THIRTY EIGHT : After siesta

Afternoons of forsaken thoughts
Residues collected in siestas
Sluggishly recollected as the milk boils,
To the aroma of instant coffee.

Returning to the earth
of highly fissured existence
A body full of cracks and tears
Stuck together with glue of hope.

Smiles return with awakened faculties.
In the joy of simply living.

THIRTY SEVEN : Water

When water drops fall
Perfumed words emerge from the ground
Filtering into everything.
Into the day,
Into the mind of my tired body.
Kicking dust,
Washing away from the spot
Grime burdened over weeks.

An hour of patience
With only sun as a companion
Only a stain remains
Where so lovingly
It fell for a few moments.
Water dripping from washed linen
Trying to grow roots
In the heat of summers glory.

THIRTY SIX : Sleepless

The dawn was just breaking
I had not slept the night
Awake I waited
For the sun to burn the mist.

Through the hours
The world had slept
I had painted words
Into verses of poems

Just as the sun emerged
The pen flew from my hands
The pages turned blank,
And there were voices all around.

It was afternoon when I woke
After the sleepless night.

THIRTY FIVE : Untitled

The truth sears into my flesh,
I wait as usual for pain to pass.
Now alone without the murmur of people
Cluttering space; mentally present, omnipresent.
Lying miserable on a rock face,
sordid as the crystal drops fall in sheets.

Pungent thoughts enter through
Leaving behind debris of curses and cries.
What I had, what I have!
A truth? One measly truth,
Garnered from a miserable existence.
Without reason have weathered imaginary battles
Built within the mind,
Starved with a stomach full and tight

How often I wanted to die!
There is stench of decay
Of burning flesh
Tonight I have born again,
Purified in the heat of living.

One who talks of death.
Seldom takes his life.

THIRTY FOUR : In silence

Silence …
It feels like the empty spaces
Vacant thoughts, blank and foreboding.
Things that have been said,
And then a sudden gap;
All words fall silent.
Cradling heads in sorrow
Look of burdened unfriendly empathy
Voices that flow constantly
When removed leave voids
In time and in space

If ever silence were to be victor,
Let it be in final moments
When darkness covers everything
And syllables lose meanings.

THIRTY THREE : Death of a day

Days mature like people,
Early morning ablutions of childhood,
Faintly remembered age of youth,
And the final irony, the gift of night
Born out of the death of days.

Surprising we have lived, together
Outliving the mornings of ending days
Absorbing, assimilating, expelling.
Yet not more than having lived,
To talk of hunger.

With the death of a day
Comes sleep for eight hours
Then the return to what so ever happens
Of the newborn day, puking and crying

Remember, days mature like people.

THIRTY TWO : This Sunday

Ever walked ceaselessly into turns
Shacks and hutments cropping out suddenly
Where every mongrel resembles some old frail
Coughing man, both on four limbs.
Struggling to struggle, so to keep breathing.
Heavy bosomed woman, once pretty,
Now pounding clothes to the clatter of vessels
Casting appreciative looks on the beads
Strung together loosely to form a lace.

Roasted corn in one hand
Chasing flies with the other
Stepping over filth and decay
To rejoin conversation abandoned midway
By sudden reminder of hunger.
Now seated comfortably under the shade of trees,
Politics passion, violence, depravity, as time passes.

This Sunday I spent my afternoon with friends
In the heart of my city in its best garden
Across which sprawls a small shantytown.

THIRTY ONE : Nostalgia

Nostalgia is a bitter taste in the mouth
Of memories gone haywire,
Lost forever somewhere in the dust
That trails to be called time
Friends and lovers:
The simple truths forgotten
But faintly recollected.
In the vacant hours.

Nostalgia is nothing but the past revisited
through the misty eyes called mind.

THIRTY : On the bus

She had come into the bus
heaving and sighing,
hair askew, face smudged
slowly she stood balancing on the flats.
The bag delicately poised on the frail shoulders,
Pushed sometimes by the maddening crowd.

I sat there motionless, escaping through the open window
Above the rattle and the dust.
I could feel her desperate eyes
Trying to locate a nonexistent seat.
Swaying to the slow rhythm
Of the creaking bus.
Yet I sat motionless, like the meditating Buddha.

She was out of the corner of my eye –
Imagination grew with every movement,
Slowly she metamorphosed into a dream,
Standing there trying to dodge elbows, gropes and pushes.
She had bloomed into divinity
in the fertile plains of my mind.

Soon she moved, her destination arrived
She trudged forward through the aisle
My eyes followed, shattered and broken.
- so ordinary a face as ever can be,
Yet I sat motionless, without inviting her to sit.

TWENTY NINE : The perfect moon

Beyond the bare branches that stand on the path,
The wires crossed across its face
Obscure in the smoke of the early dawn
Just out of reach.
Just above the horizon.
A small hope, in the dull gloom.
Paltry light, fighting against the streetlights.

This moon etched on the dark morning sky
Evokes gentle warmth in my heart.
The perfect moon on an imperfect day
A dream in an impossible world
The perfect moon worn out
By the endless ravages of time.

TWENTY EIGHT : Untitled

Don’t burn my verses,
Watch them sprout into life
Take roots in the barrenness
And sway to rhythm of your breath.

If I live
I will be there by your side
And if I die
I will exist in my book.

Don’t burn my verses, to reduce them to ashes,
But if ever your life becomes engulfed in darkness
Consign them to flames.
I will burn to show you the way.

TWENTY SEVEN : Celebration

Have you ever noticed?
Tiny droplets of rain dripping off in rivulets
Washing leaves with new life
Or the delicate touch of sunshine
Bursting in a celebration at the horizon.

All throughout it had been stormy
And now the shores are near
You must have noticed the laugh lines,
Newly emerging like the smile of a new born.
Happiness not born out of words.

Without so much as a whisper
Color and life have emerged,
Fresh, with out fatigue of unwanted burdens
Only joy and warmth
Not a trace of blurred images of yesterday.

Then finally,
Have you noticed, the tiny yellow flowers
Those constantly fly in our midst
When our talks get weary,
There is joy like you had said,
Only I had to search to find it.

TWENTY SIX : Mornings

Mornings, the mists of the ended dreams,
beckoning, calling from within,
The rain, splattering a million drops
Into the expanse of the world
Awakening, the instant realization of the world around.
The chirping of a sparrow and the wetness of a pet dog’s nose.
The young golden sun drops prancing on the dew covered sand.
Impaling itself on the tender morning glories.
Slowly coming back to the real world,
The screams coming from the yet tired body.
Each moment, movement enticing, inviting,
For another hour’s sleep.

TWENTY FIVE : Face lifts

Curls of wood evenly glazed
Away from my arms
Tufts of air disguised as breeze
Gently tugging at sleeves
Mind struggling to remember
Some profound piece of poetry
That some well read beard face
Stoically said was good!

Awake, not really,
Sleep not yet percolated into
The abyss of mind
It has not even seeped out.
Wetting the pillow on the other side.

Like I said, a few lines, years ago:
Curls of wood
Fall off every now and then.
As the planer glides by.

Leaving a smooth glossy finish,
Sophisticated.
Maybe a coat of varnish
And the sheen will be permanent.
Who says facelifts are difficult.
14/4/03

TWENTY FOUR : War

Blake wrote -
“energy is delight”

When bombs rip open
Lives rarely seen,
Flashes of light
Are energy personified
So are the sounds
And shards that kill.
Eventually silencing.

Souls, dreams, people, minds.

Where is delight then?
9/4/03

TWENTY THREE : Coffee Shop Blues

Orange predominantly in my mind,
Even the cheery Barista has an orange tee.
There are no deep meanings within this verse.
It is written for having had an urge to write,
And then not having anything to write about.

You know that these things do happen,
When they do happen, there is a fear.
Paranoia of losing my words, my voice.
Of being like that young man at the signal
Clanging the bowl, mumbling words,
That never formed syllables.

I have been seated here for an hour, in this coffee shop by the sea.
Orange swirls around like the sunset.
Some three hours away.
Am I having coffee shop blues or is it just one of those days?
7/6/03

TWENTY TWO : Summer sun.

bright sun shines
in the blue sky
ebony figures
get burnt to senna
on the land below
stray fingers of life
struggle to burst forth from seeds.

fumes of incinerated mud
putrid to the senses.
a couple of flowers burn to smoke,
letting out a gasp of frangrance
that falls like death.
heat - radiating, swirling.
burning, bright sun.


one whisper of rain,
one breath of cloud
life will return
to the vastness of plains,
the sun knows it's death is planned

and brightly the sun shines,
until the clouds
bring solace it its thirst.

Quenches and dies.

TWENTY ONE : Emerald Isle

Amber sunsets coloring waters
And another canoe reaching its shore.
Silence can be felt in the echoes
From the houses around,
Full of life, humming about.

And this home to the history of past
Of generations that saw births,
Celebrations, continuity and death.

How many children swung around the wood pillars,
And how many fathers stood proud.
The millions of seeds of rustic rice
And the flaming specks of kitchen fires.

While I chase my moons across the skies
And chart courses along some stars
Stumble and rise and life my life
I will know that here exists a small
Nook by my heart.

When todays of my days will be the histories of tomorrow.
And ever on until yet another
Son will step in here and marvel!
At the stopping of time along the river!

(written at the Emerald Isle, a little island on the river Manimala in Kuttanad, Kerala)

TWENTY : Butterfly on my mind

Butterfly on my mind,
And a song on my lips.
When I ran into the wild
And felt spray of the seas.

Never saw the violence of
Setting sun.
Struggling to keep itself alive
As the night moved in its wake.

And the stars were never brighter
Their reflection in firelies
In the wisps of salt laden air
Washed ashore at midnight.

The morning never glorious,
Had crept alongside,
Oranges and a twinge of blue sadness.

So life goes on,
So life changes.
And turns and twists,
and settles on the glass of my window.

At one look it can be a stain,
Or maybe a butterfly on my mind.

NINETEEN : Musings

Wonder what your hands feel like,
If I were to just hold them and run my fingers on them.
Wonder how your hair would fall,
If I were undress them in the bold sunlight.
Wonder if the brown of your skin,
holds the smell of wet earth.
Wonder if I were capture your words,
And bottle them in a little transparent jar,
would they shine like the fireflies of Konni?
Wonder if the rivulets of water that slide off your back,
acquire the salted air of the seas.
Wonder if your confused breath,
breathes life into a million questions in your mind.
Wonder if somewhere along now and eternity,
would get you up and walk off into the midday haze
Wonder if the edges of your lips would curl into a smile,
or do they jump into a laughter.

Wonder if you realize all of this and think yourself to be divine.
Wonder if I realise I am immortal in your presence.

Wonder if you would be human when real.
Wonder if I would be myself.

Wonder if you are still alive in that air.
Wonder if I am breathing.

Wonder if death is like this.
Wonder if being reborn could be explained.

Wonder if Gautama was in love.

Wonder if Krishna was loved.

Wonder if…
Why not?

All questions need not have an answer!
2/3/2003

EIGHTEEN : Nectar

In the curve of her waist,
she held her child,
and balanced on her head
a pot of water.

Some song rustic and familiar
escaped from the tauntness of her lips.

Nectar, this water,
which will cook her bread.
and then emerge from the motherly chest
and nourish her child.

Until again the next morn,
she will wake up and walk,
Across the tardy concrete wall,
beyond the tarred strip of a spent road.
Into the small nook,
where a tap would spurt forth,
liquid gold.

SEVENTEEN : Untitled.

Spent some time alone today,
with all cobwebs removed.

a few memories refreshed,
and a few faces remembered.

Words had stopped flowing
from my pen.
And had stumbled and tripped over pages.

Today as i read a few of those lesser words,
a whole new story emerged.

One of them is what you just read,
One of them is what you will remember!

SIXTEEN : The ground beneath my feet

Having exhausted all options,
to protect myself from them,
I have taken to never raising my eyes.

And in that process,
of charting the ground below.
The very same ground that was pounded relentlessly.
realised it had taken so many facets,
meanings and unseen realities.
Of mossy greens and amber dust
and leaves and petals and broken concrete.
All some form of glory from the past,
all today meeting in the melody of having lost.

Mingling, gravel, petal, a leaf, two footprints.
So much was lost.

And so much came back from that gravel laden,
ground beneath my feet.
6/09/2002

FIFTEEN : And she said . . .

And she said …
“you are a wayfarer,
every person in your life is a halt,
on the way to your destination.
Some day I too will wake up,
To find you gone”

“will you look back?
See me holding a lamp,
Lest you seek me,
On your return journey”

“or will you find another way?”
So saying she wiped her brow,
And walked away.

Undated

FOURTEEN : Two Words

Wordy rhapsody,

Soul searching,

Captive minds,

Seeking avenues,

Emotions burnt,

Deathwish follows,

Ultimately death,

Learnt flying,

Touched skies,

Now laden,

Kissing ground.

THIRTEEN : Journey

If life itself is a journey
And people the milestones.
Then why am I scared,
Of reaching my destination.

Is it because I might find
That no one stayed back for me,
And as I got off the chariot of life,
The terminus was empty.

The lights silent,
And darkness all around.

If life itself is a journey,
Then why am I afraid of my destination.

Of death.
Undated.

TWELVE : Muse

Do I really want her?
Or is it just to know a person to probe, to provoke?

I think I am trying to etch her,
Into one of my books

To traverse her mindscape. With intensity,
To possess mentally

A milestone probably
Along the way to my destination.

I am sure there will be others, but each will be a cut on the heart,
Ones that never heal,
Nor fester, nor leave.

They are just there, as cuts deep, where the world cannot see
Until they explode onto pages in words, verse, prose.

And then she is eternal.

ELEVEN : A lover within

Emotions have sprung again,
mind reaches for the clouds.
For once there is no fatigue
Of the baggage of yesterday.

Ink of the nights have dissolved,
saffron mornings
and vermillion meanings have emerged

I had forgotten to walk,
and yet today I can dance.

I found my lover within.
Born out of love for myself.

Violent thoughts,
have killed death forever.

Maybe I can live once again.

TEN : Crafted words

Crafted words,
Uncrafted feelings.
Obsessions taking over,
sense and meaning.

Etched in glass,
cracked over!
Tumbled in emotions,
bottled in a jar.

Some days are wastrels,
lying about sad.
No verse for company,
no soul to read.

Crafted words,
uncrafted feelings.

A seemingly unending quest,
quench my thirst.
While standing in the invisible rain,
hands out stretched
and no one to grasp.

NINE : First rains

It is raining somewhere,
I can smell the drops,
quenching the heat of earth’s bosom.

Somewhere on some slope,
clouds must be embracing
The hills in passionate hold,
that only long parted lovers can feel.

Somewhere along the valley,
a mother would be showing,
her newborn the first whisper,
of a waterfall emerging from last summer.

The sky has been gray,
and the smell of wet air, pervades.
While somewhere in this city,
sits another like me, staring out of a window.

Trapped!

EIGHT : Cataclysmic Love

Cataclysmic,
is the union of the shadows,
with the cloak of darkness.
One that sets off birds,
To a million plaintiff cries.

Almost as if the dying day,
is struggling to keep alive.

Poor soul does not realize.
in his death is the seed,
Of the birth of the dawn.

When the sun is gentle,
And some moon strays unconscious,
in the violent sky.
When love is born,
in the pregnant foreboding.
Of another death at the end.

Cataclysmic, this death and birth,
much like the love of my life.
24/5/02

SEVEN : Moonlight Dreams

The moon hung low,
tragically caught
In the tentacles of a tamarind tree.
And as we walked past
Silvery flakes of moonshine
gently landed on the road.

Some dreams are still born,
some thrive endlessly
Like some mortal obsession,
jealously burning in the past.
Passion is some grime from
some weeks ago.
When a molten heart froze cold.
And some dreams shattered.
to a million pieces.

I am sure I will hear again
a small voice saying
- I do not have a dream.

When your dreams mingle with the moonlight
and become one with the winds.
27/5/02

SIX : Summer Urchins

Summer burns,
sets trees free,
to abandon leaves.

Urchins on the roads
That chase cars on melting tar.

Leaves let loose
Changing directions,
Every few moments.

Chasing dreams!

30/4/02

FIVE : Time

Listless time,
caught in the molasses
of unchanging minutes.
Thrashing, dying,
trying to get out,
Alive.

So to wash
The dirt and grime,
off the linen of today.

And arrive,
At your doorstep
to hang another day,
by your clothesline.

Just as the sun rises,
to singe everything in its wake.


29/4/02

FOUR : Summer sun

Bright sun shines,
in the blue sky.
Ebony figures,
get burnt to sienna.
On the land below,
stray fingers of life,
struggle to burst forth from seeds.

Fumes of incinerated mud,
putrid to the senses.
A couple of flowers burn to smoke,
letting out a gasp of fragrance;
that falls like death.
Heat - radiating, swirling.
burning, bright sun.
One whisper of rain,
One breath of cloud
Life will return,
to the vastness of plains,
the sun knows it's death is planned.

And brightly the sun shines,
until the clouds
bring solace it its thirst.

Quenches and dies.
2/4/2002

THREE : Characterless Sky

I lay awake,
watched the pale grey sky,
go characterless,
not a single cloud.

she has lost her depth.

And then the wind rose
a million bits of old dust
to colour the sky.
to give her,
the lost ways,
of the rains of yesterdays.
when her character was dark,
adorned with a child of love,
a rainbow born,
to the eternal love of water.
carrying her lust,
to the earth below.
to let him sigh.
let out a billion breaths,
green.

The sky is characterless today,
and the winds sweep her face.
wiping clean her laugh lines.
Abandoning her, in search of verses
to adorn her face.

Maybe,
they will return
to give her,
her love again,
the character blemished by the kohl
of dark clouds,
making love.

Today, the sky has lost her character!


31/3/2002

Two : Alone

Alone,
charting wakes on the turbid
surface of deep oceans.
A single sail,
Billowing in the scarce winds
Forgotten strands from the storms
Of yesterdays.

Carrying blisters full of memory
Dreams and fears.
Alone in the wide open space.
Stars reluctant for company
And clouds distant and foreboding,
Ever changing colours of the horizon.

Vastness, empty, soulless
A few seagulls for company.
The shore must be close
Though I cannot see it yet.
I can hear the waves crash
And imagine the swaying palms.

Maybe the mist does not want my sail
To fall limp today,
Maybe I should go along…

Maybe some day I will find my shore.

28/3/2002

One : Day's End

As the sun settled into a harmless glow,
the warmth of the day breathed out in a sigh,
shades took over from the shadows,
cloaking everything in its colour.

There were ages of dust still suspended,
musty and old like my years,
groaning they mingled into the stillness of the air
Almost willing to live again.

Slumber came easy, crept under the eye like grit,
and the warmth of bodies melted sheets into softness.
While all this time the stars landscaped the horizon.
Landmarks in the sky.

History of today slipped into yesterday,
A premise for another birth,
Born from the pregnant death of this day.
Life imitates days almost certainly.

As I walk into a crevice in my memory,
I remember. I am alive.

13/3/2002

Silhouettes

Silhouettes is my last collection of poetry. Written between 2001 and 2007. Towards the end of this collection I ran empty of words and ideas. Then in the eventual years never felt like going back and writing poetry. It seemed an alien concept.

Plan on putting the collection here, feel free to comment and write to me :)

Here's to life, and its little quirks

© Sunil R Nair, 2010. sunilrnair@aol.in