Tuesday, January 26, 2016

An Immovable Beast

Wine spills across these parchment lips,
Comes in the inky entrée: marinated clichés
and puerile claret, the joint hands out forceps:
they've got sterile opinions for takeaways.

Sip some claret, and hear the jejune folk
jabber, bereft of metaphor and flourish,
I hastily gobble, ruminate and choke
upon the bland remains of a frozen dish.

The buds remain dead, the tongues flick in line
and polite conversation and fake outrage,
routinely intermingle to spew out anodyne,
But for any wisdom, they refer to a tainted sage.

From the corner of their mouths spills out bile
An assured faith in retching among these convives,
Self professed gluttons, they sip on faith and guile
And harass the Tongue with tridents and knives.

Swallow their pride, for they too are well-fed,
sitting across a 56-inch table, they chew the cud,
"No spice mister, the mouth gets offended!"
Not a flicker of dissent to enliven the taste bud.

I mutter below my frozen breath, "Words don't hurt.
That's not offence Sire, just a censor in drag",
But remember, and slip back to my vapid dessert,
That tongues at this table can only loll, never wag.

Thursday, April 4, 2013

For Better Or Verse

On Time's hackneyed path, you'll choose your curse,
A flogged awakening, or wilful swoon,
But I found myself, under a sky full of verse,
On an ill fated island, a blissful maroon.

Then you stitched a life, so cheaply bought,
And gave up on love, a trifle too soon,
As you followed The Piper to rot,
I sat there putting words to his tune.

I waited on, battered but proud,
Quietly swallowed silence, weaved myself a boon,
Strung together with Words, this shroud,
Warms the wintered bone, wipes the dripping noon.

Now fed with routine, you cease to cease,
Nestled cosy in daylight's cocoon,
Harp not about your sunlit victories,
For a poet has endured the raving moon.


These gray hills, dot the city,

but the stars don't seem closer,

from a flyover.

I waited all night,

but no dewdrops fell from that,

solitary streetlight.

Amidst a thousand hot rushing headlamps,

I shivered and shivered.

Found no warmth.

Huddled did I,

but gentle shade never tiptoed,

into that bus stop.

These black ribbons seduce,

yet I ache for the touch of my

wet, pregnant earth.

Saturday, November 24, 2012


I awoke again, my spine laced with ice,
No veiled threat this, the last roll of dice
The lingering scent of that sodden dream,
A grody Hand had strangled my scream
Every letter it snapped, every word shattered,
And across my eyes, the gaudy ink splattered,
It tightened its grip and managed to choke
Every word I uttered, that’s when I awoke,
And gasping for breath I stumbled across
To my broken window, peeling the doss
Uncorked it open and was agape to face,
The same Hand and the city, locked in embrace.

It brings to me the plague that’s struck this land,
A unflinching urge to give the helping Hand,
The Hand when you need to torch a show,
Where Balbir Krishan let his love aflow,
A Hand that’s eager to throw a Husain out,
On the froth faced urging of a depraved lout,
For showing a Mother bare, unfettered and wild,
Did you not suckle at a breast as a child?
Or a Goddess of Learning uncloaked and pure,
Pray, how else would knowledge hope to endure?
A Rushdie from a fest, then the Hand forbade,
On the gravy train, it sniffed and preyed
The Hand that crawls into eager young minds,
Erases curiosity from every blackboard it finds,
That’s what we hope our children to teach,
Piling upon the heroes already out of reach,
The very men who taught us to scoff,
Should not be dared to elicit a laugh,
So, burn all your books, ban those essays,
Thought will escape in more sinuous ways
I know cartooned sheets you will rescind,
But how can you hope to imprison the wind? 

So today, if a crime you wish to commit,
Just write and speak as you see fit,
Arson in your mind, burn your mental pelf,
For no Hand can point a finger at itself.
Offend every hero, disrobe every god,
through the muck of life, make them plod -
And stand by those who compel you to think,
Waltz with words and wage a war in ink. 

A nation that quells all uttered words,
Will peck itself to death, like mirrored birds.

Tuesday, May 1, 2012


What recourse is left for a wounded soul?
A heart that wanders with a begging bowl,
With eyes that seek a corner warm,
A cave like the one these eyelids form,
No waves lap upon the restless shoal.

How do I cosset this troubled mind?
The kennel of peace, it refuses to find,
At every passing thought, it barks,
Its own sorry acreage it marks,
But then begins to snap, at its own behind.

Under tortured moon, the heart does sail,
With beholden taunts, the winds assail,
It seeks every horizon in sight,
Surrounded by sea, night after night,
But where find the water, that fills this pail?

What crumbs of blossoms, the world can dole?
When, to burn the forest, there be enough coal,
There's only so much that Hope can knock,
Upon a door that Fate has locked,
Then what recourse is left for a wounded soul?

Monday, January 9, 2012


The wings over her eyes,
flap erratically,
as crumpled sleep,
makes its final flight.

Her eyes quietly blossom,
tiny rivulets of red,
crawling towards an island,
muslin black in a white sea.

She rolls over,
in cleansed hate,
and a pail full of black,
tumbles over the soggy pillow.

Hands outstretched,
in a lazy eternity,
she hopes to build a cave,
around her growing flame.

She then peeps out of,
a swirling sea of warmth,
cheeks dipped in blush,
a storm brewing on her lips.

Saturday, December 10, 2011


Let me build my shanty over the chequered pavement of your heart.
Then, I shall wait.
For your limping past to come along and raze it to the ground.