Coffee stain

Right on my chest,
Just under the spot,
where a heart is supposed to be.

Is a coffee stain.

The circle of the cup
not complete,
(one can imagine it though).

Last night,
As the caffeine kicked in.
And drove grit out of my eyes,
chasing sleep.
I gnawed at it in vain.

And gave up.

Coffee stains of these kinds
Never go.

They just linger in the blood.
And run in streams of thoughts.

Like abandoned children.

Coffee stains
of some fresh brew
strong.
Yet not there.

And a few more verses

I discovered a few more poems written between meeting investors and fighting pitched battles to survive.

untitled

blessed,
the aura around you,
even sunshine,
fades in your presence.

Wednesday, March 29, 2006

Firefly ideas
a billion light bulbs,
like fireflies
all extinguished
at sunrise.

Tuesday, March 28, 2006

Fifty One ; Cloud and the Ramzaan Moon

Awake at 4 am,
when night is still sleeping,
and the day asks itself
the purpose of waking again.

I walked to the edge of my flat,
a peered around the slightly warm,
sweetish aroma
of two lives that lived within.

Then bored,
turned to stare at the sky.

Dark, dark like brooding.
no trace of the blues,
no the swirls of the winds,
just a vacant yawn between two
building with the same people
sleeping the same dreams.

One cloud hung,
hanging by an invisible tread,
lit by the Ramzaan moon.
Proud of the silver fringe.

A whisper passed my ear,
and I turned to look from where.
Nothing!

And my cloud in the Ramzaan moon
vanished into the space.

Shaking my head,
shaking itself to sleep.
I walked onto the bed
and threw the sodden sheets,
and woke up again to the shrill
Alarm ringing in the ear.

And the begining of another day.

FIFTY: When sky meets sea

Overcast skies and dim, dull light,
wet winds, the sky hanging low,
grey, sorrow of parting,
turning to joy,
in colours of union
So very anxious to merge with the sea.

The sea too is grey, grim awaiting the sky,
no longer placid blue, rich green or silver.
The calm of long months,
and turbulence beneath the tranquil,
Emptying all at once,
foaming away the lonely days.

Surging waves and dancing rain,
the sky pouring out emotions,
the joy of having met, evident.

Haunting and wondrous picture,
foggy with the clouds
Frightful joy and beautiful pain
attempting to overcome every strain.

There is water everywhere,
in the sea, the air.
Drama, the intense outburst of love,
when the sky meets the sea.

The onlooking rocks are not spared
- drenched to fit into the picture,
rain, sea, sky, water in different forms,
Merging at a distance,
proving.
The sky and the sea are one.

FORTY NINE: Goddess of rain

Woman of winds,
In the arms of a cloud
Dreams of a summer
Gone dull without fire.
A hundred hills scattered around,
Fortresses, grass and weathered trees
Patiently waiting for a streak of the sun
To turn the mist into a caress of golden brown.

Silhouetted against a grey blue sky,
Breeze twisting dark casacades of lustrous hair
And a gossamer gently suspended beyond,
Sacred, scared to touch her lips,
To break the reverie in her eyes.

The dayts too short, nights too small.
A thousand years may pass by
Rains can come and go, entombed
Within the dimension of time
To capture her images in my words.

One goddess of rain, woman of winds,
Stood in the arms of a cloud,
Watching at a distance the lifting veil
Of a newly wed bride.

FIFTY: When sky meets sea

Overcast skies and dim, dull light,
wet winds, the sky hanging low,
grey, sorrow of parting,
turning to joy,
in colours of union
So very anxious to merge with the sea.

The sea too is grey, grim awaiting the sky,
no longer placid blue, rich green or silver.
The calm of long months,
and turbulence beneath the tranquil,
Emptying all at once,
foaming away the lonely days.

Surging waves and dancing rain,
the sky pouring out emotions,
the joy of having met, evident.

Haunting and wondrous picture,
foggy with the clouds
Frightful joy and beautiful pain
attempting to overcome every strain.

There is water everywhere,
in the sea, the air.
Drama, the intense outburst of love,
when the sky meets the sea.

The onlooking rocks are not spared
- drenched to fit into the picture,
rain, sea, sky, water in different forms,
Merging at a distance,
proving.
The sky and the sea are one.

FORTY EIGHT : Never alone

Always,
amidst a brooding crowd
Not alone, never alone
not a single moment of solitary thought,
pestering for attention
In the plethora of ruins
Clustered as usual in lack of time.

I wonder often to this state
What mysteries lie in the sweet
essence of thinking alone?
In the infinite boundaries of thought.

Always amidst a brooding crowd
Not alone, never alone,
Not a single moment of solitary thought
As mind seeks release.

FORTY SEVEN : Untitled

How long can we hold
dreams that are ephemeral?

Cobwebs of fragile strings,
loaded down
by the frigid wetness of lives

One gust of wind,
And tumbling twisting rivers,
carry with them images
Scraped from two hearts
molten in the heat of two souls,
shaped into the name of our joy

How long can we talk?
In a screaming epoch?
Like crystalware amidst broken roofs,
And walls threaten imminent collapse.

Weighed and lofted into eternity,
and then gently settling amongst our daily routine,
Words that you said
and what ever I heard.

Together it may seem moments,
fleeting in formation of years
and heaps of syllables written in these books.

How long can we hold?
How long can we talk?
dreams, whisper.
Ever colliding into,
our definite daily lives.

FORTY SIX : Wasted Day

Along the day as it wasted
Coloured an intense grey;
Extended buildings into the horizons,
scrawny little fingers stratching the layer
Of stringy clouds
so the sun may drip through.

You and I
into a trance,
Like leaves caught in spinng dust
drifting between ruins
steering amongst rocks and dirt
Searching for love lost.

Delve not into explaining –
for what remains is what we have.

On wet deary days as this.
The warmth of tea,
in chipped cups
Is satisfying,
than the emanating revelation
From the corners of eyes.

I saw the day die,
into the weepy draw of night
And droplets abandon
their ritual descent
to shamelessly dance around mercury lamps

I saw you cry,
tears hidden by the dripping water

Only a torn ragged clouded sky remained,
testimony to the waste of another day.

FORTY FIVE : Memories

Years have walked by
dragging corpses of visions.
Entangled in knots of strings,
glistening in the bright lights
Like leftovers of some past,
clinging.

I saw you claw at them,
tearing skin in desperation,
to detatch,
Memories that have taken root.

White bone flashes
when all flesh withered
A torn tattered image floated in the air
listlessly

Dust swallowed you,
now your memories cling to my skin.

FORTY FOUR : The Song

There is this song in my head,
symphony of guitars,
and deep drums.
Stuck somewhere between yesterday,
and the early hours of today.

I cannot remember the tune
or the words.
Nor the place
where my senses picked up the smell
It is there like some old memory
permanently blurred,
faces that were fresh and tunes scrubbed.

I might dash into the song
while it whizzes past my ear.
And I hope it remembers me
and I recollect its face.

And both rejoice the wrinkles
grey hair and bald heads
and dance in circles
while the guitars and the drums,
sound familiar again.

There is this song in my head,
I hope I meet her again.

FORTY THREE : Sands of time

Have you ever really,

tried to hold smoke in your hands?

Or maybe sand?

Felt helpless,

as every grain,

slipped away,



And each wisp,

vanished without trace.



Some days, and milestones,

gone forever,

In years, months, weeks, days, hours?



While you sit,

and fathom,

some deep set recess,

from ages back.



Have you ever really,

tried holding your love in your mind?

Or maybe memories?

Felt helpless?



When you know.

That every grain will ultimately,

Slip away.

FORTY TWO : Dreams are glass

Dreams of sculpted glass,
and memories of mist,
Finger trails of forgotten words,
cracked open at dawn.

Moon slept his hours,
in the arms of a mountain,
while sun washed his seared face,
preparing for another day.

In the moments just before sunrise
when a thin blanket of sleep
tried desperately to cover
the last vestiges of the dreams

The universe stopped and cried.

for all the cobwebs of yesterday,
and the mists of this day break
and the passion and life
evaporated...

I opened my eyes and stepped into my world.

FORTY ONE : The poet

Great flourishes of pen,
Staining paper in black.
Words arranged to give,
Meanings to feelings
Touched inside the heart.

The poet
Paints verses no one understands,
Then stands back and looks on.
From a distance at the pictures.
Realizing with anger:
That what he wrote,
Is worthless in the world.

He vents his anger
Tears the pages
Sets them to flames.
Emotions turning to smoke,
And burning in the pyre

FORTY : Vignettes of the blue sky

Like flowers in a temple
scattered at the altar
rays of light
playing truant on the waters.

Do not wipe reflections
Away form your face
The lines of old emotions
Lighted in their emotions.

Someone had thrown
The sky, overwrought with storm clouds
in the lake.
But with luck
They turned around
And mingled with the waters,
Churning in turmoil
And what emerged is a color
That tinted you and me.

Someone must have seen
Your cry in anguish
And mixed the vast sky
Into the lake where your tears fell

Deep blue, azures like the seas
Your reflection
Unhindered and clear
In the water mixed with the sky.



Ghalib, The Indian beloved, Urdu Odes

THIRTY NINE : Harmony

Like the palanquin, bearing a new bride
Makes it way into a new dawn
So does my life wend its way
Into a new morn.
Yellow sunshine, gilt edged and glowing
Aura around every person
Flute notes floating and mingling with the mist.
New rhythms born out of the morning sounds
Splashed and flung on every branch
Riots of color invading the senses slowly,
Peace, silence and the total oneness
with my world around my aching head.
Slowly tensions flowing away
Harmony –
The return of color,
The end of winter,
The beginning of reunion.
Harmony: my colors from a single shade of black
Passion to live life.



Vignettes