inferior portrayal
By an indifferent artist.

Cyber Space

2008-07-28T00:07:00.000+05:30

6:30 p.m. Mr. Basu looks around the room, then sighs. He might have known. Atul Srivastav was never, ever on time. Had never been, in all their long years of acquaintance. He is in for a long wait.

His eyes sweep the room again, this time actually registering the various occupants of the lounge. A young couple, obviously too obsessed with each other to notice anything else; an old man leafing through an out-of-date periodical; a man in his early twenties trying and failing to control a boy who looked like his brother or nephew and, in the furthest corner of the room, leaning against one of the massive pillars, a girl in her late teens, intently typing into her laptop.

A cyber-junkie… or whatever it was that these people called themselves. He never understood the fascination cyber-space held for today’s teenagers. His nieces were beginning to venture into that world and he’d been rather repulsed and even scared by the friends they’d brought home once or twice. But this girl looks neat enough, in baggy jeans and tight tee-shirt, long brown hair in a pony-tail. Maybe he can approach her; she doesn’t look the type that’s completely renounced the real world. Maybe she can answer a few questions that’ve been nagging him for sometime

“Hi,” he says, and the girl looks up, light brown eyes glinting behind angular glasses. “Can I sit here?”

“Sure,” she shrugs, “it’s not like I own the place.” She looks up at him and smiles. “That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t let you if I did. It’s just my world-weary way of saying that you’re welcome to sit here.”

“Oh.” He seats himself, amused at the way the girl explains her reticence. It’s similar to how his friends pretended to do drugs in college, to ensure no-one prodded into their inner, insecure lives. Some things, he muses, never change. Encouraged by this discovery, he decides to push on. “Can I ask you something? It’s a bit awkward…” He trails off, embarrassed.

“You can ask,” the girl answers. “And I may choose to answer. Provided it’s not about something I may not want to answer.”

“It’s… erm… how can you kids be so obsessed about something unreal?” he blurts out, immediately feeling uncomfortable as the brown eyes narrow shrewdly.

“Ah, an unbeliever!” she grins. “Well, to whom am I explaining the phenomenon of the cyber-world?”

“Jatin Basu.” He smiles back, extending his hand. She takes it in a firm grasp.

“Well, Mr. Basu, I take it that even a computer-illiterate like you has some basic familiarity with the Net? A bank-account, maybe? Or some visits to the Sony or Zee websites? Something?”

“A bank-account.” He replies. “With Wenmmkilsons.”

“Oh.” She types something, moving the mouse button around. The screen dissolves. “That’s the entirety of your experience?” He nods, laughing inwardly at her dismayed expression.

“This,” she sighs, “is going to be difficult.” A new screen appears and she peers intently at it for a moment, then turns to look at him. “Well, Mr. Basu, why did you open a cyber account at Wenmmkilsons?”

“It’s just… easier, more convenient.” And my elder sister was badgering me about it.

“Exactly… it’s easier than standing in line for half an hour to deposit a cheque or withdraw cash.” She had started speaking more confidently, now that she was on what he supposed was her home-turf. “You press a few buttons, type in a few facts and voila, you’ve completed a transaction! Besides, it kind of makes the physical location of your cash irrelevant. Just withdraw from the nearest branch office.”

“Yes, but how does that have anything to do with my question? Don’t tell me you kids handle financial transactions all day long?”

“You’d be surprised,” she smiles. “But I was just starting out with something you’re familiar with. It’s basically the same for everything. Speed, convenience and the irrelevance of your geographical location.”

He makes a disbelieving face and she scowls, then shrugs. “Well, suppose you wanted information about… say thirteenth century temple architecture of Bali.” He blinks. “I’m an educated Net-freak,” she grins. “So, what would you normally do?”

“Erm… hit the library, I suppose. Check the books on Bali, temple architecture, then cross-reference?”

“How much time would that take? An hour, or more likely, 6-8 hours?” He shrugs. “On the other hand, I would start a Google search and within 2-3 minutes every scrap of information about thirteenth century temple architecture of Bali available on the Net would be on the screen, not to mention a lot of superfluous information. Plus, I could start a thread about it. Would take a bit more time, but I’d get everything about Bali by the end of the hour.” She smirked, glancing at the screen, which had morphed again. “And you would be sitting in front of a heap of dusty old books, thoroughly frustrated.”

“I concede the point,” he said, palms out in submission. “What about chatting, though? That’s not about finding useful information, is it?” Chatrooms were dens of… erm… something horrid, he knew it.

“Tell me, Mr. Basu, do you have friends?” He blinks, taken aback. “I’m not being insolent. It’s an important question. I mean real friends, who know how you really feel about objects, occurrences and individuals; who let you be yourself, no masks or facades required?” She looks at him earnestly. “Well, do you?”

If he is to be honest with himself, he has asked himself that question before, and, consequently, knows the answer. “One,” he says. Atul Srivastav. That’s why he tolerates Atul’s inevitable unpunctuality. Because it’s his only flaw.

“How old are you?” she queries, eyes narrowed. “40-42?” He shrugs non-commitally. “And you have one real friend. It’s much the same with us. Well, those of us with unmutilated brain cells, who aren’t future beauty queens. Actually, it’s worse. I don’t have a single friend.” He stares, amazed at an admission like this from a seemingly confident girl. She shrugs. “Thirteenth century temple architecture of Bali isn’t something I picked out of thin air, you know. I’m well aware of the main trends. Anyway, as I was saying… I don’t have any friends. Well, none this side of the Himalayas, anyway. Some are in Nepal, a couple in Greece, three girls in Egypt, a college-boy in the Hebrides… you get the general idea.”

“That Indian teens don’t care about Bali? And you have friends all over the world?”

“Well, yes. But that’s not the point.” She grins, then glances at the laptop, twiddling the mouse-button.

“What I’m saying is the Net allows us to meet, to chat, share information, formulate theories… even gossip and talk rubbish. All without ever seeing each other. And the best part is, it’s not even needed. We get along just fine without any of us knowing what the others look like.”

“You’re trying to tell me that the Net fosters friendships which function regardless of race, sex, caste or religion?” This was too much.

“And geographical location…don’t forget geographical location,” she jokes.

Well, maybe she’s right. Mixing with anonymous people from all cross-sections of society does lower inhibitions, even he knows that. The effect could only be greater if the people were from all over the world.

He glances at her. She’s staring, well, glaring really, at the computer screen, a frown creasing her forehead.

She looks up, suddenly aware of his staring. “So, Mr. Basu. Satisfied? Ready to join us?” He scowls, shaking his head. She sighs. “Well, are you at least aware why we are, and I quote, ‘so obsessed about something unreal’?”

“Yeah, I guess so. The Net has its merits. I concede that much.”

“Will you tell me something?” He nods. “Are your children into cyber-space? It’s just… you sounded the way my dad used to… before I proselytized him. Are they?”

“My nieces are. They’re around your age and… their noses are attached to the monitors almost the entire day. My elder daughter Ramaa, she’s 13, she’s beginning to dip into the cyber-world. My younger’s 3; she’s far too young to give a damn.”

“What’s the kid’s name? Ratna?” she asks, typing something and then looking up at him.

“No, Rati...” He smiles, remembering her vehement declaration that didi wasn’t letting her watch the new TV and she hated the new TV because it didn’t have sound and would maa scold didi for not letting her watch.

“Ah, Ramaa and Rati. I see.” She smiles at him mischievously. “By any chance, were you supposed to meet that one friend of yours here today?”

“Yeah, I was… well… am, actually. But he’s late. How did you know?”

“Well, if he’s tall and bespectacled and skeletally thin, he’s looking at you and he doesn’t seem very happy. ’Course, I wouldn’t be happy either if I was standing in a lounge for the last ten minutes watching my best friend chatting with a strange 19 year-old.”

“Right. Couldn’t have told me when he arrived, could you?” He turns, glancing warily at Atul, who looks at him with justifiable annoyance. She shakes her head, grinning at him. He begins to get up.

“Look, Mr. Basu. Ramaa, she’s going to get interested in this. Don’t try stopping her; it’ll only make her more curious. What you should do is install a few censors. By the time she figures out how to get past them, she’ll be old enough to know…” Her voice trails off; he’s not really listening to her anymore. Instead, he’s focusing on Atul, whose annoyed expression has been replaced by a lop-sided grin. One thing he’s learnt from this conversation is that true friends are rarer than he thought and he’s lucky to have even one as loyal as Atul.

Before walking out of the lounge, he glances back at the girl, realising he doesn’t even know her name. And truth be told, it hadn’t mattered.

She looks up, flashing him a huge smile, then bends back to her laptop, typing intently into the password slot.

RAMAA_RATI. Access denied.
RAAM_ RAATI. Access denied.
RAAM_ARATI. Access denied.
RAAM_AARATI. Access granted. Welcome, Mr. Basu.

How very interesting. Such a well padded bank account. Well, she’d known he was rich. Wenmmkilsons demanded a huge sum in order to start a locker… and… he’s had one for five years… the cyber version for only three months though. She looks up again, smiling at the young man, who abruptly forgets to yell at his brother. A lakh, that was quite enough, wouldn’t do to seem greedy.

“Oh, damn,” she mutters, “I quite forgot to warn him about cyber-crime. Ah well, can’t remember everything, can I?”

Fried Ice-Cream

2008-06-26T00:48:00.002+05:30

A familiar/unfamiliar you,
To fit not-quite-right
With a not-quite-identical me,
And a fragile rebuilding
Of a new us, here in this
Always-known, entirely-new place,
Surrounded by self-absorbed others,
And us, each observing the other,
And an end to the careful distance
Of 3+ years of disembodied talks.

Entwined

2008-06-19T22:47:00.000+05:30

A thousand twisting desires trap me in their tangling coils,
Fill the soft darknesses of my soul with hope and hatred,
Love and despair, till I cannot think, cannot act,
Cannot stand, can barely breathe, past the tight twists
That choke my throat, crush my ribs,
And yet I must stiffen my crippled spine,
Torture my jaw into the semblance of a smile,
And do the hundred munadane duties
Of an oh-so-normal life.

The Kite Runner

2008-06-19T22:18:00.000+05:30

Dirt under my fingernails.
Sand scouring my palms.
Sour breath on my neck.
Women’s voices behind the walls.
Mocking laughter grating on shredded nerves.
Sudden night, oppressively black,
Blinding me, heightening all else.
Your voice a lullaby…
Please, never know this…
Tucking me into bed,
Burying this pain.
Rough hands pulling me up, pulling out.
Tears on my face, washing away the night.
Clothes strange against my skin,
Blood seeping through them…
It won’t wash off, it won’t.
You, outside, inevitable as death.
Hold me. Nay, don’t.
Naught the same, naught unchanged.
Not you, nor I, nor us.
Forgive me.

Growing a Forest

2008-06-19T22:04:00.000+05:30

Trucks of logs, boxes of honey, baskets of herbs,
Luscious pelts, ashtrays of hoof and horn.
Supply’s grown a bit slow these days,
The tiger-skin carpet’s looking moth-eaten and worn.
“Let’s grow the forest back, it’s easy enough,
Planting a few seeds, watering them, how hard can it be?
Give it a few years to bounce back, that’s all,
Then we’ll get fur and timber again, you’ll see!”

So said the traders and rolled off down the concrete road
To the straggling groves that had once been
A mighty forest stretching hundreds of acres.
Not even a single rabbit could be seen...
The forest screamed of desolation and destruction.
The traders rubbed their hands in glee,
“Lovely place to start a new factory,” they said.
After about an hour someone remembered they had to plant a tree.
Someone planted an acorn, (it used to be a rainforest!)
Poured a few drops of water, and waited.
A decade and a forest-department later,
Reports came that something had finally happened.

A few thin branches had sprouted from a thinner sapling,
The previous trees had grown a bit greener.
After due consultation, the government decided to concede
That in this bout of man and Nature, she was the winner.
They rolled off, full of plans to ‘utilise’ this land.
A dry, mocking laugh was heard from the bushes.
“I told them when they were felling the first tree,
Told them not to turn my soil into desert sand.
I told them not to destroy this lovely abode of mine...
But they would not listen, would not heed
My words, and now, now they’ll die like the plants,
A slow rotting death crying for things they need.”

Parody: Where the Mind is Without Fear

2008-06-19T22:02:00.003+05:30

Where the mind is fearful
And clouded with sleep;
Where knowledge is ignored
Like a stray dog on the street;
Where the fragments of a shattered world
Are held together with glue;
Where only bumbling idiots
E’er speak words that are true;
Where striving for perfection
Is mocked and ridiculed;
Where by dead superstition
Clear reason is fooled;
Where thought and action are stifled
By overweening greed;
Deliver us now, Lord,
From this dread faith and meed.

(No offense intended, or disrespect offered. It's just that our Headmistress lurved this poem and told us so every chance she got and I really detested her. That's all.)

The Ones Left Behind

2008-06-19T22:01:00.000+05:30

The ones left behind, to grace old photos
And be glanced at during reminisces
Of some long-gone sunny day,
Or bitter wintry morn,
Where have they faded,
Those who afforded us
A happy hour, gilded our lives
With their careless tales?
Where have they gone,
Abandoned by the road,
Where their paths and ours diverged?
Do they still talk in the old ways,
Tuck away loose strands of hair,
Smile, so sweetly, with an edge of pain?
Or have they too altered beyond recognition,
Those half-forgotten childhood friends?
And are we, perhaps, their gentle ghosts,
Peeping out old year-books,
Blessing discarded dreams?

Ringing Out the Old Year

2008-06-19T21:59:00.000+05:30

Light from noisy streets filters in through shuttered windows.
Ten…Nine…
Water drips down walls stripped, in places, of their paint.
Eight…Seven…
She sits at a table, letter clutched in one hand, aging in an aged house.
Six…Five…
Even the photographs avert their eyes, as unfeeling as her living sons.
Four…Three…
The cold outside is a furnace to the bone-deep chill inside her.
Two…One…
She thinks about dying but dare not commit such a sin.
Happy New Year!!!

Christmas Eve

2008-06-19T21:57:00.000+05:30

Children in their warm beds
Struggle to stay awake,
But their lids droop
And they dream all night of morning
And the presents, draped in
Shiny paper and ribbons,
That sit ’neath the tree,
Awaiting their grubby hands.

The child on the street
Shivers in his rags,
Curls closer to his mother
To steal warmth from her emaciated body —
Midnight Mass becomes the voice
Of the monsters haunting his dreams.

Unmasking

2008-06-19T21:56:00.000+05:30

Alone in the dark,
I pull off the last mask—
Gently, carefully,
Though my fingers
Tremble with the desire
To destroy this, even this,
The last of my defenses.
I would not recognize
The face that’d look
Out the mirror
If I dared face one now.
Better to do this rarely,
And only in the warm embrace
Of all-accepting Night.

(no) man is an island

2008-06-19T21:55:00.000+05:30

A multitude surrounds me,
Looks, angry/ sad/ pitiful,
Through the unbreakable walls
That enclose/ protect/ confine me.
Theirs tears do not move me,
Nor their joys touch my heart—
Should, but never yet have.
Always at a remove,
Always alone/ aloof,
I walk my solitary path,
Lonely in a crowded room.

Watching

2008-06-19T21:53:00.000+05:30

Like a ‘realistic’ soap opera,
On a giant TV screen,
Life unfolds in front
Of my hazy eyes,
And I stare, transfixed,
As actors wearing the faces
Of people I think I know,
Deliver their lines
To an unseen camera.
But when they turn to me,
I drop my cues and
Fumble my lines—
Forever a mere spectator
In the drama of my life.

Devi

2008-06-19T21:49:00.000+05:30

I forget who I am;
They do not talk of me
On crackling parchment rolls.
I am not preserved in vellum,
Nor handed down the ages.
The voices that sing of me,
Round the fires of the tribes,
Shall soon be silenced,
Or subdued, throats torn out.
And I shall disappear, retreat into jungles and caves.
Not die, though, for they need
Enemies to conquer and slaves to serve.
So I shall remain, scorned and spurned,
My tales warped, goddess turned maid.

Luna

2008-06-19T21:48:00.002+05:30

I
A ghostly apparition
Wrapped in grey rags,
Flitting soundlessly
In the flickering shadows.
Wan and forlorn,
Sickly and pock-marked,
Beggar-lady of the night,
On a broken throne, the Moon.

II
Cheshire cat smile of the moon,
A ruddy sickle against a charcoal sky
Shabby in the city lights,
Robbed of regal black,
Some malevolent deity’s gleeful grin,
Cruelly amused by the shambles
Of her newly broken playground.

To Errant Knights

2008-06-19T21:48:00.001+05:30

Why did you believe this lie,
No different from all the others,
And leave, and leave me,
Mouth twisted in a snarl
To hold back sobs,
My back against the wall,
Facing, again, the world alone?

Surely you know me well enough,
Why didn't you laugh in my face
And fold me in your arms,
And let me spend all my anger,
Till I faded and let it turn to tears.
You've done it often enough.
Were you tired of being my shield?

Poor double-sided shield,
Battered at from inside and out.
I shan't blame you for growing impatient,
And leaving to find those
Who are content to be solely
Damsels in distress and
Never try on your armour for size.

Death

2008-06-19T21:47:00.001+05:30

Why stay here, child,
And suffer such pain?
Come away with me tonight,
All thy struggles are in vain.
Come with me and we will play
With flowers from springs long gone
Listen to the songs of birds long dust;
I’ll adorn thee with a dead king’s crown.
Wait thee for an angel’s words
To guide thee to the life beyond?
But I am Death, child, ancient and unchanging,
Angels are but newly-forged.
Come now with me, child, come,
Leave thy life and mourning family behind.
Come, we must now this journey begin,
Loosen fast all ties that bind
Thee to this mortal coil.
E’en great Achilles in allegiance bent his knee,
Shall thou now refuse?
Come, child, no judgement awaits thee,
Fear not that thy sins shall be weighed.
All mortals are adjudged the same,
No burden of vices or treasure of virtues
Shall earn thee a better place in Hades’ realm.
My sister Sleep thou follows into dreams,
With the same blind faith, follow me now.
Come into the land of rest, child,
Eternal sleep shall soon smooth thy brow.
Come now, weary not thyself with more struggles.
Come, thy parents eagerly await,
Come, thou shall again be their child.
Come, child, ’tis but a step more to Hades’ gate.

Haunted

2008-06-19T21:44:00.000+05:30

A mist covers the swamplands
And makes strange visions appear out of rocks,
A bone-chilling breeze blows tonight;
With gnarled fingers, on windows, the witch-hazel knocks.
The moon tonight, is a ghostly queen -
Robed and regal on her cloudy throne.
In the graveyard, among broken head-stones,
Is heard the masterless dog's howling moan.
Hearest that pattering, as of owl's wings?
Somebody walks with footsteps light -
Or mayhap something, goblin or ghoul,
Fit inhabitant of this dreary night.
Someone's cloaks a-flutter in the wind,
Their robes are caught on hawthorn bushes.
A maiden ‘tis, with countenance pale -
Her raven hair crowned with rushes.
Death peers out of her sallow face
And smiles from her glittering eyes -
Mocking and strange is her unearthly smile
As though in her heart some secret lies.
A secret ‘tis, a full sordid tale,
A mishap she'll confide only in you.
For sure she is, in this short time,
That you are to become her companion true,
Truly, 'tis a tale of wondrous sorrows -
Told, for she trusts you above all else.
Nay she will even lead you to the place
Where unfolded the events that now she tells.
Bewitching, befuddling, enchanting is her voice-
As sweet and silver as of the morning lark.
So enthralling is her story of terror,
You'll ne'er know when you entered places dark.
And now she's almost ended the story of her life -
"Then they drove through my heart with a stave"
She whispers, and as you try to cling to reason,
Your eyes alight on an ancient, open grave.
And before the night is done, in a nearby village
Shall arrive a dusty, travel-worn lass -
Her eyes glittering, her fair face worn;
Her plait a lovely raven mass.

Queen of Night

2008-06-19T21:43:00.002+05:30

Stealthy and silent as a stalking beast
Night comes on swooping falcon wings -
About the pale queen's sable cloak
A faint perfume of jessamine flowers clings.
Her black velvet gown is diamond-set,
Her girdle with star-dust sewn;
Her footsteps leave no earthy mark,
Her trail is with priceless gems strewn.
Her bracelets are made of ebony roses,
Adamantine fires play in her dark eyes;
Her silver-braided raven locks,
In their streaming masses darken the skies.
Round her ivory neck, a silver asp
Its gleaming coils has beguilingly thrown.
At her behest, this deadly serpent,
Many a soul the path to hell has shown.
Behind her march armoured guards,
Brandishing daggers and burnished shields -
Black eyes flashing with infernal fires,
Pale, black-hearted, blood-sucking fiends.
By her side walks a gigantic beast,
Its huge paws ripping the ground;
Enslaved by Diana's dreary thrall,
Human-souled bloodthirsty hound.
Plague and Death, like humble slaves
To her dreadful throne their service devote,
Among Hell's most fearsome creatures,
Queen Devilna holds her nightly court.

Immortal

2008-06-19T21:43:00.001+05:30

The sky is tinted a purplish grey -
Witness to the sun's last dying gasp.
Purple slowly to charcoal turns,
The world's now in dread Night's grasp.
Shadows lengthen, and darken their hue,
A giant hand extinguishes the stars,
The darkness is alive with unnamed horrors,
The ragged wind night's silence mars.
Something sinister prowls the moors,
In the chill breeze his whistle sounds -
Hideous bats he uses as falcons,
Ravenous wolves are his hunting hounds,
His cape swishes among gorse bushes,
His boots leave no marks in the heather.
What hunter is this, mortal or demon,
That dares be out in such cruel weather?
Bloodshot and black are his fathomless eyes
His countenance pale and bloodless -
Immeasurably ancient, yet eternally young,
Time and age no power over him possess.
Darker than darkest night, smoother than silk
A rich raven mane to his shoulders falls;
Awakened by his silent, weightless steps
In airy whispers to him the night calls.
Against his skin, his bloodstained lips
Are like a scarlet rose on driven snow,
Beneath them, his jagged white fangs
Sharp, predatory cruelty show.
On the neck, hidden by hair and collar
By two puncture marks his skin is blemished;
Their dark powers have kept him here
Long after the deaths of all he has cherished.
Left behind, he walks his solitary path -
Neither wishing, nor being wished well.
What pleasure 'twould be to perish,
E'en when condemned to eternal hell!
Not so to be, never so to be,
Damned he is to roam in darkest night -
Damned to be alone; alive and young,
Damned to ne'er see daylight.

Moonstruck

2008-06-19T21:42:00.000+05:30

Tonight the moon is a perfect orb,
A silvery gem on Heaven's cloak.
Tonight a fearful change on this earth
Shall arrive at midnight's stroke.
Diana's dread order her bonded slaves
Must this dreary night reluctantly obey -
Poor damned souls, by Phoebe's magic
From daily humdrum lives drawn away.
Human guise they are now to shed,
Hidden in darkness, obscured from sight -
Bodies of fearsome deadly predators,
Human souls in captive plight.
No more power have reason and love
Against this black spell on their souls laid,
Than a fragile net of twine
Could wield against a steel blade.
All night in hunger for human flesh,
They shall stealthily stalk and prowl -
In excruciating misery greeting
Their cruel mistress with moaning howl.
When great Phoebus' golden sceptre
Topples his sister's silver throne
Then are found these beasts of night,
Their animal selves to have outgrown.
A broken man, wounded and bleeding ,
In a sun-dappled forest glade -
Praying with all his soul and hoping
That the night saw no more monsters made.

Night

2008-06-19T21:41:00.001+05:30

Darkness like a woven tapestry black,
Wrapping the world on a new-moon night
Pierced by a single brave stab,
Above the horizon, of a single star's light.
Atop a mountain, a gigantic bulk
Of deeper black, against a sable sky,
Among trees with shadowed trunks,
Dream-like bats on shadowy wings go by.
Shadows lurk in the darkest corners
Of a dark, bewitched forest glade -
Shadows with claws and fangs and fur,
Whose movements disturb not a single blade.
Moss-hung branches, in oaken groves,
Meet velvet branches on antlered heads.
For fear of stag's thundering hooves,
Many a forest patriarch it's verdant robe sheds.
Large eyes peer out of leafy retreats -
Awake, alert, in ghostly vision.
Twoo-whit, twoo-whoo - the ghastly shriek
Puts all creatures to confusion.
Creatures all of hideous darkness,
Inhabiting a new-moon night –
Predators and prey of a forest primeval,
Disappearing at dawns first light.

Troy

2008-06-19T21:40:00.003+05:30

A murderer’s hands, touching,
Feather-light, another’s tattered flesh;
Love’s soft whispers
Drowning in the din of slaughter;
Bloodstained kisses bitten
From snarling lips;
Unwilling creatures in our beds,
Pain fuelling lust;
Blood of children on our hands,
Gold lining your purse.
Erastes, eromenos, philos,
What have we come to?
Butchers, puppets, toys
Of malevolent gods and malicious kings.
Erastes, eromenos, philos,
What have we become?

Misogyny

2008-06-19T21:37:00.002+05:30

(This is bad poetry, okay. And yes, I know it sucks. Can't be helped)

Talk to me not of woman’s beauty,
Nor of damsels in distress.
Maidens trapped in lofty towers are best left unrescued.
Aphrodite’s painted charms
Sicken my soul to its very depths.
Aries’ desires at least are honest
Though the god, in passion,
May ravage and hurt.
So sing, if you must, of the greatest wars,
And the greater men who fought them.
Tell of bloodstained skin and battered armour,
And thy listener shall remain entranced.
I desire in bed a battle mate,
Not some wench who’ll faint at the sight of blood.
Nay, nor an Amazon,
Disfigured and twisted out of shape,
Wielding weapons with slender hands.
I need not an opposite, but a mirror
Whose desires reflect my own.
Not some fragile, lovely girl, spinning
Webs of intrigue to ensnare my senses
But a warrior of great renown,
Whose livid wounds of his victories tell.
Sing, bard, to the tune of Achilles’ ancient lyre
That e’en noble Patroklos charmed.
This night, at least, abandon the trinkets
Of lying Alexandros, whose sins toppled great Illium’s walls.

Heart Break

2008-06-19T21:37:00.001+05:30

Blood,
Tracing the lines of my wrist
In sanguine droplets,
Like a single petal from a rich red rose,
Falling lazily down from its thorny perch.

Letters,
Spelling your name
On my skin, in swollen scars,
Like the marble-carved proof
Of an emperor’s eternal love.

Eyes,
Red-rimmed from streaming tears,
Hollow from lack of sleep,
Like dying tapers in a darkened house
Fading slowly into non-existence.

Paper,
Inscribed with familiar script,
Torn into miniscule shreds,
Like the fallen leaves of a pale autumn,
Mourning the end of glorious summer days.

Speech,
Clipped and correct,
Every syllable a measured monotone,
Like morsels of food rationed out
To the hideous survivors of a ghastly famine.

Visage,
Suddenly, swiftly mature,
Lines etched by grief, not age,
Like a victim of some strange torture,
Who must slowly stand upright under a back-breaking weight

Obsession

2008-06-19T21:36:00.001+05:30

Can you never let go?
Of love, of memories,
Of a bitter parting?

Can you never let go?
Must your very being
Pervade every action of mine?

Can you never let go?
Why always whisper in my ears
That no-one shall ever be you?

Can you never let go?
Will you remind me every day
What treasure I have lost?

Can you never let go?
My tears are a never-ending stream,
Does that bring you joy?

Can you never let go?
You lurk in every shadowy corner,
Do you not long for light?

Can you never let go?
Need you always, always knock
And disappear before I open the door?

’Tis been ages, Cathy,
Your grave is but a mossy mound.
Let go. Never let go.

Infatuation

2008-06-19T21:34:00.002+05:30

Faded declarations of love
On mangled paper;
Dead roses,
Still mustily fragrant;
A dirty pink bear,
Torn button-eyes reproachful;
A broken trinket,
Its glossiness gone;
Old Archie’s cards,
Vapidly full of false cheer-
All that remains of an eternal love
That lasted three months.

Love

2008-06-19T21:34:00.001+05:30

Tell me, when first did we meet?
It can't be a mere three years ago,
For then it seemed that you and I
Have accompanied each other ages, through
The lives of men and e'en speechless beasts.
All our lifetimes we've been together,
And through timeless ages, since the dawn of time,
We've always known each other.
So, I beseech you, tell me, love -
And tell me with the surety of knowledge true,
Without the shadow of a nagging doubt.....
When was it that I first saw you?
Was it first in a dark Neanderthal cave
Where your beauty dispelled darkest night
And out hunting, when the beast bared its fangs,
Your saber shone fearless in the dim starlight?
Or in an ancient walled city
That your bejeweled robe brushed negligently
Against a mutely adoring chained slave
Whose doom was fairer for having glimpsed your beauty?
Or mayhap you were the lovely queen,
In a gloomy mediaeval castle of stone
And but a single veiled glance of yours
Chilled this humble serf to the very bone?
Or were you, my lady, hidden in a white Bedouin tent,
The sheik's prized mistress, in precious silks wrapped
And I in torn rags, barely human considered,
Lowliest maid, in your beauty's chains hopelessly trapped?
Were you the lady in fur and ostrich feathers
Whose ruby lips uttered an involuntary cry
As I lay by a smoke-belching chimney:
Broken, bleeding, about to die?
Were yours the tender white hands
That in a slave's hut by cotton fields tended me
While men died and houses were torched
So that I could be set cruelly free?
Tell me, my love, my life, was it you
That gave me hope in sorrow, light in darkest fear?
Was it you I glimpsed a thousand times afar?
I know not, neither do I now care.
For through the ages have I waited and watched and loved
Ne'er hoping you would care for me,
Knowing full well that though I've loved you for ages
This love of ours is never to be.

Roses

2008-06-19T21:33:00.000+05:30

I waken into reality,
Rose-tinted glasses crushed
Into bloody dust in my hands.
How many times
Have you almost killed me,
That I'm this strong?

Cards

2008-06-19T21:31:00.001+05:30

Folly to trust in a house of cards,
It tumbled so fast,
That even the ones I caught
Crumpled in my hands.
Folly, and worse, to trust in you.

Recycling

2008-06-19T19:17:00.001+05:30

Tonnes of paper,
Blank, written on, scratched out,
Leaves of some literary autumn,
Letters of business and love,
Notes passed in class,
Pages torn from a diary,
Ripped from a pirated novel,
Shredded ribbons of flawed numbers,
A riot of colours spilling over margins,
Folded and cut and pasted,
Enfolding warm telebhaja.

Regurgitation

2008-06-19T19:16:00.000+05:30

Macabre clash of sword and skin,
Rose-petal fragility of carved marble,
Swirl of ethereal, beautiful chemical loccha,
Eternal perfection of a “Eureka” moment,
Blood and sweat and a life spent
Hunched over a microscope,
Chasing a dream,
Building a civilisation,
Piping with Pan
And singing with Apollo,
Drawing life into art
More human than life,
Watching blood stain the sands
At a soft-spoken word,
Millennia of effort on hundreds of pages.
“Julius Caesar invaded India in 344 B.C.”,
“Akbar built the Red Fort”,
“Leonardo di Caprio painted the Mona Lisa”,
43/100 on a History test.

Reflection

2008-06-19T19:15:00.000+05:30

Gilt-edged mirrors
And broken shards,
A hundred lives
In inky words.
If the mirror pleases
And the shards wound,
Must they be swept away
Into stinking garbage bins,
And half-a-hundred lives forgotten?

Reinvention

2008-06-19T19:13:00.000+05:30

I. Reinvention

Uneven, weaving lines
Of hastily-scribbled letters—
Large and overly small;
Disconnected ‘e’s, ‘g’s with dangling tails;
An ink-blot drowning half-a-word;
The paper torn by the violent scratching out
Of some unsatisfactory phrase;
Faces in the margins,
Bulging eyes and bee-stung lips;
Flourishing signature at the bottom of the page.
Taken, read and typed out—
Neat and orderly,
So many soldiers marching together;
Coolly impersonal,
Artistry strangled for the sake of art.

Somnolence

2008-06-19T19:12:00.003+05:30

The patch of sunlight
Moving across the room
Alights on books heaped
On a table barely seen
’neath their weight,
Clothes strewn
O’er mismatched chairs,
Like kitten-battered
Balls of yarn,
A tousled head
Poking out the quilts,
Blinking, bleary-eyed.
“Please, five minutes more.
It’s too cold to move.”

A Graveyard of Leaves

2008-06-19T19:12:00.001+05:30

Russet, saffron and scarlet,
Draped ’round the protruding roots,
A rustling carpet circling the trunk,
Crisp skeletons of the summer’s leaves—
Like some gory battlefield,
Naked corpses bloodstained,
Exposed bones crushed ’neath
The shod feet of intruders,
White maggots creeping out the wounds
To creep up the visitors’ ankles—
Crunching under children’s shoes.

Teardrops

2008-06-19T19:09:00.002+05:30

The rain pooling in puddles
On the flooded street,
Mud-brown and cold,
Reflects in the bright eyes
Of the child clinging,
Tiny face thrust out the gaps,
Chubby fingers curled,
To the rusted grille,
Pieces flaking off,
Of her room,
Watching the rain
That she cannot play in.

The Gulmohur

2008-06-19T19:08:00.001+05:30

The crescent branches
Bare all winter,
Wave green fans
In welcome
To the crows and sparrows,
All old, familiar friends,
Alighting on them,
Squabbling for space.
A single veiled bud unfurls,
Van-guard of the red army
Poised to invade.
The balmy breeze blows away
Winter cheer with winter blues,
And leaves me a tabula rasa,
New, untouched, hollow.

Scarlet

2008-06-19T19:07:00.001+05:30

Pink sunbeams, falling
From a grey sky, heavy, still,
With frowning clouds,
On the unforgiving jagged rocks
Of a craggy precipice,
Uncover, with pale,
Pitiful fingers,
The fluttering of a ragged scarf,
Once bravely scarlet,
Coloured in chemical dyes,
Bought, perhaps,
From some brightly decked shop,
One of the multitudes perched on the hills,
But a little way from here,
Scarlet still,
But steeped now in natural hues,
Heavy with the life-blood
Of the twisted body,
Blown off the road by a storm,
Or tossed off it by a rock-slide,
Or maybe something as insipid
As slipping on the ever-present streams of water,
Lying in eternal rest,
Hidden between the rocks.

Charcoal

2008-06-19T19:06:00.000+05:30

Large dark eyes,
Lamps of jet in an onyx world,
Stare out the broken window,
Glass shattered, grille twisted,
Encased in blackened walls
Bearing flaky paint, graffiti and spit,
At a filthy alley
Where the city’s debris
Lies in uncovered heaps.

Ash

2008-06-19T19:05:00.000+05:30

Like smoke
Curling skywards from the end of a burning fag;
My thoughts heavenwards ascend.
Or mayhap, like the smoke wafting into nought,
Half-done, they die in silence
And my half-lived life
In futility continues,
Like a stamped-out, half-smoked cigarette.

Travelweary

2008-06-19T19:04:00.002+05:30

My weary feet ache for rest
And my tired eyes can barely see,
Blinded by the dust of the road,
How far ahead the road winds-
Shimmering into indistinct lines
Near the horizon, but a hazy mass
Of red dust and dusty trees.

A happy home lies far behind,
Days of languid beauty, comfort, shelter,
The solemn sweetness of safety.
No more mine, that simple life;
No longer any right to call that house mine.
I’ve torn away my wretched soul
And must now rid its longing for sanctuary.

How far, I wonder, to the nearest inn?
How far to food and rest?
How far for me to think up a tale
That might for my dinner pay?
Too hale to be ill, too young to be decrepit...
Mayhap the truth will tonight suffice
For a loaf and a blanket in the hay.

Then, up, tomorrow, and again the road,
And on and on and on.
These wretched boots won’t last more miles
Nor this wretched life many moons.
A vagabond’s death, then, by the road,
A pauper’s funeral, if the authorities oblige,
An unmarked grave in which to lie.

Wanderlust

2008-06-19T19:04:00.001+05:30

Far away the road beckons,
But a twisted strip of metal
Glinting in the light of the setting sun.
Alluring and ever tempting,
The way to a thousand dreams.

A thousand voices, clamouring to be heard.
A thousand lives; a thousand tales
Hidden under the paving stones,
Written in the dust of a thousand feet
That, over the years, have passed on their way.

Home, safety, security’s shining shackles,
So tightly locked, to keep in place,
To hold imprisoned, forever,
A wanderer’s spirit,
Chafe my skin, draw my blood.

The lure of the road,
An eternal siren song, ever lurking
In the dark recesses of my mind,
Colours my dreams,
Tinges my days with never-fulfilled longing.

The humdrum monotony of daily life,
Meaningless, mechanical chores,
Stifling, senseless work.
What life is this, when, in twenty years,
Not one day have I truly lived?

The sweet beckoning of far-off lands,
The heady call of adventures,
Draw me away this dark night,
Ever whispering in my ears, of
Laurel wreaths and golden treasures.