heart of darkness

sledgehammer summer
beats down
with the droplets of sweat
down my spine
travels this moment

a Sufi melody
pours out
of a modern gadget
trance struggles to find
its way
through the modern beats

its 7.30 am
the birds chirp
the rat race
neck to neck
and some corners
of the soul
always dark
always quiet

swinging between
yes and no
questions wait
holding their breaths

TV sets, election rallies
cricket scores
complaints
suggestions

noise noise noise
and amidst the chaos
my personal
heart of darkness !




 

Language

As the hot steam scalded the skin
on the thumb and the forefinger
I asked time- what do you use to
erase fingerprints,
footprints?

the written word is perpetual
or is it
backspace a few years
and try deleting a regret

the ointment is always cold
and slippery
like memory
we only retain the healing
conveniently forgetting
the nasty colour

lists and preferences
If life was just a network
it would be easy to sort
people into neat groups
notifications and specifications
no ramifications

choices are actually
the inevitability of options
its always either/or
this/that
something/nothing
hold on/let go

the NOs are as important
as the AYEs
defining
what was more imperative
in that one moment
and in the next moment
life takes over again

Truth and lies
interchange costumes
the most used word of all
is also a four-lettered word
endearment and abuse
-LOVE

crony capitalists
all of us hide behind
a socialist mask
while constantly labelling
the others
fat dark crude simple
men women
gay single married
bastard bitch

adjectives
nouns verbs
language the biggest
weapon
to create, to destroy !

OF ELIOT AND SCARS

Nobody writes poems with disclaimers
or prose with warnings
just like patriarchy
has led women
to believe
only fair, slim and hairless
is acceptable.

Her smile is so warm
maybe because she has no words
or does she
will the voice machine in her ear
ever understand love

women come and go fretting over
the shape of an eyebrow
No dear Eliot
they no longer
bother about Michelangelo

Go,look for the men who
wrote poetry
about the brow?

the girl with a limp
always smiles

the soft fingers rub
a fruity smell into my skin
and I count the dead cells
of the mind
Is there a wonder scrub that induces
forgetfulness
and erases all lines that time has cast

my palms look like the map
of a hidden treasure
only there are no destinations
just a long endless journey
the nails point at nothing

I am tired to even open my eyes
but the hands have changed
the postures, the stances
have altered
the eyes that once loved
now overlook, why life?

she parts my hair
and I am scared
what if she finds
the window to my mind
what if she knows
all my sinister thoughts

I miss the way my grandmother
rubbed oil into my reluctant skull
snip,snip
memory are you a hairdresser?

I don't remember her face
only a smell
of pickles,medicines
and loss.

I walk and walk
round and round
to nowhere
the maze is
my punishment.

each morning
is every morning
she says I look perfect
I am glad
she hasn't seen the scars.