Monday, September 29, 2008


Drink me this cup of eternal delight
Flowing forever my lovely lover
Drink me this wine sparkling and bright
Moisten they lips, my jasmine flower

Drink of this nectar and fold in my arms
I'll take you floating to my magic bower
Clandestine cove of cavern and charms
Far reaching trees and fine morning shower

There be some birds koels and crows
There be some buds, wild for your tress
There be some dew diamond that glows
I ask your heart and you whisper yes

Secret a lake, we shall espy
Waist in the water nestle in my chest
Cast off thy garb, that doth belie
Thy swelling charms, sweet treasure chest

Kiss me once, O! kiss me again
One bright as day, ten dusky nights
Kiss me an end forever but vain
Feed me thy love that subtly delights

High burning sun, spent passion sweat
Lie by my side, sweet noon's rest
Like sapphire in gold is set
Idyll and still a well painted nest

Then we shall brew us some ancient spell
Wake up some fairies to make us a dream
Fill it with dusk's glow sweet to dwell
Gilt it with morning's rare golden beam

Come, my angel, come to my land
Simple and soft a sylvan knoll
Untouched ever by foul human hand
Flung faraway from terrene toll

Come we shall find us a gray flock of sheep
Sing us a song of enchanted breeze
And in the eve a sweet home to keep
A lamp that is lit and time doth so cease

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

Sequined dreams

Begone ye pallid skies
Here in my palm a dawn
of tremulous gold lies
Into the void ye begone

Begone ye leeches of thought
Thy breeding broods lie waste
Long has this battle been fought
Flee now lest my blade you taste

For, life's river has flooded now
flowing with her thunderous roar
Beauty runs her oaken plough
Tilling my soul's dusty core

Here she has come again
Lovely Cora to my dying Hades
Beauty my Goddess truth plain
Dressed in life's painted shades

Here she smiles in vixen trance
Casting her spell of Asian bloom
There she plunges a scarlet lance
softly dying by the Gothic tomb

Heed her pipe soft and low
Tunes of a bronzed even Ra
Leading the soul to silent glow
Charming it there in mellow awe

How she veers, with toxin lined
Spring's poison mixed with wile
Into the goblet of a roue mind
Circe bearing her bubbling guile

How she bathes in tears borne
in the moonlit pool of a broken heart
Curing her soul in ancient mourn
love that death has done to part

There she shines in forlorn eyes
of Ophelia floating white on the brook
In Shalott Lady's half sick sighs
Cleaven dreams, that fate did crook

Here I suck her crimson lip
Burning in passion's yellow fever
There I die in her violet grip
Trembling in fancy's morbid horror

Baroque notes of the undead organ
In those she bares her pearly fangs
The wretched Count, the heir of Gorgon
The Phantom genius with burning pangs

How she shines in wisdom's realm
Thoughts bound in genius' cement
Evolved grammar in reason's helm
Sans a stain sans a dent

How she burns in virtue's dais
Rising in Bharata's flaming vow
How she soars above worldly ways
In the seers' flattened brow

Softly she treads with Japanese feet
Lilting and swaying to Chinese strains
Bamboo steps printed on snowy sheet
Dreamy mountains in yawning chains

Anew a thousand times she comes alive
Spring's seed, joy's sleeping storm
Breathing life doth in her bosom thrive
Flowing with blood of dreams warm

Breathe unto me a fresh life my muse
A thousand times and then once more
My thought, your will may they fuse
A thousand times and then once more

Wednesday, May 14, 2008

Conversations with silence

Nigh is the afternoon sun
blazing down on earth white.
Foreheads are wet.
Throats run dry
Hunger burns a dark flame
keeping sleep just at bay.

Then she slides
into half closed eyes
wearing the garb
of morning light.
The compass of truth;
the ocean of order
Goddess silence.

In language that was
never conceived
I speak with her.

Tell me, O Goddess
What is thy form?
Is thee of light
divine and flowing?
Is thee of flame
still and austere?
Is thee of beauty
brilliant and benign?
The divine nymph
closes her eye.

Tell me, O Goddess
What are thy signs?
The throbbing unrest
is that thy coming?
The thirsting ennui
is that thy flag?
The raging desire
is that thy herald?
The serene sylph
sits cross legged.

Tell me, O Goddess
Who are thy kin?
The spoken word
is it thy child?
The divine music
is she thy sister?
The breath that is drawn
is she thy love?
The queen of present
stopped her breath.

Tell me, O Goddess
where dost thou live?
The hills that are lofty
are they thy seat?
The sea that is deep
is that thy abode?
The still moon in the lake
is that thy perch?
The woman with one eye
shimmered in space

Tell me, O Goddess
what is thy path?
Thus did I ask.

The great arms of the wind
blew the needle away.

Wednesday, April 9, 2008


When you wear your dress
of sheer white
pure and spotless
I sit in silence
seeing knowledge that is great.

When you wear your dress
of dull grey
jaded and insipid
I lie in ennui
breathing death that
seems immortal.

When you wear your dress
of brilliant blue
infinite and azure
I look in awe
feeling the stretching ocean
in a single drop.

When you wear your dress
of abundant green
I stretch my soul
laying its weariness
like a dewdrop on the grass
for your sun to drink.

When you wear your dress
of glittering gold
I toil and sweat
matching my work to your
immediate glory,
beads of pearl on your shimmering dress.

When you wear your dress
of transparent crystal
I open my arms
receiving and giving
all that is forever
a flowing river.

When you wear your dress
of crimson red
Then I take my pen
dip it in your blood
Then creation kneels
in awe before the poet.

Thursday, March 20, 2008

Dusk and lust

Evening has lit up
with a copper sunlight.
Southern breeze
kisses all in an infinite mercy.
The golden glow
spreads in Man's smile.
The frenzy of day
has reached his orgasm.
Soon he shall turn over
and sleep covered in night's blanket.

Friday, March 14, 2008


Tarry no longer my heart
weary and arid is this land
arise! this is the moment to start
come now take my hand

words are but trifles
meaning too deceives
Alas how it stifles
all that the ear receives

Why in the corner we hoard
thoughts that belong to the pyre
Murky footprints that have long trod
Ashes crumbling from a dead fire

There see the morning sun
the fresh breath of life anew
Dawn has come with the sound of One
The path is shown, open and true

Monday, March 3, 2008

Wednesday, February 20, 2008

Prose on a cold dark night

I'm a poet trying to write prose
A blind eye that cannot see

I'm the lovely red rose
that knows just to be

What do you do, when your true love, the flame that burned in the solitude of your soul, goes silent? When you know all the notes that make up the most perfect music, but your mouth refuses to sing? When there is a river flowing in your heart...but she flows quietly on a soft bed of sand?

I have written, in pangs of desire, longing and sorrow. My heart was the sacrifice I offered to the idol I worshipped. In the dull light of hunger, I sat in front of her cruel form, cutting my burning heart and bleeding words to appease her. She never heard me. My thirst for love, beauty and truth grew coiled like the incense I burned. But the idol was silent.

Yet, I took a perverse joy in the whole affair. In bringing my heart to her and let it die a slow death in the light of her cold stare. I felt myself rising with each sacrifice. I felt I was somehow higher and more evolved compared to those who never saw the idol. I magnified my own dark shadows with the flickering light of my intellect and my imagination. I rejoiced as I saw them throw fantastic shapes on the walls.

And then, one day, the hot air from the plateau reached me. My heart stopped aching, and I was confused. I threw my idol in ager and shivered at the shadows on the wall. The sweltering heat fuelled my soul, making me sweat...beads of salty perspiration, pearls of truth seeping out from my very skin. I was alive. Alive but confused, like the newborn who doesn't understand that it has come to this world.

I had dreamt of this very thing all my life. To experience and to feel what I have seen reflected in the many words that I have read. To feel in my heart the light that shined in the heart of every poet and every lover. To see with my own eyes, what the eternal lover sees forever in the night sky. And yet, now that I had it in my hands, I wrote no more.

I always believed in a love that was blind. Light, the only teacher we have to help us see, is himself blind. To see like him, our eyes must seek blindness. And it is thus that my love came to me. But what I did not expect was that, truth is not seen by just blind eyes, but a blind soul.

I see now, everything, every single sensation that a man could experience in a lifetime. I'm at once happy, sad, thirsty, satiated; I'm in harmony and in chaos at once. What I see is not an overwhelming spectacle, it is a simple heart, that silences everything.

So, I bleed words lesser now. Is it because my love has been fulfilled? Is it because my muse has left me? No. It is because I do not write to impress, to tempt or to share, to bare. I do not write in the pangs of hunger nor in the joy of satiety. I put pen to paper not for you, my reader who is reading this; not for her, who makes me writes this; not even for me, who sees it all. I write with no intention of influencing. I write with no influence.

I write, because it happens. I write, when it happens. I write, like my pen - picked up when it is time and sealed when it is done. I do not imagine or create a world - they merely appear.

Like the rain cloud, I gather my nectar in silence and when it is time, I pour it all out. Like the rain cloud, I do not pour at the will of any God or man - especially mine. Like the rain cloud, I do not shower a drop of false water, even if the earth shrivels in drought.

When the idol is broken and the Goddess shines in the poet's every living moment, he speaks only truth. And most of the times, that truth is silence.

Tuesday, February 5, 2008

The house of words

Through the many doored house
My song walks through,

It knocks on an ivory door
and opens it with laughter
A word comes out of it

It knocks on a silver door
and opens it with a smile
A word comes out of it

It knocks on a sandalwood door
and opens it with pride
A word comes out of it

It knocks on a golden door
and opens it with silence
A word comes out of it

It knocks on a glass door
and opens it with tears
A word comes out of it

It stands in front of an open door
Laden with all the words
No word comes out

Tuesday, January 29, 2008

The unstrung bow

Timid thoughts, do not be afraid of me. I am a poet. - Stray Birds, Tagore

These silent thoughts,
ruffling behind my closed eyes
like pretty feet
running behind closed doors...

Where do they go?
Whence do they come
What do they say
in their footsteps of silence?

How do they stand
and stare at the sky,
while i scratch my head
in the grind of the night

How do they dream
of dreams and sleep,
while i stroll along
listening to the street lamps

How do they run
over the hills; under the dale,
while my feet stay
grounded to the clay

How do they speed
arrows to an unknown target,
while my mind lies
an unused bow

Arrows have sped.
The bow lies on the ground.

The valley of dreams

Illusions are sometimes the most safest of refuges. A refuge which we would never move, if only reality did not pull us away, like an angry mother pulling a child away from the delicious earth. Like a play acted out behind closed curtains, they unfurl, the different colours - red passion, white love, saffron games, violet fears. And in all those dreams, there is a single thread. The crystal thread of hope. Hope of a union, a touch, a look. Hope of you.

Perhaps these dreams are mere aching of the limbs; chemicals in the veins fuming at their inability to vent. Perhaps these dreams...are mere aching of the heart. Emotions raging through like a kid lost in the fair. Or, perhaps these dreams are mere aching of a soul. The thirst of the simple joy that one finds in the unspoken word. Perhaps, these dreams and the pain of separation can be explained. But then, the chirping of the sparrows, too could be explained.

Love is an enchanted forest. Today I have lost my way in the chasm of separation. With closed eyes I hear, the murmur of dreams, a stream not faraway. Sometimes, in these dreams, I look back. I see the distance that spans dream and reality. It is the width of an eyelid, but what a chasm lies between the two. It is two inches between the hills of hope and death, but if the valley stretches to infinity under them, would you jump?