Morning walk

Newspapers dropped in the dark by a
skulking green van
Vendors huddle on their bikes
in jackets pretending
that it is cold.

I sweat.

Rivulets run down my cheek,
down my spine.
Knees wobble, not knowing that the rest of
me is somewhat awake
walking the long walk.

My baby look up at me.
Big eyes stare, wide awake
as if to say, “Chill out”.
The sparrows agree. Wake the neighbourhood chirping
in their hundreds. It is four in the morning.

The Post Office glimmers faintly in the
light of a flickering tubelight
In the crisp March morning
the frangipani awakens.

Untitled

I rush through dinner
Eager to put behind the
ordinariness
of the dal, rice, cabbage
capsicum
and rush back into verse.
I was once again
given a tantalising glimpse
into a different world
one where words tumble into
each other
effortlessly
and jealousies, pettiness
patronising patrons of the arts
feed the loveliness.
Fodder for each line.

I rush through dinner
then the washing up.
The sound of Urdu flowing
with the water.
I am exhausted from a day
of sitting, listening.
My back is giving way
But the baby leapt, for joy
I like to think
when old Swedish words
blended with Malayalam.

So I rush through dinner
postpone a hot bath
the thought of your book
lying on the bed, inviting
me away from the Internet.
I allow the sound of television
(creeping from behind the door)
to fade away in my head,
drunken shouts on the road outside
no match for this eager
pounding in my heart.

I rush through dinner
come back to your slim book
and stretch my aching
back,
my swollen feet
my rapidly wearing eyes.
I read
thinking back to my own days
of verse
hundreds abandoned
missing
a piece of my life hidden
among old albums, dusty
bank statements,
cockroach wings.

2 Feb 2009 / 9:50 pm

Swarm

The yachts are back
on an already crowded
river.

Casinos, fishing boats
barges laden with
precious ore, stolen
from our land under our disapproving
noses.

Nine little yachts compete for
water
floating restaurants
debris
a non-existent pontoon, once
orange and firm.

In the distance
fishing trawlers wait for
daybreak.
Here, mosquitoes continue
their endless search for
my blood.

The lights go out one by one
The traffic eases
The tv quietens down

Tonight, while the river swarms, even
the flying ants
take a break.

2 Feb 2009 / 11.05 pm

Poetry reading repercussions

After an evening of
indulgent verse
Swedish rhythms
and Malayalam words tripping
over each other
I come back to the
mundane.

Boats singing Konkani
folk songs out of tune
tv spewing AB songs
the call for dinner
concerns about termites

In the middle of this
my head still spins
with the sheer elegance
of poetic Hindi -
gentle, subtle
reminiscent of another country

Tales of charpois and sleep in
inky darkness spin webs of
fancy verse.

In the distance, Sweden
seems closer still.

—————————
Written after a poetry reading organised by an Indo-Swedish translation group. Lovely renditions in Swedish, Hindi, Malayalam – most translated in English as well.

Sunday morning in Green Park

Daffodils
are shooting up among
the pigeons in Green Park;
it is a cold Sunday morning.

I have for company
Tom Peters,
the bells of a church somewhere,
and a few thousand
tourists
eerily silent
while we wait for Oxford Street to open
its doors for us.

Sounds

Bart and Lisa plot
Traffic moves in regular
whooshes,
trees sway, agreeing to predictions
heavy rain tonight.
Piano keys tinkle as Lisa speaks.
The clock here goes tick tock
tick tock
No matter how hard I try
There are only three sounds I hear
Bart
Steady traffic
the clock.

The rest is silence.

28/6/07
8:30pm

Wishlist

What I have -
A rainforest of books on
writing
secret pages in my journals
hidden words, restrained.
A hundred ballpoint pens
all working
warm cashmere
Chanel,
a robin splashing in the
bird bath.

I’d like
a garden of my own
tall trees sheltering
my words, rationing
sunlight and rain.
Shoes and handbags are
good, too. Unusual
designs,silks, lavish.
More words, elegant, profuse,
uncensored
a glint of effortless prose
in an otherwise crowded
page.

December 6, 1992

Once upon a time
Not so long ago
They existed in peace
Separate, yet one
Sharing tears and laughter
Dreams of a better future
Separate, yet One

Then came the Holocaust
And brought with it
seeds of distrust, sowing
them in the minds of the unsuspecting.
Walls of fire broke down
walls of stone and there
grew in place of it
The Great Divide.

They were now no longer One
What had come between them
could not be broken down.
The tears in their eyes mingled
with their sweat
as they ran away into the night
leaving behind years
of pain and toil.
They were butchered, molested,
torn apart

And the red drops on the floor
were blood
Not rose petals.

————————————–
A long-ago poem (1993).
Published in the St.Xavier’s college magazine (1993), online poetry websites and several newsletters in India.

Peach

The best way to eat
a peach, I have found
is lean out of a window
and let the ground

reach out and soak
the juice that drips
delicious, sweet, from
the corner of your lips.

————————
Very corny. I know. And terrible rhyming!
30 July 2006

Battle

Monday night
strings sway, Vikings protest
a princess shrieks
“he is your brother!”

My eyes begin to close
it’s almost like someone’s
forcing my lashes down
a palm flat on my eyelids.

I protest too.
my eyelids droop; it’s a losing battle

swords clink ten metres away.

——————————————
Written 4 June 2007. Not sure what this refers to, but I think Mr.R was watching something on telly and I was too tired/bored to give him company.