On the edges of your fading lipstick,
the hills are dancing with desire.
Beyond the cracks of nostalgia,
your poetry is a repetition of ‘I’, ‘you’ and ‘me’,
always worried, distant, anxious,
savoring on lost moments of confusion
in the distance of thoughts, deluded pleasures
bound in misfit conversations.
Here, I say that you were ‘found’
by the passage of morose fixations,
but ‘you’ can never sense or see where ‘I’ come from,
even with time,
you only repeat my convictions.
And ‘I’ seek my sanity in the profanity of words,
each syllable elongated to fit your truce.
‘I’ will cut through questions and answer with silence.
Besides dead boats in the harbour front,
I found the similarity of singularities.
(May 18, 2014/ 7:30…)
On a saffron bus, in the Indian heat,
she looked back in to the road,
that dwindled into a golden camp.
Thirteen years ago dressed in a white kurti
and sucking a sweet tablet,
not in hunger but elated by the train journey.
The wheels sang on the tracks,
her maroon waist coat clung to her sticky skin,
from behind her peach frame she peeked out at the boys from Ghana,
late into the rainy night playing chess.
Those young lads and her girls had met on a trip.
She woke drowsy from a dream last night,
with the taste of Punjabi food, milk coffee and vanilla ice cream.
There were Chinese letters on the side walk,
Before she leaves, she hopes you won’t desert her,
not when the train stops or before it begins.
She will sleep by Hermann Hesse.
Silver creases in somber waters,
I see you often walking uphill through the misty grass.
Each footstep bolder and faster,
harder as they cross the beaten ground.
Once in a trodden, dusty road, well fed sparrows waited for us.
Winter it was, caged in to our bones.
I see summer coming, thin, little sparrows up in the sky.