Varied Longing in the Karjat poems (2010 -2011)
In this period began a period of living beyond the edge of the city. For the first time In my life , I lived in the countryside away from the city . It was a period of being alone , in solitude and despite the sudden movements into the city where the contrast brought about a bunch of poems , I lived alone . It began as a period of having money but the structure of a job seemed like a golden cage . So earlier I was a soldier like the rest marching away to scrounge for jobs , petty consultancies , or writing, working hard , never bothering of saving money , spending money , and then this period ushered in the gilded cage .
In this period I started working in the outdoors , not cushy at all , but at the same time in the element of the outdoors which was not comfortable, despite the money , Life began all these tests, the test of being pushed beyond endurance. In these poems therefore due to the above mentioned circumstance different angst appears , a sort of random angst , another longing , a strange appearance of anger within , a burst of clarity , a burst of dream like epiphany , the stunning nature around with its beauty , and its bursts of elegance brought about these poems .
The range in these poems talk about difficult times talks of a certain ushering within me. A certain transformation where there was a break from angst , then to a an acceptance , through moments of just watching and just being . karjat poems holds the perid of painful transformation as it contains a range of feelings and a variety of thought
Hanin ( longing }
You might have not seen him , but I have seen death riding on a buffalo
And I wondered whose neck has he placed the noose .
You are not afraid of hell you say ,that could be true
But is it not that time stretching, a waiting sate
Wait that makes you hate
Is that not hell !
Have you not got lost when time becomes less, and whispered timelessness
Have you not cared nothing then but less and less?
Is it not then you touch bliss
Far away from that hiss
Is it not then we say, there is light
Where Time rides on time
And all the days that work with hands
Are strung on her waist
So why does time walk on time
Sticking her tongue out
When the inky sky her color becomes the night sky
Why does she swallow all that passes her by …
The doors become her legs that wide apart where boats pass
Into nothing, a chasm of emptiness, Where we would hurtle ,
Riding on the back of a gigantic turtle
21st October 2010
A series of poems were written on a wayside café in bandra, with this effort to get out of a wave of meaningless and exhaustion which was coming over me. Written during the time I shuttled occasionally from the city to the countryside and back again , to and fro …… a humdrum existence between heat and humidity . The city brought chaos, a reminder of my urban existence , the village , the country brought solitude , and that was deeply welcomed .
Poetics of the Mundane
My wife is coming piped the stranger at the cafe
How nice ,
Bollocks says envy
Boring says the radical,
Settled says the conservative
A skinny waiter smiles
American drawl on Indian girls – femininity entranced in tone skinned legs.
Noodles and chewing gums
And the rest dribbles on the skinny legs .
The dork looks on , hoping for a stare back , hopelessly the waiter waits , his pink apron , green shirt
Fitting in the pink place of rugs and pastel shades, under a brittle light.
The evening sighs!
The road is laden with noises moves sideways
And the graveyard sits with its silence
Next to the moonlight on the cross
I yearn for more.
City of worms
You are not missing me ,
Texts the phone flashing
Humanity bobs up and down the sidewalk of a crowded street way , middle of town.
Irony twists the smile
Fancy feelings can emerge
She was very cute
I was scarred when I I was born
You are intentionally loosing your weight
We need to hang out more often
Banters from the café that sits on the edge of this narrow street
The “Awesome” generation cozily sits on the yuppydom of life
Skull caps gather outside for prayer
For god the great
The saffron clad marches outside hailing a king that is now god the great
That’s damn weird says one of the awesome
That’s really cool that he made out with that guys mom
That’s the kissing room quipped another awesome
They called us cheap in that party
My party had a kickass cake , which I was too drunk to eat
He is such a fag dude
Will you just chill out
The walls around here seem to be crumbling for a while.
The middle class bubble bobs away
The bpo has seen best of my generation being dragged out in the consumerist gold screaming for more
In these glittering highways where dusk sits still like a wet crow,
The city winds screeching like an un oiled machine yearning for more !
Feelings under the cracked sky
Do you feel my love?
Do you feel the bloating bubbles in my mind
Do you feel the white hair gleaming in our empty prattle?
What a rattle
A story teller’s tattle
Do you feel the quarry leaping in my dream?
Where the young man shirtless
Picks my face and hangs it on the hanger
Moroccan tea with Jesus Mary and me
I sip the tea ,made by Claudius augustine alburquerqeee
Who ever is he but a wanderer like me
The boy with the glistening face
Brings me that tea
The lip gloss on that girl shines with a mystic plea
I know that I have hidden the skulls under the bedroom floor ,
Turning my old scribbles into a flower ,
Turning the old skulls into cups that float to the sea
Where I can see the crumbling tower and that hands that stretch out to smile ,
For I have been here for a while ….
For a while, for a while !
For then the old dreams return back beyond , the melancholy , beyond the going on and on ,
I can hear the man with the golden beard say
Now don’t make followers make believers! Now die in the head
Now speak the language of Mary in laungerie
Le the tables turn,
Set me free!
Set me free from the cross
Baptize them not in fire, water or brimstones, of hell, damnation and devilish desire but in kindness, friendship, and the white light of a blushing bride.
Amen to you now
Amen to me now
Amen to them now
Amen to the hundreds of them who bring the fellowship to the burning light around me
Another zoo story
The toad had a sexual climax on the window sill ,
The menstruating lioness saw this phenomenon with a yawn
The children had gathered in the zoo where the exhibition of the once wild animals were now being paraded.
Creatures of the wild still prowl in the invisible night sky
Like the way I do
During whisky hours
Floating cups of faces
Some cracked ,
Some hacked , some laced
All leave traces
Races of many kind
Thoughts that shovel , living in that hovel ,
Bringing the stories of stallions that grovel
Beneath the weather beaten sky .
A fresh face
A fresh trace , beneath the glaze
They float in and out ,
Streaming thoughts, racing , spacing , leaving
Finally an empty space ,
Beneath that merry weather cloud
Lies a sheet of white haze.
A lover’s babble
I call you from the ancient caves
From the ancient lines
I call you more to enter,
My eros entwined with chronos
You are invisible and wild
Where I see you in a boy who looks at me
I know its you
Where I see you staring,
I know you are in me,
I don’t need you in me as much as within me
Calling my heart to me, so you dance with me like you danced in a solitary dream,
Like in the Spanish dancer and the black cat you are in me .
Party 2010 and the road home
Melancholy hangs from the pocket like a flower
The shirt sleeves drool,
Fatigue pockmarks the road that lay beside me
And from that stray thought caves a stillness and its taste lingers
As the tongue protrudes in the sky
I lick the rain drop
Some smile , sliding across the room , as my trousers shuffle with my coughing tie
Looking at them moving through the room,
My stomach belches slowly
Then the auto stutters and
Jerks, I think of the monsoon fog touching the tips of rooftops .
I wondered then how the sky lines have now turned into my song lines
I thought of how my burden has become my high five
How my love torn lace turns into the cover of my inverted space,
Of how my orange house bore the sky
And how now I have recognized my cry
Muffled deep in my pillows
Narcissus blooms in the groin
An old man sees pale flicker and shudders
The bearded warrior hears this and laughs
The grating sound tears the young boys ears ,
Muddied water stirs and the mirror cracks
The chanting cripple knows death and its haunting
Corridors of tomorrow fall apart
I chant , I chant ,I chant !
The blood lotus blooms,
Centered wisdom grooms
And, the white warrior stands
Naked in a circled emptiness.
Centre in my verse , (14 December 2010)
The winter frisks through the curved mountain line ,
Breathing gentle fire, does the great god turn towards the west .
A few wood sticks catch fire , as it burns through the lightened door of our expectation .
A man bent not with age but with sour life bemoans a lost cause. Thin figured and huddled looks through the glassy screen of numbers as the sky slips away with buzzing cricket!
A sleeping dog and a crippled man sit with its approaching stillness.
As the wood smoke touches the sky lost in darkness , a man climbs out of the yester years window and lodges in my mind .
A man of the new moment, a man of the turning leaf , a man who smiles at the oncoming monsoon swaying in the air of gladness of life spent by such madness .
It’s the winter air which makes me blush , which makes me look at the sky and know that the peaks hold on to the star with all its gladness like the way I do ! like the way I do now ,
Like the way I find my lines sitting on a wooden chair near a wooden table, finding the centre in my verse , finding the uni in my verse .
Mad women and her run way under pant
Mad woman calls with the beckoning finger
Of early morning tiding
Of joy contained in tin boxes
To break free into early morning glory of gold rush,
Of Sorrow and the sweeping veil to lift , to crush in
To become a spot of red
Then you know the flow
With the orange rush of her smile that does glow
Then you know what it is to become that early morning hush
Despite the maddening crowd that does rush
In that early morning crush.
Dripping afternoons in October
Drowsy days comes to an end when the files slowly shut,
Middle aged men wipe their brows,
Fans slowly stir ,
Tappings on the keys slowly ceases
Droppings on the leaves shines
From a glazed window pane .
Then comes a sudden shaking of wind through the leaves
Rustling wildly, an invisible hand shaking a mop of green
The neck of a tree is strangled and rattled
The floor is suddenly covered in bright yellow
The sky is split into many half’s with white sharp light of lightning
I can hear his voice next to my ear talking of a recent love loss , love lost in
The funnel of time,
I can hear him saying,
“I will give it under her ear”,
“I have given her all this love for nothing”.
The rain drips faster on the window panes, streaking
My sadness away from the dust of memory, melancholia and mourning.
I look at the face that’s mumbling and I hear him say, today I will enjoy, I am done .
I smile knowing that he will “live”.
This poem is written by my dear friend Patrick Mc Laughlin
On a long train journey from Bombay to Calcutta , he wrote this poem somewhere midway , it was a journey , short but memorable ..
I read my poems to him and two other fellow journey birds , which are written above , and he instantly jotted this poem down .. I feel in his own way he responded like a poet would, like a thinker would on that moment how we in our journeys are always unutterably alone, in transit but traces are left , human traces .
But its by paddy as he was fondly
Called by everyone.
The box of thoughts rolls back and forth
In wheels of time our youth is caught ,
Stretched to breaking, retched, aching ,
And still the cogs perpetuating,
Disconnected hatred, creating joints, while the strand is strained to a breaking point ,
Pups and trains will bark and toot,
Our words remain as marked proof.
We do not