Finished, Reading A Book
I’ve seen strong, sure hands of Men
shutting books with a snap
flicking it onto the desk
after reading a book. Quarter of
the dapper wrist watch peeping
out of their cuff sleeves, despite the links;
while they lunge for a cigarette
or a cup of coffee.
I’m sure, women will agree
how lousy they are while trying the same act.
With their manicured hands, they’d caress
the book cover, feeling the length and breadth;
slender fingers with fancy rings on some
will stop by each leaf, touching the papyrus,
the words, the spaces therein,
while the eyes tries to re-read the text
with no restraint.
1001 Nights
You thrust the
thermal-proof beaker
into my mouth;
its embossed scale-markings
hurt; makes me sick.
I might as well be one.
Recurringly, you read:
acrid,
now rancid; yes,
the seeds of my mouth are
are saline beads..
that I bite with my teeth.
I thought role Scheherazade
lay in wait for me. It is but, the
red-beaked parrot in your head
that eats up my sun-flower.
In the dark of the dungeon
the vaseline of the melted moon
dabs itself on the chapped skin.
The 1001 nights keep repeating
the orphan stories.
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The Minister's Wife
They say—spices lose their flavours...esp. cinnamon;
it has to be bottled up with a tight fitting lid...
to be taken out— crushed and grounded.
Nothing beats that fresh scent—for seasonings.
He says—“wife, though you are dull and dark...
you have a scent of a cinnamon bark...I must not
allow you to dry up in that kitchen rack.”
Elections are harrowing times; I hear—
“ministers season their campaigns
with compassionate issues.”
I wish—
--it wasn’t all grey and bleak;
but then, I can always picture myself
dangling off the Ashoka tree...like it’s
bright orange flowers. They say—it
made buddha-a sorrow-less being.
--I was a Jackson Pollock drip painting
spread on the floor; he transformed the canvas
into modern day arena: with epic struggle
in long continuous bloody lines.
--I could as well be a lone feather...
a goose plume—out from a shuttle-cock;
falling down, from the high above:
limbs frayed...ruffled. Its thud...
is always silent.
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Pyromaniac hands.
The night pulp spreads out:
recycled, cheap newsprint;
a grey serum of a whey.
The pyromaniac hands
of the tall lamp posts
write the late version
in comic sans.
Down below...from the footpath
the grim-reaper looks up: beggarly;
how dependent upon me.
The air has a fever; I cannot
ride his back—
I catch him in short breaths.
The trachea compress,
smiling slight; I bear...
to send me to the morn;
again.
On the window-sill, the carcass
of the book sits
without a character; it befits
the meat hung in the
shop of a butcher.
I rub my face in its page,
it is full of cry: an ember
left by the fire.
Translating Pain
Pain has its own eyes;
though I had been watching me
for long—with blind pride.
I ride...its aching shaft; inside—
an unsteady lance hangs down,
keeping to the left,
scraping the now frozen stained glass
that once swallowed the sighs.
Underneath—is an
afflictive set of archipelago:
of one me, two me...more such
reef of coral debris.
Housed in the heart,
this pain has a mind; not the
staccato bolt from the blues...that
strikes for milli-months, to die young.
Life is brief; it’s meaning briefer.
Search for the purport ends into
this coronary pain...telling me:
this is all there is to it.
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