A word before you read

I am not really a poet and these are mere attempts to write poetry. I would conveniently call them free verse to escape criticism. I feel an urge to express an idea or a deep feeling or strong emotion or just describe a scene. The result is what you see.

Sunday, May 8, 2022

Transience

 

As I waded briskly in morning’s serenity -

the tarred road on my right looking gritty

on my left, hedged plants sloping mild

towards the parched river bed grown all wild -

I spied a lively robin on a furrowed soil crest

its twitter rising from its quivering breast

as it twitched its reddish-brown tail in zest

calling to its mate perhaps to roost and nest.

 

I tried to stifle and smother my sneeze

lest terrified, it would flee or freeze.

I snuffed my sneeze in the nick of time.

It continued its merry cacophonous rime.

Soon I passed by it and from my sight gone

but the chatter in my head twittered on:

 

A fragile blithe blob of flesh and blood

a teeny lease of life in its body floods

snuffed finally by a vicious predator

or an invisible viral terminator

or old age wrestling it to death.

 

Lucky robin!

No unbridled thoughts in your head running rife

no strangulating coiling memory maze to fife

just a few instinctual ones of your nest,

your chicks, your haunts of food and rest.

No draining emotions and moping fettering feelings

a fleeting life lived purely by nature’s coded instincts.

Sunday, August 18, 2019

… crisscrossing …


… my feet dragged my heat-drugged body
crunching on the molten gravel late evening.
As the desert heat hummed and singed
my face and arms glistened with sweat
my wet shirt clung to my slimy body
while my mind raced to my AC cool room.
A lean cat crisscrossed my path
steady, focused footsteps, ignoring me
crisscrossing its beaten trail
to seek water or shade perhaps.
Its feline mouth – a half open grin
breathing out its internal heat.
A flash of helpless pity 
crisscrossed our minds ...

Selfies

Taking a selfie is not everybody’s cup of tea.
They are the domain of today’s teens.
So those in their thirties, forties and fifties
don’t take those monstrous selfies, I plead.

When you do so, you render yourself weird to the core
magnifying malignantly a part of your visage and chest.
How far you hold the phone and the angle matters.
A wrong hold in an odd angle and you are floored.
Shoot close and straight - you get nostrils blaring with gust,
hairs sticking out like antennae of wasps or roaches.
A little lower makes a mugshot of a thick necked thug,
a bulging shoulder that stretches out in haste
while the other appears a mid-sized appendage.
A little higher and you get a big headed moron,
your forehead a parched land stretching infinitely.
Your face looks as grave as an owl’s and if you smile
it falls flat like a jarring musical note prolonged.
And no, never try those contortions of face
you will end up a three dimensional eerie ET
thrusting its damned head into everyone’s sight.

So leave those selfies to the teens and those in the twenties
who have perfectly perfected the art of taking selfies
pouting their lips and standing at gravity defying angles
creasing their eyebrows like a rugged mountain range
hallowing their cheeks or tangling their arms with ease
creating those impossible naturally contrived smiles
and myriad emotions not deciphered in dictionaries.

Madras Buses – Yesteryears Travel Reverie

From bed to bus stand, I hum through a flurry of chores like a drone.
I gobble up food like a pelican, get garbed, grab the bag with lunch packed,
a hurried bye to dad and mum, walking and running through the maze
of palm trees to catch 29D at 6.30 from Madhavaram Milk Colony.
I hop into the dark and light green omni-dragon reluctantly,
hoping to reach in time to catch the popular and all-important 29C.
If late, we sprint to latch ourselves like leeches on to the moving bus.

Stretched on a time-rack between stops for ‘tickets’ ‘tickets’ ‘tickets’,
we wait in hope to hear the shrill double whistle or the ‘raiee’ ‘raiee’.
At Perambur, at last, we are belched out and stream into 29C.
The insatiable toad swells head to torso with students at every stop
not an inch to maneuver, we are jammed hams salted and heat-dried.
Male students hang on chivalrously making space for groovy girls
hormones on fire, many a match made on those buses perhaps.

Every student of Loyola, WCC and Stella in town make their presence felt.
The dragon scrambles on, crawls at times, makes a dash or stops abruptly
crushing us like a tightening vice as we lurch forward like projectiles.
The driver steers as though on high seas, his hands and legs in a trance like dance.   
Money, bus passes and tokens are passed by dwarfed hands and constrained necks.
The struggle to reach the door starts well before we reach Sterling Road.
Like telepathic worms we wriggle our way through layers of human flesh.

My shirt button entangles in a girl’s hair (preordained?!) as I tried to slide past.
We spend a good minute untangling with embarrassed contrite smiles.
If you don’t make it to the proximity of the doors in time, the crowd,
which gets down to let you out, will box you in, moksha denied.
Then you are neither in nor out, stuck at an inclined angle
like Hercules supporting the roof of the bus from collapse
and in resigned karmaic silence, you wait for the next stop.

Getting down at Sterling Road we venture into the final lap – catching 49D or 41D.
A journey short and honey sweet, a gush of relief as we spy the college gate.
Were those Ulyssian journeys worth it? – For millions of us who couldn’t afford
a bike, a car or private transport, those city buses were our lifeblood,
our lifeline to a college education and a future in those early 90s.


Friday, September 7, 2018

Nature Speaking

I am neutral as neutral as can be
Only my inner dynamics govern me –
pressure, heat, magnetic fields and alike
I take no sides but afflict everyone alike.
I see not riches or rags, your affiliations
your race, caste or your creed
your goodness or your wickedness
whether unborn, child or disabled.
I am beyond all these
true to my inner dynamics.

It is you who bestow me human qualities,
give me a convenient voice, a connived emotion,
a twisted thought, just as you do to your Gods.
You paint me as it suits your whim and fancy
benevolent and caring or revengeful and angry.
You feel your prayers, chants and litanies
can influence me and your pain ease. 
You drown in your whirlpool of illusions.
I subside to my original familiar self
when my inner forces attain a balance.

Can you be just like me
true to your human nature?
Can you think rationally, critically, creatively?
Can you encompass all in compassion?
Can you stop thinking that you are apart from me?
Can you realise that you are part of me?
Can you stop wallowing in your delusions?
Can you stop disturbing my inner dynamics?
For when you alter my inner nature even by a fraction
you and I know not the ugly consequence.

I am completely unbiased
true to my inner nature.
It is you who picture me
as human or a demi-god
like this fool writing these lines
giving me a human voice.

Friday, June 15, 2018

Imagination


Let the charm of imagination fill your mind
Churn and swirl fantasies of every kind:
White crows, lion-faced men, dancing daisies
Walking jackfruits and good old gypsies
Every fancy and every dream
Build in the air castles of cream.
For the greatest gift of nature to man
Is the mind tripping bouncing along.