But It Rained (2008- Most people like this for some reason)

Denver sang Annie's song and the wind howled and swept cold.
I paced across my flooded hall, gathering every drop
The fiery rain sold. Specks of cinder fell 
On my face and burnt the skin at every place. I paid the price
To buy my drops to swallow pains centuries old.
Pitter patter, pitter patter, pitter patter it went 
As I yearned to be those leaves on the banyan,
Moist and cleansed of any gathered dust.
Grabbing my guitar I sat by the window to
Play some tune close to my heart. But the songs
Played themselves. They were close- too close!
My soaked fingers burnt on the fret and I knew not what
I played. All I felt that it burned and scorched while 
The wind chilled and soothed others hurt and blaze.
The tree tops swayed to my pain and the clouds started to bleed,
While my fingers went numb playing on the strings. The wind
Whispered, "Burn such tears that no one needs."
A lightening quivered through the echoing space and the light
Blinded my blurry eyes. Like an artist's sketch it rose and fell;
Like the hope that rises and quickly dies. Through the balmy
Dark walls I saw Those eyes, piercing through the lull. Like the
Iceberg that slammed and pierced with ease 
Through the great Titanic's hull. Couldn't stop my legs that
Walked me outside the door. Stood there I clad in rags
As the rain pelted; the wind sang ballads for a soaked crow.
It looked at me with a sigh and a frown; maybe I was its
Image of a clown. Roaring and dancing in an ecstasy of thefts,
With streamers and balloons to celebrate this death. Looking down 
I saw a puddle, as my parched throat belched with pain. 
I cried and Cursed and stretched my arms; screaming... 
But it rained.

Thirteen Miles to Eternity (2008)

A day I am waiting for, when the legs will carry me
Out into the wild sublime. Where nature plays with fate
Merging into one. The first steps have been taken,
Like the cub tests the waters before the frolicky plunge.
Tasted the moist air and the pungent heat and all I swallowed
Was the absinthe called freedom. Kept walking till my toes
Felt the pinch of the honest asphalt and my heels cracked
Beneath my limbs. Aah! The surreal pain of a liberated soul...
My chest was heavy and my eyes sore as I set out; sceptical.
The head cried my past and the heart bled its pain. But the
Broken street lights guided me to an orange eternity
Of turns and bends. I did not heed the direction,
Neither was there a traveller seeking a location. I was
A journeyman; painting new forests and hills and snow
On my eyes. A world of my own awaited me at every step
Sans bonds and committing selves. Drops of salt rode down
My skin and I knew that your world was coming in. But now,
For thirteen miles- I have a world of my own. As I walked
The highs and lows of your roads I ran through my prairies
And grasslands running free, the child of destiny. Time came
When I feared losing my way. A smile wiped it all away and said,
"It's your canvas my love. Just paint your dreams- to them you
Run away." It was mine, the smile. There was no God, no heaven,
No steel rails or sighs of the living. In the dead of night
I felt as alive as a newborn's first cry. Screeching cars
Passed by and weary bodies walked like shadows without a time
While I trudged along- having a purpose self created. It was mine.
My heart missed long glances and subtle pauses, soft words and
Musical times. But my soul negated it all. Where did they go?
Traces of love, loneliness and nights still? I was self-fulfilled.
My heavy feet dragged along the crimson sidewalks gilded with
Freshly pruned bushes and bowing boughs. They smelt like fresh
Books just out from print. The void and choke once lived left my
Woodden house, I saw it standing atop a hill... As high as hope
Could ever be. Kissed by a stream, shadowed by pines and
A growing Rosewood tree. Walking by steely power poles plunged
My colors into the couldron of your lives and my thirteen miles
Fell a lil' short of eternity. But I know I will have my time,
My canvas of unseen hues and surreal reality. I will set out
Into the wild as soon as can be. Will you stand waving at the
Thirteen miles start? Or walking an unpacked world, breathing
Pristine breaths- holding a freedom called Me...?

My First Painting of Uncertain Geometry (2008)

Tinges of peach, blue and gray are always around when I am occupied with these thoughts. Mingling together, forming different unburnished shades- so very explicit yet unidentifiable. I walk around in my second home like a zombie with remnants of humane elements inside frozen in time. The peach sits yonder, right there with its own paintbrush trying to give a shape to something vague yet sentiently present, loud and clear. The palate we both use is the same and same are the colors. Only the brushes used are different. While gray paints with thick strokes of firm acrylic and oil, peach uses water colors blending into each other and again frustrating the hands that executed the strokes. For there is blue as well engulfing it like the sky engulfs the earth...

Grey starts all over again, on a new canvas with a new form in mind. The strokes are bold again, but toned down and calm; determined than ever and so very even. Somehow two different canvases try to compliment each other on two different planes angularly placed to meet at just one and one point only. Its like a puzzle when the interdependence of the strokes is noticed. Gray's strokes are all that I said but they end with a smudge over another stroke of a different color while the water color of peach is a blend all along, a very bold blend. Both are so similarly different and differently similar.

I wonder about the effect its going to have if both the wet canvases are placed on each other and removed. What will they become? Will gray become smudged and peach bold or will it mingle into an interdependent, symbiotic form of artistic co-existence transforming into real life? 

Oh hold on! What about blue? It has a canvas too right? Equally complex, mindless and ambitious? Then we have to form a triangle of canvases. I hope they are not wet then otherwise the strokes of two will trickle into the third one draining both of them. Then which is the base of the triangle and which two are the arms? Shall we now contemplate about the different geometric variations of it like isosceles, right angled, equilateral etc.? Well, its still doesn't do any good to the dichotomy. Even if one arm or one angle compromises itself in terms of length or angle the affect remains the same doesn't it? One "has to be" the base and the other two will have to drain their wet color. 

The colors cannot be dry as then the whole instance becomes a falsity in various degrees rendering this whole quagmire of thoughts null and void. They have to be wet, reflecting light and looking alive because that is what existence is all about- against all odds keep it alive, keep it breathing and never let it dry. 

Gray and peach are like two intersecting circles of a Venn diagram. They have their 'own' but they coexist only when they have a common, shaded point of intersection. Now, the third circle which is the blue of course can fit into it in three different ways. Either form another intersection with peach alone, or with both peach and gray or just with gray. But no matter how wildly Mr. Venn suggests that his diagram seeks balance and equality, it never is true. One of them has to detach from peach and even then the equation will remain unbalanced. A u B u C does not work because 'union(u) ' can only be one. There cannot be two unions within a same set of three variables according to the laws of nature. And that mathematics does not agree with. It forces the variables to bond in more ways than one even when each or one of them loses their individual existence.

Now getting back to painting; it has to dry up sometime or the other. Now how do you frame all three of them together? You could have framed the initial two separately as they have already rubbed off each other and can co-exist adjacently. But when its the question of the third arm of the triangle then again it becomes the 'Venn diagram dilemma'.

For a moment if we start imagining in terms of just two arms, peach and gray, it becomes a little less confusing I think. Then both can merge into one line, a single stroke. Rushing towards two opposite directions like a geometric line does but still remains the same, single, omnipotent line.  So, which painting will be the third, which arm will be the base and which circle will intersect the other two at what point? That is what I call uncertainty. Defying laws of geometry, mathematics and nature. Even dumbfounding art which is limitless, boundless and lies at the ultimate extremes of vague possibilities. If the sea, the wind and the moon are the actors on the above mentioned stage, will anyone watch the play and finally, finally interpret it to bring relief to them with the curtain fall? Or will they have to act on and on and on till Godot finally arrives...

Rish, Verish, Feverish - Delirium (2008- Suffering from high fever hence, the title)

Well, its not too often that I get a fever or the thermometer graces my day with a 102 degree reading, especially when the day itself did not leave any stone unturned to cause a cataclysm of molten ego and murky self-esteem. Somehow, I have this sadistic liking for an achy throat coupled with this hot and heavy head and not to mention the burning carcass; for once without hope or desires or notions. I think a fever is the most sincere way in which a human body responds. It has no pretense, no denials and not an ounce of self-glorification.

Its as if you are lying on a sacrificial altar blindfolded and waiting... Waiting for that final stab or cut or stroke which supposedly has a higher purpose. Maybe, the body is doing you a big favor out of sympathy or even pity. Its draining you of all your numb emotions, eroded pride and raising you up towards a peak of just a single and physically realized back-draft. Here the only thing you know, realize, formate and accept is the surging heat through your being that incinerates everything in its way and keeps you wrapped within its womb.

You watch the window, the tablets, the fan, the blank ceiling but don't see them. You hear cars honking on the street, the mango vendor screaming or the crows fighting over a dead something but still, you do not listen. Why? Because for once you are in touch with your true sensibilities and consciousness. As the fever increases, so does your awareness but the only thing is, we feel so overpowered by our defensive physical responses that we somehow fail to see what our mind has in store when the body touches a 104 degrees. But hey! At least I am still writing...

Lets take for example a lawyer, a lover and a magician. The lawyer is lying on his bed with countless "well-wishers" surrounding him(they have a pending case of course). But, does he think about the spoils he would rope in once he convinces the judge that the utter nonsense he says is the truth? No! The only image he probably has is a blurred outline of a someone or even something which had given him a purpose that he willfully lost in the cat and mouse game of "guilty as charged." But, even his sharp sense of logic or his habit of systematic perseverance fails to help him realize the vision. Why? Since, he is too involved in negotiating with the pain and physical discomfort. Just imagine if he actually could see beyond that, if he could negate this constricted physical response and cross the line... He probably would not be a bastard of a lawyer anymore!

Lets talk about the lover in the subsequent paragraph. For now the magician has held my attention and no, he is not on stage pulling out a rabbit. He is lying in his tent surrounded by his pigeons and rabbits and cards- but without a trick. Is this the man who could hypnotize a lady and make her talk like Caesar? Is this the great illusionist who could vanish castles and summon spirits? Yes, he is the one. But, what is he now? A hapless child on the palms of a temporary ailment who even fails to see what his own spirit feels like due to his physical preoccupation. The summoner of spirits is not spirited himself. The one who used to enthrall august audience with his hypnotism is himself in a delirious trance and too weak to move. What is he thinking? Upcoming shows, new tricks? Hahaha probably not! The only thing he can think of is any possibility of his own tricks curing him of the condition. Yeah that sounds lame but trust me, a 105 can easily bend a resolute backbone into submission and a magician is no different because after all he is a slave of physics and chemistry who just knows how to present them in a good wrapper.

Aaah! Finally!!! Its the cupid struck heart in a fever ridden body of possible expectations or even selflessness(its a rarity though). This is the most significant sample. It is said that in some ancient civilizations priests would cut open the bodies of two dead lovers to see if there is any difference of biological constitution from the normal or any sort of a divine manifestation in them which caused them to be so much 'in love' during their lifetime. If they found anything is still unknown, but one thing I can tell you with certainty this is the time when the lover experiences the most sincere and self-preserving feeling called "selfishness". I am not talking about it in the mundane or conventional sense but in a very objective manner. Why do we love? Why do I love the woman I do and why does the woman love me or not love me or feels in between the two? I love because the feeling of loving someone makes 'me' feel overwhelmingly good and lets me foresee the future. Had love been an established and proven failure in 100% of cases but branded as 'good' I doubt whether poets would waste their imagination or lovers their money or blood or tears on it. A mother loves her child because she feels good about it, because she went through the pains of labor and the child is the tangible fruit and because she dreamt and weaved a future together with him or her. Had this been a matter of total sacrifice without any intangible rewards or future or hope then I am certain that overpopulation would just be an urban legend.

Why does the woman feel in love, not in love or confused? Because there IS something in it for her(intangible, certain, formless but pleasant, secure and satisfying) or there is  the lack of it. Had it been a controllable and voluntary option, she would rather do something more 'fulfilling'  than be the keeper of a problematic heart full of burdens. Now, the lover has a 106 degree fever and he is crouched in a corner in his balcony. He chants the name of his beloved like its an omnipotent variation of paracetamol or thinks about her balmy, soothing touch on his flaming head. Or he just sits there in physical agony unable even to go till his bed. How different would it be if he could in some way filter out the physical pain and discomfort and just feel that unified feeling surging through his body? What would he see? What would he experience? What would his sub-conscious reveal? Will it be a newly realized feeling of selfless love where the only thing he would want is to give? 


Oh wait! Even that is selfish because he feels good about it... Or maybe he would not think of love at all but just float in a semi-conscious state with all the uncertainties, humiliations and agony magnified(like in a hall of mirrors). I have another idea! He probably would keep sinking into such a level of consciousness where there is no pain, no agony and no suffocation but he just feels numb. Ignorant of anything that till a few hours back killed his very being, negated his existence or mocked his purpose. At least he loses his physical consciousness devoid of all negativity!

And when the scheming lawyer, the bizarre magician and the ardent lover possess a single body surging with a 108 degree fever; they become all the same... The pulse dropping, heart beat collapsing and eyes half-shut as if in prayer. At least for once they all pray for the same thing- eternal peace and a freedom from a cage of forms, tears, flesh and unlimited wants. They become perfectly unified when the throat belches the last breath with a click and the eyes roll back. What are they now? Who are they? Mere names on certificates? Memories of convenience?

They are just beings who lived their lives in a fit of selfish fever so potent that they failed to crossover even when freedom was just a yard away. So, the next time the mercury rises and the paracetamol comes out of your shelf to give you a temporary relief, call a doctor if you are in love with being in want. But, just by chance if you are looking for something beyond yourself then 'ride the fever' that you have within you and for once start feeling it. For one day you just might cross over and find that no one created light but the light was always there...

Art- The Sadist (2007)

To write a poem is a bane excuse,

An escapist's art, sans his muse.

Papers rot with moist, bloody verse,

Feeding my heart with an enduring curse.

To write and rot and fret with ease,

Teaches the curse- my foolish past deeds.

Bred a swine my art would be,

Born of a 'she' but father not me.

With every rise, the sun shall see

The death of a morn and a lifeless tree.

A shelter that was to the souls of a past,

Bare and stripped, and blossoms- dust.

A curse can kill, a curse can raze

But can it buy time a few more days?

A day to forgive and a day of rest,

In an embrace unbroken to rest my case?

Art lives strong but the hand has to die,

While another's born to write with a sigh.

"Till death do us part", is a phrase full of lies,

As in phases it comes, dead before it dies.

What then is the need to love?

What drives man, the poet above?

To fall on their knees and feed on the past

To lose his mind for a scavenging lust?

Its art the sadist, that sows the seed,

That breeds in them a manic need,

To love, to lose, to live and to die;

To write showy lines based on a lie.

Another Day (2007)

How long does it take to push the hilt of the jagged knife?

How much does it take to turn around and walk away

Lifting those legs as heavy as lead?

 Not too long I suppose, if the man bleeds fast enough,

Not too much I guess, if you can shrug off the load,

And walk away with a wry smile.

 The undercurrent remains but as strong and rough,

Crashing through fleshy walls into the churning sea,

Evaporating into moist teary clouds.

Running up and down the same old street one thinks,

If he will ever stop scavenging on the rotting past.

But it’s not dead but alive, the past.

 Reaching out, crying in shame and looking in askance,

      If ever, there’s gonna be another day.

As Lonely as Time (2007)

I answered the door,
Embracing the May queen, while she fed on me-
Engulfed me like a storm.
I let her violate my being,
Stitching into me, newfound feelings of hues galore-
Made of rags, a hapless doll.
The piper played and so did I
Along the tunes. Delirious and ecstatic, without remorse.
Over the cliff I fell into the stony sea.
Smiled she, while beyond the waves
I sank; watching her quivering through the salty depths.
She whispered a mellow prayer, as if for the dead.

I gazed around to find them
Naked and wounded; stripped bare but clad in shame.
Slept in her heart- a widening gyre of cold depths.
Her voice echoed loud,
Crashing through the void of dim, murky depths.
Making numb a thousand tremulous eyes.
As I held my breath for the last,
She said, "You're lonely, as lonely as time."

My Return to Godot (2007)

Today I return to the grave of our roses,
Once called the fields of gold. Its queer,
Strange indeed to visit a realm so familiar-
So close yet gone forever. Twas a river;
Ever perennial and full of throbbing indulgence
Which now, has dried into the dreary desert
Of potent human deeds murderous in nature.
My throat still is parched with thirst, even though
The oasis stands, just a mirage nearing the
Horizon of eternal distance. Her flaming image
Is etched like a mark of birth along my heart;
Like a stone which has shaped and sharpened many a blade.
Hers was the smoothest one though, cutting without remorse
Hilt swaying with elan shining like jade.
Afraid am I trembling with fear, as the human of me
Torments my being. As hopes and wants rise and fall
Like tumultous sandstorms seldom seen. Inch by inch
I crawl to catch, the fading hope rising to storm,
Another heart or realm maybe, full of love and faith
Like me. Faith I had enough, that she would last even
After I cease. But in vain it was to hope and fret as
Fate crumbled with dextrous ease. Now I return to Godot,
To walk her lands, breathe her air, sleep with her dreams
With thoughts all bare; While she conquers my breath,
Stretches my hope, feeds my love; But all to tear...

Mirror and Coffee (2006)

Its too hard to look at myself in the mirror
And see these eyes full of hope.I hate hope 
As I hate my cup of coffee if too hot.I cant 
Blow the steam off everytime or burn my tongue
Sipping on the brew.I hate my image on the mirror.
Its too full of innocence which i despise.I hate
My eyes talking to me and the whispering walls.I hate 
The way I love and I hate the ones I have.People appear 
Like rainfall and then leave;leaving that mildewed odour 
of emotions.I hate the walls coz they appear forever new
With the paint on them even if they are not.Reminds me of
My wasted emotions and hopes which I painted everyday
To make it look new and fresh.But all the while someone
Chiselled out blocks of uneven rocks from it for me 
To fill up again.I hate everything I did not.Humans, trees, birds,
Life, poetry, agony, pleasure and feelings.The jigsaw always 
Has a solution,but this puzzle had its last piece stolen
By a dream.That is why I hate hope and all those 
Who cling on to it.They leave you like an incomplete 
Puzzle.I hate life as a concept and i hate it as a reality.
I hate everything but hate.Someday I will come to hate 
That as well.That day every pain will end,every puzzle
Will be solved.I hate the mirror coz it reflects me as I was.
I hate seeing the love in my eyes.I hate my eyes coz 
It was loved.I hate hope but can't help hoping for the end.

Give me a name (2006)

That boy sitting in the woods of a pungent dusk,
They called him a loner. He wasnt one though,
Sat there to know whether  they will ever be his.
Thoughts corrode time and thus hours he lost 
Without an end. The day those skinny hollows
Looked at the sky, burning drops belched the clouds
and thunder struck heaving a sigh. Asked he to eternity,
"What is my name?", and she said, "You are baseborn,
too unyielding to be called a name. Your life is basic,
Just a means to an end." Thus, he could never define a
Single breath he heaved; sometimes a poet, a rebel sometimes,
Sometimes as a lover tried to mend,
Those drums of flesh beating inside. If only, if only one beats for 
His human pride. But the day he dreamt and braced her light, 
To create a joyful breathing life, alas he found no name for it;
Coz went she leaving him- a slave of flesh. Thus would end
every life he lives, condemned, nameless, as lonely can be.
I wont say he is pure, but he felt that he was of that am sure.
Love he will never have as he is a bane, too pure for his soul
But stained enough to cause her pain. His breaths wont win this dicy game.
All I want of her? To give me only One fuckin' name!!

Poet- The Ingrate (2006)

Neither am I unsure, nor do I disregard,
The fact that life changes like love itself.
But how can I deny that this poet
Who once was a burning flame, is now
Just a firefly; far too tame?

There were days when I wasn't a consumerist.
Nor was I a slave to a structure
Of regulations to make dire ends meet.
Flambuoyant was I. Far too strong to
Consider the sun. I was my own sheet and its light.

Now I am a mere bolt in the slouching structure;
A beast of decorum and critical economy.
The only saving grace? I am in love!
Yes I am, But does that mean I cease
To be an eccentric which gave me an identity?

I am Poet- The Ingrate, who discarded the
Skin moulted and roughened against
The edges of basic compulsions, and
Myriad death wishes, to have a "better life."
At least that makes me write now and then.

I am guilty much more than Judas could be,
He left the holy blood for silver; but me?
I deserted my art for a convenient cause;
Hid my pen and verse without remorse!
Who can be a greater sinner than me;
As I live and die that the structure can be?

Stolen (2006)

Days and nights never exchanged greetings then,
Nor did seasons merge to spell calamity.
The thief rode the night winds to dine,
At the cold cellar of some fateful men.

Born at the harlots den, he was happy
To be living on morsels he snatched with might.
His tattered coat pungent with pride
Were but spoils out of his routine fight.

The distinct dawn put him to sleep
While the rugged dusk shook him to life.
The hands of fate did touch him but once;
Rest was blood for blood and strifes for a strife.

He died on the paddock- he was shot.
The kings' men ravaged through the spoils he got.
What they found was bizarre to see
While blood stroked red the rugged plot.

Some pieces of bread and a nickel he had,
Lillies from Betty's garden for the crippled lad.
His lips quivered once- an arrow for a word,
And all he said ,"Lord, give me another birth!"

Its Love (2006)

Love, it came finally,
Knocked on my door like a storm.
Hesitant but intensely desperate 
to engulf me. To burn me like gold
in a kiln heated to purity.
Happens sometimes, such things which 
change your life, the destiny 
you ought to seek. So meek you
become and so dependent, but yet 
happy; to be responsible for a heart
which you yourself had thought 
had died in you.                                                                    
Now you live as it throbs in you,
as your dream. The one you
dreamt on your shady porch by 
the burning lamp, when the
pangs of the earth pulled you 
down to the slimy alley of 
happenings. Droll days with nights
of still, kills a man as the
vacuum spills.
A glance here and a glance there, 
a remark of guilt felt
in a desperate tear, but 
still waiting. Like a prayer 
she comes through the door,
hesitant yet close and breathing
into you. Your own breath
ceases to live, while hers fill
your soul forever to keep. Lost you
feel in her tender touch. 
Like a cynic for life 
heading to a church. Maybe
thats the tremor you need to
feel, that you are alive. Alive
for a reason to reel under
the untasted agony of intense 
pleasure, inexperienced but more 
than a treasure. "Fear not", her 
gaze speaks, for she is there 
as the moment sweeps, and
takes you away, blown by 
a smile, into smithereens of
hope collected by a blind.
The clock chimes and the 
earth pulls, but gravity accepts
that she is defeated, by flesh
and blood of a heart. Ressurected,
I move along with her, soul
within soul and never to part.