Tuesday, 15 December 2015

Last December

Last December was a gloriously beautiful time
I had just begun to notice your gorgeous smile
Felt my heart slip at the sound of that soulful voice
Found myself thinking you so fine.

Last December there were walks on a cold winter night
You told me your stories, I shared some of mine
There was fog in the air and a wee bit of tension
I was love-struck, did I mention?

Last December I lost myself staring into your eyes
Hours filled with love poems and day dreamer sighs
There were romantic movies and cheesy songs too
Last December I fell in love with you.

Last December you were the only man I could see
I was almost convinced you were made for me
You became my muse, I was making art
Last December you also broke my heart.

It's December again, the fog fills the air
But I'm so glad that I'm not there
I sit in a different city so far away from you
It's December again and I'm in love with someone new.

Oh, December is a glorious time
I have just begun to notice his beautiful smile
How my heart slips at the sound of that soulful voice
And every time I see him I think he's so fine...

Thursday, 3 December 2015

To Heal a Broken Bird

Everything broken begs to be healed
Even as it tries to fly away
Spreading the wounds wide and open
Flapping the wings hard
Occasionally even trying to run

Everything broken wants to be healed
To find itself between the clasp of warm hands
A sabbatical in a new place
The only job to eat and drink and sleep
As the prickling medicine runs over the hurt
It will still try to break out
Banging it's head against the walls
And many failed escapes.

Everything broken needs to be healed
Even in the naivety of not knowing
How torn it is and where
It's obliviousness to the wound
Is but a sign of how much it hurts
To have been pushed into an unconscious
Too much to bear.

Everything broken has to be healed
Even when flying and dancing
Chirping away with the friends
As it sleeps in the night
Wanders during the day
There is a pain in the heart that never goes away.

Everything broken will be healed
It may say it doesn't want to
It may shake the floor in protest
It may poop all over, tired and scared
It may not touch a grain of rice
Or a drop of water
Even when it does
Not know any better.

Monday, 16 November 2015

Pussy

An act so natural
For the little white furry being
It could be mistaken for a yawn
A nap, the sound of purring
A violation so brutal
Forging innocence in the guise
Of her non-humanness
A shameless creature
Not seeking forgiveness
She doesn't ask for approval
Social sanction,a private room
To stick her tongue down
To the love button
Licking not
Just once or twice
Looking
Neither here or there
Her legs stretched wide open
One pointing to the dentist's office
One to the exit door
And her tongue
Never stops moving.

An act so natural
It could be casually scribbled across
Her time table
An act barred from
Even the realm of my mind.

Wednesday, 11 November 2015

Aakriti/Shape

there is a shadow of a woman that I see sometimes
walking in me step by step, all the way, everywhere
she is the one who needs company 24/7, she doesn’t speak
she likes to listen, she hides when they throw light on her
she has the power to become invisible, she loves her home
beneath the ground, she likes how she is so neat and defined in her
shape, like warm walls to keep safe, and on the right day
you can see the whole world moving outside of her
she, like a figure that stands the same way every day
staring at the same space, in a canvas mistaken for a cage.

there is a reflection of a woman that I see sometimes
staring back when I try to look at my face, she just blows
me a flying kiss every morning and tells me I look pretty,
she changes all the time, but she never lies; she is 25 one
day with a cat in her arms and a bookshelf right behind,
the next day she’s a grandmother with red hair and lots
of tattoos; she challenges me from behind the glass
to bring her to life, but she has no shape, just a liquid soul
that keeps filling into new dreams everyday.

there is a window to a woman I feel everyday
she is short but walks tall, her hair covers her like
a mushroom cap on rainy days, she has holes in her skin
and needles on her legs, and a flame in her eyes, she holds
a sketchpad in her hand and captures everything that makes
her smile, only she edits out the unnecessary props, she cries
like a baby, and laughs like one too; some days she has a hard
time, her body hurts, she is starting to grow out of her being
she’s changing her shape, she’s sprouting her wings.

Friday, 30 October 2015

When I was younger, I used to ask my mother how is it that we feel alone even when there are so many people in this world.

I

I walk like fire till my feet turn to ash
It does not matter if the world beneath me burns
I do not care if the steps spill my blood,
My spit turning to acid, words melt my insides
I can no longer swallow the shit that is happening
My heartbeats up in flames, the soul boiling
Under the heat of my own being
I live like fire till my days turn to ash.

II

Cry, if the world hurts you, cry like a fucking
Waterfall, and cry till those around can see you
Drowning in your own sorrow; please don’t
Pretend to be strong for anyone, aren’t we all
Starting to look like iron men and women who
Have forgotten what their hearts sounded like
Aren’t we wounded souls wandering underneath
Distracted bodies teaching our children
Never to cry?

III

Oh god, please be kind to one another
You are not ice, you are not a walking blade,
You are not the pointed pistol, or the big stick,
You are not thorns, you are not a fist, a punch
You are not a rational intellectualizing all-
knowing emotionless fucking machine
And you don’t have to be
You are a warm smile, you are a tight hug
You are the stranger who can understand
You are the lover who can listen, you are the
Thing that can break when others crumble
You are so full of love, you are kind
You are nothing like what they tell you you are
You are everything you want to be
You are one person
But hand in hand with everyone else
You are the fucking world.

Monday, 19 October 2015

Oh dear, what a shame it is to not have the heads turn
As I enter the bus in awe of my flawless beauty
The shining face, the kohl smeared eyes, the ripped out
Hairless flesh of my legs, and smooth touch of my hands
No woman will wish her daughter to be like me
For all I know, I’d be one of those young people
That make her look so damn sexy at forty eight;
No man will desire the fool who does not hide her legs
Sprouting with hair as wild as her heart, my head with
As less hair as the damn worthy of all the passers-by
Who, I am told, will decide the course of my life,
Oh dear mommy, I am a walking tragedy.

But what will you do when I go waltzing down the
Streets of Vienna in hot pants and spaghetti tops
And when I would have dyed my hair red, and adopted
Baby kittens displaying their loving scratches like
Constellations tattooed on my skin and not wear black to
Hide my tummy and pick any dress out of my wardrobe without
Spending a full 30 minutes wondering if what I wear
Will please every person who I may or may not pass
On the street? What will you do when I will find a partner
Who loves me when you had your bets on that I wouldn’t
Because, oh what a mess I am and still will be, and what will
You do when my eyes have laughter lines from all the
Shits I didn’t give about the millions of people I should
Have given a shit about;
Will I still be your walking tragedy?

Sunday, 27 September 2015

My blog is my most sacred and honest place. This is me, when I'm sad and happy and when I'm hiding away from everyone because life is a little hard sometimes. This is me, broken hearted and in love and when I'm not thinking about any of it at all. And this is me- transparent, no lies, no hidden meanings, no unnecessary metaphors. Me in all my nakedness, my whole being and everyone doesn't like that, and they don't have to. But writing what I write is my choice, and whether you want to read it or not is yours. So let's just respect each other like decent human beings.

And on that note, here is the poem for today, my version of Bluebird by Charles Bukowski. You can find the original here-
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/bluebird/

Bluebird

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to chirp away
but they’re too tough for her,
they say, stay in there, we’re not going
to let anyone see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to chirp away
but they force manners on her and shout
till she goes quiet
and the lovers and the strangers
and the unknown faces
never know that
she's
in there.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
that wants to chirp away
but outside is too tough for her,
They say,
shut up, why should we listen
to you?
we don’t want to listen
to you
you want us to lock you
in a cage?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
loves to chirp away
but they’re too many, they only let her out
once in a while
when she’s not too loud.
they say, I know that you're there,
but stay inside
you’re not needed here.
So I put her back,
but she's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let her
die
and we sleep together like
that
forced by
a secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a woman
weep, but I don't
weep, though they
want me to.

Sunday, 6 September 2015

'Desperate' is the saddest word I've heard
From even far away you know it comes with no good
You start walking in the other direction,
Lonely or alone, who can say?

But why stop a man who wants to love?
I, for one, love being in love and do it exactly like in the movies
Complete with my whole being, and heartbreaking honesty
I sing songs and click pictures and laugh too loud
And kiss like nothing else can remotely fill my empty soul
If I had a lover, that's what I'd call him- lover
Or honey in the soft passionate way of Andrea Gibson
I'd send three am texts with Neruda's poems and tell him I cried to sleep
He doesn't have to reply back immediately
I'd be painting gifts, taking parts of me out to create something for him
I'd write handwritten perfume laden love letters on pink paper
If he cries a river, I'd make origami boats to make him laugh
And I'd tell him he's beautiful so many times
That he'd forget he ever felt un-beautiful in his entire life
And I'd smell his hair.

But here is a conversation I must never have
Here is a truth I must never tell
And here is a feeling that must always stay
Hidden.
Not anymore.

Tuesday, 25 August 2015

Postponement

The flower bud kept telling the bees
Every day
To come home tomorrow
For soon it would bloom;
I tell the clock and make promises
To hours that one day soon
I will go on a date with time
And do all the things I love to do,
It will just be the two of us
And I shall be present in whole
With my body and soul.

But life for now, is a set of tomorrows
That my today keeps leaning towards
And time keeps slipping
Through my busy typing fingers.

Sunday, 23 August 2015

 Poor fat pregnant monkey looking for some food
Poor fat pregnant monkey needs to now look after two
Poor fat pregnant monkey hunts all over the floor
Poor fat pregnant monkey finds some but needs a lot more
Poor fat pregnant monkey can’t find the father anywhere
Poor fat pregnant monkey searches for someone who will care
Poor fat pregnant monkey begs and pleads for bread
Poor fat pregnant monkey wishes she was dead
Poor fat pregnant monkey doesn’t know what to do
Poor fat pregnant monkey might as well go blue
Poor fat pregnant monkey has no other way out
Poor fat pregnant monkey no one listens to her shout
Poor fat pregnant monkey quietly begins to steal some grain
Poor fat pregnant monkey it helps soothe her pain
Poor fat pregnant monkey needs more solids in her tummy
Poor fat pregnant monkey is about to become a mummy
Poor fat pregnant monkey scares the people away
Poor fat pregnant monkey will face the consequences some day
Poor fat pregnant monkey sees them coming with stones
Poor fat pregnant monkey felt the hurt in her bones
Poor fat monkey no longer searches for food
Poor fat monkey puked away everything that she chewed.

Saturday, 15 August 2015

An Ode to Whitey

Do you know they’ve started calling you
Whitey-bitey these days? Does it seem like there is
An invisible collar around your neck now
With those words inscribed across, in CAPITALS
And everyone can see it, but only you feel it
Tighten across your throat every time you jump
On a seat to sleep and the people hastily walk
Away or scare you with their fancy multi-purpose
Umbrellas; do you feel it glue onto your skin
Because nobody notices how calm you’ve been
Since that incident 3 weeks ago, they still think
You’re that scary dog; do you find it hard to breathe
When everybody cuddles with pretty Coffee over
There and you try to remember what is was like
To be scratched beneath your ear; and at nights
Do you cry at how suffocated you feel because
You have this invisible collar tighten around your neck
And do you sometimes get angry and show your
Teeth and raise your paws to get rid of it
And do people look at you and say-
Stay away from Whitey-bitey,
Seems like he’s gonna bite someone again.

Thursday, 13 August 2015

There was once a very young tree
Who had not yet understood
How to grow; but he smelled of fresh leaves
And the insides of his barks had not yet formed
Infinite circles, and the outside felt like
He always wanted a hug;

There was once a young tree
Who was beginning to understand
How to grow, and how it tormented his soul
For the sky called out to him, and so did
The grass, and he wanted to stretch high up
And far and wide; but oh, how that hurt.

There was once a tree learning how to grow
Who kept stretching here and there, and he
Always wanted more leaves on his skin
To look pretty, and deeper roots to never forget
Where he came from, and higher branches
So that he could spend more time with
All the birds he’d admired.

There was once a growing tree, who
Was so scared of getting old,for he feared he
Would no longer be able to do all the things
He was was so sure he could; and his leaves would
Fall, his branches would grow bald, and all the
Skies he had reached would shrink and he’d
Start mixing with the ground, and all the
Ants and termites would invade his skin
And start chewing him away from deep within
And the grip he had made with underground
Like fathers holding their young children
Would start to loosen a bit, and for the
First time in his life he would feel what it’s
Like to be scared that he’ll fall, and all his
Bird friends would have their own children
And move to a new house; and he’d sometimes
Think that maybe the humans too want him out
Of their pretty postcard picture.


Wednesday, 29 July 2015

Ode to the Giant Colorful Umbrella


You look like a rainbow that got trapped between
The thick webs of a silly spider who did not know
Of the magic that happens when the rain and sun
Meet once in a while;

You are a lantern house in the night under the
Street bulb, shining your colors so strongly, I
Bet from really far away I look just like you
A rainbow colored girl.

And it’s magical how you have space for everyone
My friend, and her friend, and for the lady on
The street who forgot her rain protection at home,
You shall prove a good wingman some day.

And I had
Always been the rain girl, the one who prides
In her ability to jump over puddles
And finds happiness in the smallest of things
Who would have thought I’d find my joy
In you
You giant rainbow umbrella.

Tuesday, 28 July 2015

I am alone

In the walk by the cars that shine their headlights
Throwing their glow at my entire body; in the sounds
Of the horns that pass, screaming for someone
To notice their cry; in the mist of the smoke; in the heat,
And the after-rain cold; in the fire of the sun; in a
Raincoat with drenched feet; and in the music
That is always there but never really there with me.

I am alone.

In my joys that I feel scared to share, sometimes
Because someone else seems to be having a bad
Day; sometimes in my sadness because who wants
To add to someone else’s tearful load; in
The petting of a beautiful brown eyed coffee-colored
Dog who needs me so badly sometimes that he makes
Me walk away; I wish he could learn to be alone.

I am alone.

In my body, my skin, my being; there is only
One heart that belongs to me and it is mine; there
Is only one soul pretending to be living so many lives,
Only one mind that walks in one direction, needing
One kind of songs, and one kind of poems, and one
Kind of friends, and one kind of love; alone in the
Shower making myself feel joy after a tiring day.

I am alone.

In life, and will be, in death. Taking with me my
Steps and my words that are shared honestly only
With a few, only a few times; everything else is just a
Murmur to escape the silence of how alone we all are
In our pretense of being together; hugging and kissing
And making love again and again, trying to run
Away from ever admitting to ourselves
We are alone.

Sunday, 19 July 2015

An Ode to Food

What a tragedy it is to have forgotten
The exquisite names of meals that had once
Rolled down my tongue, made my lips curl
Into a toothy grin, and how it had once made
My belly feel so full, I couldn’t care if my
Heart felt empty; these names seemed to have
Jumped off the edge of my brain- now all I
Know of food is rotis and curry, and dal, a
Little bit of dosa and idli; the menu of the
Chinese restaurant near my house, the fried
Delciousness can now only be found in the
Stains of my diary entries; and the utterly butterly
Punjabi paranthas that I could once eat
Four at a time, are such a distant memory;
The break up with that plate of momos, how
We once used to meet every day; there was once
Andhra pickle in my room, we had a date with
Rice and curd; once there was biryani with shahi
Paneer, we would just eat without saying a word;
Months back there was a home, the fridge always
Leaking with fruits, and cucumbers, and cheese
My favorite place in the house, it always had something
For me; how long has it been since we met
My dear gulab jamuns, and rasmalais, the kaju
Ki barfis with wedding cards, and the rasgulas
That were present all the time; there
Were once visits to nani’s house, and yes
She loves to feed- bhel puris and aloo chaats,
And her special bhindi; and now the loss of
Rajma being called 'razma', I could still deal with it
But they got the taste all wrong; There was once
A winter with nothing but green methi paranthas
mirchi ka aachaar, and malai;
but these days I eat only because
This woman needs to survive.

And ah, the whole world shall empathize
If by some tragedy I go deaf or dumb
But so few ever understand this loss
Of the taste-buds going numb.



P.s- When I called my mom up to recite this poem, she was eating a mango. What's a mango?

Saturday, 4 July 2015

The first time your heart broke you realized
That something inside you actually hurts, the ‘break’ is not
Just a mere metaphor; And when it broke so many more
Times you started thinking that you were no
Longer a whole being but broken pieces floating in a
Complete-looking body; Each person came like a star in
The moonlit sky of your life, but each new one got duller
And so you’d cry, basking in the loneliness of your own
Moonlight; but you know, you shine, so don’t you ever
Fall in love with just a flashlight, and never let anyone tell
You to have just a bite, and never tell yourself that less is
Enough when you deserve more than you think you deserve;
So wait for everything you’ve always wanted, and I’ll pray
You get it (with a little bit more); till then listen to all the
Romantic songs you want, all the movies that give you hope,
And look at every passer-by asking yourself “Could this person
Be the one?”; give your heart one time, two times, too many times;
Don’t you ever stop being hopelessly romantic
One day you’ll find someone who looks at you like..
(yes, you’re right)
Like you’re magic.

Sunday, 21 June 2015

The poem that will always be under construction

There is still so much growing up to do.

Like learning how not to be disappointed
By my handwriting on the first page
Of a brand new diary.

And loving myself when a new pimple
Pops up on the nose (maybe the pimple too)
And how the hair gets all messy after sleep.

Looking inside to find the courage to finally
Empathize with the people I love too much
But am often reckless with.

Like how to express feelings for which
There are no right words, and to say the right
words when there are no feelings at all.

To become friends with the shadow that lurks
Behind, scaring and warning me of who I am
And what I could become.

Learn how to let a word seep into my bones
And let it run through my nerves and veins
Without feeling the need to tattoo it.

And how not to judge the first bencher
Sitting and making notes in a boring class,
Asking questions as I stare at her from far behind.

There is still so much growing up to do
Before the dust rises again and I begin to forget
All that I had learnt when I was growing up.

Thursday, 18 June 2015

The Death of a Tree

He died so young, they say; how unfortunate, they say;
Such a time consuming affair, the cars slow down in front
Of his open casket, paying homage, their cries sound like horns
And the sky weeps rain, and the wind runs wild
Offering comfort to the trees nearby, families and friends
Of the one who lost his life; he died so young, they say
Swept off by a storm, somebody needs to teach these kids
To stay strong, to keep their roots firm, to hold on to their ground;
The college students walk by, with him they shared the shade on a
Sunny day, the first kiss, the smoke of a cigarette, the weeping
On a call; the shower makes it hard to see their tears today;
He died so young, they say, but he smells like the first time
His leaves were born; he looks like he’s finally fallen asleep
After a tiring day at work; he died so young, they say
But I can’t stop thinking about the bird who lost its home
At such a young age.

Thursday, 4 June 2015

It is time to pack and say goodbye
But all I want to do is refill my now empty Almira
Back again, so I sit inside it
Trying to fill this hollowness I feel.

It is time to pack and say goodbye
But can there ever be enough bags
To record the magical laughter of the people I’ve met?
Of randomly opening up to complete strangers
As we sit and talk under the stars?
Can a bag ever hold all the warmth I’ve received
In libraries, while crossing paths, and during
Awkward bathroom conversations?
Who can ever express the feeling of being in love
With people, sometimes without
Even having spoken to them enough?

It is time to pack and say goodbye
And the fuller each bag looks
The emptier I get inside.

Is there a bag somewhere that has stored
All the hair I have given up,
All the inhibitions I’ve lost
All the fears that scare me no more?
Is there a bag with moments of songs
And crying, chocolates, and colorful festivals.

Where do all these go?
These magical moments
That vanish in the blink of an eye?
Who gets to keep this part of my life?

I remind myself that it is time to pack
And say goodbye
But there are still
So many hugs to give
How can I just say goodbye?