About Me

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The Madman, "Yes, three days, three centuries, three aeons. Strange they would always weigh and measure. It is always a sundial and a pair of scales."

Friday, December 25, 2009

GRAY




She let her eye-lids fall
And blinked,
Sadly lazily.
Clouds crowded the oppressed sky,
An indifferent world turned gray,
Cold rain fell
And the young green country grass was full of slush
For her to walk in,
Barefoot
with blood-hungry leeches waiting…

Out in that open space,
There was no room,
Only heavy air,
Heavy breath,
Heavy heart,
Dull, dull weather,
Heavy steps
Through the thick, brown mud,
And that heavy stone
In her fist
With which she shot a bad upward aim.
It hit the fallen ancient tree
What was meant to kill the rain-cloud.
Her sky remained imprisoned,
So did she.

The heavens clapped
And roared and laughed
And slapped harder
Than before.

It was salty
And sarcastic,
It was cold
And ugly- the mud that she tasted,
Dipped in the blood of her palm;
It was her punishment
For losing the battle again,
So she rode back, unarmed and disgraced.
It still rained,
The mission failed,
As usual.

GIFT

See,
See the burn on the ice
Where she had set her lips;
Water that flowed down her hair
Formed raging rivers of honey and milk;
The notes she touched are still found
Quivering with delight in the mesmerized air.
She is the poet’s gift to the world.

Go,
Go, dear Verse,
Fall on her ears
And whisper the unspoken wish-
“Come, touch him,
Come, fill him;
He needs inspiration.

“He sits sullenly staring into the silence;
By his side, a few blank pages
And dried up ink;
You’ve made love to him before,
Let the fire flow again;
Be again, the gift he wishes to give.”

UNLIVE




Watch the fire melt in the heat
And my heart shiver with cold;
Find the peacocks in the rain;
Lest these stories go untold.

Tick-tock of the clock
Drains the acid from my eye;
Rub the wound, rub the wound!
Don’t let the fever die.

There goes my black guitar
And there my wing;
There goes the pen-maker’s daughter,
So here I sing.

The last goodbye still hammers away,
This clown still weeps,
The beauty-queen dances on with strange men,
The audience claps and sleeps.

I step outta the window,
I step onto the sky,
I step outta the garbage bin
I used to call, “My life.”