Gagged

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.

Restless

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?

Morning

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.