Twenty four hours. That is what you asked for
as the sun set behind the tree without any leaves.
A day to decide the fate of a lifetime.

You wrapped your hands around your knees and started rocking
as if some clock had already started ticking. Within us
sentences skipped scenarios in search of that perfect paragraph.

I leaned against the tree and watched the last light
fall across the furrows on your forehead. There was
so much history happening in that moment.

Half a day later you called me from a pay phone
as I was leaving the bookstore. You said you
wanted to hear my voice one more time.

There was something in the silence between your words
that made me stop at that corner we both knew so well.
People curved around me as I waited for you to say something concrete.

But the connection was lost. The moment walked away with the rest.
I stood there waiting for you to call back. To call me back. To pick up
the pieces that we threw away in a moment of madness.

Night came, two hands came together but the phone remained speechless.
I waited for a coin to clink somewhere and for the connection to be made.
But it was too late, you had taken the silence between us into you.

Our favorite book of poetry was open on the table, the pages skipping
through our little histories, through the seconds that survived.
There was no way to stop the movement of moments that mattered.

The only thing you left behind was a box full of questions.
Would the distraction of distance be enough to forget the past?
Would the silence of our hearts be strong enough to make the connection?
If I just stood here forever, holding onto our book, would you still call?

Every day that passes behind the calender
strikes a different chord in the long chapter of remembrance,
the winter that never became our season,
the kisses that never crossed our lips.

It is 6 am and I am sitting here
by the window and wondering about all
the steps that we walked away from when
the time came to hold onto our promise.

Dawn breaks her beautiful cover
in the company of blue light and
a stillness that brings to mind
that night in the back seat of a stranger’s car.

Go on, take a second to remember all that
we talked about as the roads slid by beneath us.
Remember the bright promise of your words that kept
me from taking the easy way out?

I tell myself that time never gave us a chance
for in the rush to get away we came together. And
when the night hurried away to hide behind the sun
you left for the comfort of familiarity.

One day, far away from now, we will
sit with a drink and smile at the stupidity
of hope. But right now the promises are too new
to ignore, too bright to shield this weak heart.

One way or the other the world will move again,
change will turn our heads away from a past that
will be left behind in forgotten photos and in
the vast wasteland of our collective memories.

But until then let me indulge that memory
where something caused your face to glow
under the faint light of the moon when you
turned to me and whispered those special words.

Outside my house the lone tree
is smiling with her crown of fresh
green leaves.

It was only a month
ago that she stood there, bare like
a curtain less window, looking
forlorn as the cold hacked at her
naked limbs.

Today, the sun is out and the rising
heat is enough for her to unfurl her
withdrawn limbs and embrace the
benign warmth.

Birds hide among the new green
and sing to the uncaring vehicles
that rush hither and thither, oblivious
of the spring symphony.

At the base of the tree is a shrub
planted by some forgotten city gardener.
It is in bloom now, bright crimson flowers vying
for attention from the many who walk past, uncaring.

Towards evening, as they begin to droop the
flowers are revived by a breeze that comes
out of nowhere. Tired but content they slowly close
their white pupils and wait for the evening to end.

One day soon
this heart will burst
and in the midst of flying flesh
you will discover all the words
that troubled my tongue but
never crossed my lips.

—–

I wish I could string
a necklace made of moonbeams
for the sinuous emptiness that is
your neck.

—-

The waiting in winter
still continues but
beneath the frozen exterior
a faint heart beat glows.

—–

One more minute
and I could have caught you
in my arms under the tree
where our lips first touched.

——

One heart beat at a time
I wish for all the beautiful things
that will never come to pass.

The words are caught
at the back of my throat
like phlegm after a bad cold.

I wish they could roll out like marbles
and spread across the slate
to give meaning to emptiness.

But this instant of darkness rises
within and smothers their meaning
and the benefit of sharing.

To choke their cowardly presence I
watch the world through the window
and marvel at the clockwork lives of others.

Is there purpose left behind principle?
Will it matter now that the end is so near?

This waiting for fickle deliverance.
This search for fading confidence.

The painful pointlessness of it all.

The descent into mediocrity continues
and the world slowly spins out of control
beyond the reach of my grasping fingers.

Hold that thought between
your lips. Let me trace its edges
with my tongue and tease out its intentions.

—–

In the hope of making sense
of your words left behind
the toaster and under the eraser
I try to remember
the gestures your fingers made
while your breath slid down along my neck.

—–

Will it matter now that the Eastern sky
is your new home and the winds of information
shield you from my words?

—–

To understand the difference between
your weakness and my need.
The cost is so high.
Who will pay for the renovation of this relationship?

——

I will look for a sign from tomorrow.
But tomorrow will soon become yesterday
and I will still be here counting the fallen letters,
watching the wind whip away the answers.

——

Tonight, I’ll walk to the river
and drown the silence
that hangs like a sword
between our eyes.

—–

The time has come to
remove the bookmark
and put this book back
on the bookshelf.

In my eyes
you lived
like a flower, flowering
only in my
daily daydreams.

——

I let them play
hide and seek
on my closed eyelids
seeking to believe
that their every touch
is a warm kiss from you.

—–

I covet,
I protect,
their mediocrity,
their patchiness,
like a jealous mother.

—–

They
do not affect me
anymore
as winter had
seeped into my soul
snowflake by snowflake
while I was immersed
in your silence.

——

I’m sitting
in the eye of a storm
watching the calm
waiting for reality to
unleash her sordid story.

Through the lines I walk by the shadow’s edge
in search of big things like love, life and a good liver.

—–

There were words that were left unsaid
between you and me that night
when the wind picked up your scent
and applied it to my brow like a balm.

Today, as I sip solitude’s bitter brew
I’m reminded once again of how life
wrote our stories. From lips we moved
to letters. From letters we moved to love.
And from love we moved to loneliness.

——

Empty is this page like the song
on the radio. I blink and the world
stops to let a tear trace its transparent
track down a dust scarred cheek.

——

The other day I found you staring back
at me from a tiny photo. That bright flash
of near perfect teeth that once used to
soothe the hunger of the darkness inside.
That white light of nights scented by your smile.

Isn’t it a wonder? This loss of laughter.
This desperate need for nostalgia.

——

This cold is a comfort for the abandoned.
In her icy embrace memory is transformed
into a fresh layer of snow, formless and featureless.
Those few who can forget are the luckiest. For
remembrance is a curse. A curse of the soul
left behind to mourn the memory of all that could have been.

And where shall the pale hands of time lead us?
For upon this day lies the pallor of gloom
soaking up the color and comfort of my life.

Did you dream of deliverance or did you dream of
death tumbling down your hair into the night?

Crippled are your tears by a whisper unspoken.
Tell me, tell me, what ails your spirit? Is it the angry
appearance of answers? Or is it the desperate defiance of my pain?

Yet, you speak not and look upon me
with serenity in your eyes and loneliness
on your lips while hope lies in torment upon mine.

Will you allow destiny to wander through our veins?
Will you allow words to work away the foul winds?
Will you allow distance to shorten the questions?

It is not a fancy that this heart of mine bears.
It is not a whim that makes my lips quiver.
It is not a tear that troubles my eye.

The sun came to rest
on his shoulders,
he wiped his tears
and cradled the ball of light.

He spanned the distances
from east to west
and held all the four winds
in his burning breath.

Time stood to the side
as he counted the colors that
swam across the southern sky,
seven colors for the seven continents.

The silence of centuries crept
across his brow and the day
departed with destiny in the
company of history and happiness.

The last light sunk into his eyes
in the shape of a human sigh,
his shoulders tensed to bear
the extra weight of a darkened world.

The black ship was ready to sail
along night’s dark straits, he shook
hands with Time and unfurled the sail,
it was time to leave the night keys behind.

They promised a Turkish dinner
and talk of apertures over kebabs.
I slept through the deadline.
Solitude over sanguinity.

—–

Is there a point to it all?
The flirting with unruly light,
the sudden showers of weak words
only prolong the inevitable.

—–

Why this endless doubt?
A circular style without conclusion
and a shallow air of civilization gnaw
at the narrow end of confidence.

—–

Yesterday, I saw waves of purple clouds
move towards the Southern shores.
Behind them dusk had ensnared the sun
in her tomb of discarded light.

What use is love for those whose hands stink of death?
What meaning does humanity hold for
those laughing through tears?

Where were the answers printed in gold?
Where were the guardians of hope on a day
when blood splattered faces spoke of a
madness that came home to roost?

We will shed two tears, perhaps burn a candle or three.
But who will wash the crimson smears off our common spaces?
Who will awaken our sleeping senses?

Stainless steel plates and plain blue chairs try
to shield a private sadness from prying public eyes.
Are you watching? Go ahead, step over crumpled
bodies, skewered limbs and satisfy your blood lust.

An eye for an eye you want in the vain hope that
you can sleep better then and dream of a world
where only the righteous punish the sinners.

These rivers of dark blood smear our foreheads
and drip from hands clenched in fury.
But who will spare a thought for those whose
stories stopped with a phone call?

On the outskirts of an echoing sob
I found you weeping big fat tears.

It was your legs that were spread
out, your cleavage that called,
I only opened my zip.

My breasts are too small doctor. Can
you fix me up with some silicone? I want
to push these bad boys out.

You were looking at me. I know you wanted it
so bad babe. Don’t blame me. You needed me to
take you in the car, somewhere in the shadows.

More lipstick here. This neckline is too modest. Where
is my lucky bra? I hear this perfume is divine and in
thirty steps you can have your finest fantasy fulfilled.

Take this. Take that. Yes, just like that you bitch.
Make some noise. Move some more. Don’t lie
there like a tub of lard. Don’t bite your lips.

Girlfriend, you need to run them on a string.
The power is between your legs. Uncross
when the shopping season starts.

Twenty three is my magic number. I’ve
been to more ports than Captain Nemo.
They all love my twelve inch tortoise!

On the outskirts of a suppressed sob
I found you breaking beer bottles.

The tell tale signs are all present,
the stubborn frown, the suppression
of superficiality and the puckered palms
clenched into fists.

He squints and reads the new notice,
the glare of the sun glancing off his
brow, marked by the eddies and rifts
of tenacious time. The language is the
same. It never changes. Frowning
legalese that tries terrible threats.

He tears it off the door in one quick motion,
an economy of movement in everything. He
looks around. Blank windows stare back at him.
But he knows. He can already hear the whispers
begin their weekly workout. The circuit they made

They say I’m past my prime, driving up a one way street with
my three wheeler words, spinning the same rhythms and
stealing the same styles. “You will never learn or change”, she says,
filling page after page with frivolous letters that flirt with each other.

People glance through and whisper, “There is nothing new here.”
A judgment by the jury of anonymity. They move on to greener pastures.

Should I write like Stearns? Mix Sanskrit and surrealism in
the same sentence. Or should I sample Sylvia? A dread
of approaching doom in the shape of father figures. Or
perhaps, I should stick to Allen? An abstraction of decay.

The tyrannies of age wait at the end of this page.
There will be no mercy at the hands of mortality.

Who will help me fight the dearth of density?
Who will correct my comedy of construction?

Eins, zwei and drei. The dates determine the
order of death. Words walk tall and stand before
a firing squad of gun toting, bare chested editors.

(Here is the final one of the four guest posts. A big thank you to all four of the bloggers who agreed to contribute so readily. It was a privilege to share your work here.

{illyria} is another blogger whose writing I follow. What I love about her writing is her virtuosity with the language. She can write about the most mundane thing and make it seem magical. Reading her I often marvel at the utter ease with which words seem to flow from her fingertips, whether it is writing about sensuality or about the little truths an average day contains. And last but not the least exploring her beautifully designed blog is a virtual treat for the senses. She does not usually post poetry on her blog so it is a pleasure to share this.)

young Peter Pan, he stood by my bed
he said,
“it’s Tuesday and my lost boys are somewhere
under your pillows”

i think i know what he means

my shoulders itch in the place where the wings used to be
and there are white sails on my feet
they are telling me to go out into the ocean
and play make-believe
but i said,
“i can’t swim, you see”

i think he knows what i mean

the lost boys are somewhere under the blankets
(not under the pillows, as children may expect)
he said,
“but i am not a child
only a wingless bird
with white skin for feathers”

young Peter Pan with his white skin
soft, smooth, fresh, freckled
except on his right hand
where he grasps his sword and goes off to war

© {illyria}

(Here is the third in a series of four guest posts. One more to go.

Mermaid is another blogger whose writing I admire. What I love about her writing is the wisdom her words contain. In keeping with the constant references to oceans and seas in her writing there is a palpable depth to her words as well and numerous times something she wrote has opened new windows and offered amazing perspectives on old things.)

curry leaves and spices
flavor the oil
the taste of women
I’ve known

burn the flesh
the brown skin melts
the cream of
an Oreo exposed

this need for space
this American life
heals the heart
the skin still scarred

I love the food
though I can’t make it
meet their expectations
at the door

palms pressed in
namaste
I taste our differences
“Please come in.”

© Mermaid

(On June 1st this blog turned two years old and adding the two years time I wrote on an older blog elsewhere that makes it a total four years of blogging. So instead of the usual anniversary post I decided to ask four of my favorite bloggers to contribute a guest post here. Happily, they all accepted immediately. So here is the first guest post. The rest will follow roughly in the chronological order in which I came to know them. Each guest blogger will directly respond to your comments to their respective posts.

Phantasmagoria was a regular and very popular blogger on Rediffblogs for almost 3 years. She recently stopped writing there but I hope she will soon begin again elsewhere. What I love about her writing is her simplicity and economy of means. Using the simplest language and minimum number of words she manages to evoke the deepest of feelings.)

You’ve left.
But memories of you fall like warm summer rain.
It was just yesterday that you had wrapped your
arms around me, pushed the hair out of my eyes
and kissed one questioning eyebrow and then the other.

This way, I tell myself, I live the day twice over.
It was at this time yesterday that we pulled up
at a mountainside store and asked for directions.
It was now that you drew patterns on my thigh,

Let me sleep, I would plead. Sure sweety, you said
And started to write my name, then yours, and then
suggestive messages. It is a whole day later and if I
close my eyes I can as yet feel your hand around me,

pulling me closer into you, stealing kisses on the
road that leads straight into a sky heavy with rain.
I am dreading tomorrow or the day after. Will we
forget the sulk I was pulling for not getting my way.

I have already forgotten the song we listened to as
we drove through the rain falling in sullen sheets, the
mountain is now littered with discarded words of a song
that filled our silences. And now possibly discarded

memories will flutter out of the grasp of our entwined fingers.
Your body curves into mine as we lie on clean, antiseptic
sheets. The sun outside the window sets without ceremony.
The day draws to an end and even the banter has slowed down.

We look at each other longer, kiss softer, hold tighter.
The streets are bright with the fallen rain and the lights
from passing cars. Yesterday at this time we were saying
goodbye and I was saying, not yet. Let me make a memory.

Yesterday at this time you had already left.

© Phantasmagoria

Here is the night nodding along with me,
nostalgia begins to climb the stairs in my
heart. It all started in Coorg and ended in HCU.

Standing between those hills we filled the valley
with echoes of our names and lost something.
Innocence? Youth? Idealism? Happiness?

I don’t know. As you know I’ve never been good
with big words. Superficiality is a sustaining power.

In temples we found faith of a different kind. And
burning stone steps we climbed barefoot to visit a
naked god on the hill. The distances began to develop.

We fought for silly privileges but slept under the stars.
And in obscure and sleepy Somvarpet we found our little
version of paradise. The brandy that warmed our throats
on that lonely hill beyond the temple and the tent which
dripped in the cold night bring back memories that can
never be captured in a single grainy photograph.

Beedies galore, whisky wisdom, suicidal drivers,
Bangalore bonding, Mozart’s violin and Brigade beauties.

Kilometers slipped from under our tired feet
to between our hardened hearts. Now, across
oceans, we grow apart like feuding brothers.

Will we watch the sunset in Somvarpet again?
Will we ever scale Tadiandamol?
Will we wander through Cariappa’s Madikeri ever again?
Will we even remember the leeches?

ఆకాశం లో నా ఈ చిన్ని చిన్ని ఆశలను అరేయనా?
అలవాటు లేని ఈ ఆనందాన్ని గుండెలో బంధించనా?

ఈ రాత్రి నిలుస్తుందా నీ కళ్ళలో ఒక కలగా?
ఈ కవిత కలుస్తుందా నీ చిరునవ్వు లో ఒక పాట లాగా?

We lived for the silence at sunset, varied
layers of love covering us with companionship.

Your profile against the golden circle and the
smile that pierced the encroaching darkness
still reach out and twist my insides
after all these seasons, after all these storms.

Why are you not here?

Did I not wash your eyes with my love?
Did I not speak your words as if they were mine?
Did I not capture your beauty in my tears?

The thirst of absence remains, the hunger
of distance grows.

Memory climbs the castle steps,
we rode yellow through virgin snow.

You kissed me by the window
and frowned at my frigidity. So
I placed my smile in your palm and
asked you to apply it to your lips.

Remember?

We lived for the silence at sunset, watching
the encroaching darkness swallow our shadows.

గుండె లోని ఈ ఘోషని గొంతు చించి అరవనా?
కనికరం లేని ఈ కష్టాలని కళ్ళు మూసి చూపించనా?

ఆరంభ శురత్వమే కానీ అలవాటు లేదు ముగింపు
అందుకే మొసలి కన్నీళ్ళ మధ్యలో మిగిలిపోతుంది ఈ మనసు ఒక మొండితనము

The clouds hang in the sunless sky like fluffy pink pillows.
The air is still between us. I smell you between the smells
of growing grass and blooming azaleas. You are curled up
holding my hand between yours. You can feel my little finger
move slowly along your stomach. Textures are teased out in
an exploration of tender territory. I lean forward and run my
tongue along the back of your neck, through gleaming hair
and salty skin. The still air between us suffers, squeezed
between shivering bodies. Your leg slowly slides along mine,
miming a language in movement. I let the light of dawn flow
across your freckled forehead and pool in your opening eyes.
I wait for the breathless breeze to surround us and then blow
through your hair. I bend over and touch your lips, soft like sin
and flecked with spots of red teeth marks. I close the gap with
my lips and lazy light struggles to escape their locked confines.
The careless cries of birds wash over our aroused senses. We
sink into seconds and stretch them along our sinuous spines.

Silently, dawn parts from us like a jilted lover. The yellow overseer
is riding in on her familiar coattails. The brittle business of another
day awaits his grim golden gaze. You leave too as morning moves
her mundane face on us. Fie! A perpetual interrupter of intimate
auroral moments is here yet again to erase the early spoils.

The Dust Brothers - This Is My Life

III.

The night is near, midnight rising on my forehead. Over
yonder is your answer. I’ll not yield. I’ll not give in. This is
my life.

Static sweeps through the air, a wall of white inside
and outside. Meaning is lost within. You remain
silent and I slip into the stream, carried away by
the current to the opposite country.

II.

Woken by words. The day breaks on the shore
of my black and white dreams. These are times
of virtual confidences. Cute little smiley faces and pidgin
expressions bridge the gap of postmodernity. Curious
is the life of an outsider looking in, counting connections.

I.

The neon faces march through
the rain, a procession of familiar faces
marked by history. There is a D and here
is an S. Here is a T and there is a V. The light
bounces off the rain soaked pale skin. Questions
pop and burst. We are all enemies of intimacy, content
to vomit across the distance. A fake smile here and a meaningless
scrap there. Caught in the fear of green. Idealism has chosen
euthanasia as an easy way out. Beg for my life, must I?
They fight for dents in metal. Here I live with darkness as a roommate.
Lies abound. Tears survive. Hate is here.

The day after, a judgment in the hands
of one who does not care.

Who will call for the flashing red light?
Who will light the yellow flame?

రాలుతున్న కన్నీటి చుక్కలు చెప్పగలవా రామాయణమని
ములుగుతున్న ఆలోచనలు చెప్పగలవా మనసు ఒక మూగతనాన్ని

కూత వేటు దూరం లో ఉంది ఒక కోరిక
మార్పు వస్తుందా? కోరిక తీరుతుందా?