you can do it once again, tonight -
to look at the stars of this night and search
for your name or the other name -
the stars don't really care - for
twinkling is their duty and so they'll
twinkle on - the way they did the night before
or the night before that, when the world hadn't
changed much with you
when the sun rises and then when
the stars disappear - the names that you had
searched for, may become invisible for a while but
they never disappear - how many names could
one night write on its sky, with the stars and how
many could be searched for, and read?
names searched for in stars become invisible -
they don't disappear, neither are they forgotten
somewhere or the other
the night skies of waking moments - and the
night skies of dreams when you sleep
are essentially different but the stars
that twinkle - they always feel like they are
all the same, night after night...
Pigs don't fly, they say - But I've seen fish that do Flying fish run across, flitting away - Neon purple wings and fairy feathers Sundays on to Saturdays and on once again Tuesdays have always been full Of promises of grand lunches - To forget the profundity and then the profanity; That ensued; time flew by - standing By the fence, forty percent On this side - with no room for a period A full stop was only a possibility - But not a hope - a semicolon has always stood In between - separating parts - Indicating pauses longer than a coma - With one missing m, the state Of prolonged forgetfulness, but shorter - than A period at least seven years long - as The dictionaries say and try to explain - Fish fly and on to the other side Of the sky, where flying fish are no miracles With no periods and no stops that are full There on the other side remain till the end Are only a semicolon and the end of a fish
so there has been a face change
'ah worry not, it's just a phase' i hear them say
what gently falls down from the tree is not just a leaf
well-worn faces, faces, faces they fall
it's june, like it was the year before and the year before that
it could have been may it could have been november
it just happens to be june
it's not just now, almost always - out of tune
pieces of broken faces lie scattered there
below the tree
they still say 'ah worry not, it's only a phase'
his face too, her face too, falls slowly, from the tree
aimless fish fly the sky having lost their way
oh it's another day the restless dogs bark
bent spoons reflect your moon and eye
sit by the fence afraid of the dark
on Y branches near the junction are nests
inside which sleep little birds yet to fly
mother beaks with dead worms hover above
isn't it a song worth remembering
isn't it a sight worth a day past, to last?
december was long.
the fog blinded everyone when the head-man shouted for help.
january is not mine.
the sun shines hard and hot all day long.
february in the beginning is full of promises.
the rest of it is a war against boredom.
march only shifts positions to shadow venus.
pluto no more, not to mind neptune and uranus.
april would be a new thing again.
a flower is all i can make, call me god.
may the uncertain, make hay.
get a pen and a thousand new words for the world.
june, bring in the clowns and dancing monkeys.
that is only half of what one should expect.
july, should be the time for a breath.
time to see eye to i and say 'it's not me'.
august gathered dust.
stacked upon newspapers, time to let it be.
september will rust.
iron men, steel willed walk the streets of the forbidden city.
october goes so fast.
before one knows, the present is past.
november, thank you very much.
you can keep it for yourself, in bards we trust.
december is long.
read - read - read; white and red.
it's the last droplet of coffee in the mug.
the news in the papers is nothing new, retelling the way the world has been.
it was the same sun that shone yesterday that heats up every window now.
silently i pretend to ignore the change in the air.
with the pretensions spelt out, nothing has changed.
the promise of forever waves its flag in the wind that blows.
a song scribbled on scrap bits of paper is the sweetest.
there is no single word for the end of everything.
when you know it's not a cat, where are you at
when you dust your door mat, where are you at
when you know not where you sat, where are you at
when later is now is nowhen, where are you at
when there is here is nowhere, where are you at
when there's a new question, where are you at
when you ignore question marks, where are you at
cloud nine floated through the open gates of heaven seven.
sitting on the cloud, he floated effortlessly.
cats that stood below looked up and mewed at the cloud nines that moved.
after the thirteenth cloud nine moved in, the gates of heaven seven closed.
she woke up and when it was time for her to peel her eyes away from her dreams, when she looked up it was too late when the gates had closed already.
one of the cats in heaven seven that looked up to see moving cloud nines was her cat, that had disappeared.
because the gates were closed and also because the cat had forgotten her, they both remained strangers forever.
ok, so we've got shining tiles on our floor.
after a few months of chasing deers we come home and when we open the doors, there is a thin film of dust on the floor.
the floor still reflects our forms standing at the door, reflections with hazy edges, like our images in some memory where we have already started fading.
last time we saw ourselves on this floor, we had lots of hair on our heads.
chasing deers can be very tiring and it makes people grow old sooner than they really do.
we walk on the tiled floor, leaving foot prints on the dust film and also let a few strands of our hair fall on the floor with every step.
let them fingers rest a while
when the eyes close to see patterns
in moments real or surreal that can happen
to one or many with no time to expect nothing
no more pointless stars, no more pointed agitation
sleepless days and nights over blank sheets of paper
built are my forts on real mountain slopes where you ran
playing screaming laughing crying flying your blue green kite
that once flew high and floated slow in my room gathering cobwebs
i'll wait a little longer than required, longer than usual, to learn our song
another night of cryptic words, the shape of cobwebs
floating all around, slowly falling
what could keep some occupied would keep one alone -
thanks to that, thanks to this night of everyone's preoccupation
3000 words in 5 minutes, 300 seconds
another five years from now, you should have learnt
to fly away, out of places you don't belong - away from places where
you know you shouldn't be at
cobwebs the shape of words would still fall
but wouldn't bother you no more
out here, now,
a little more than a mile away from here
you are already an old person
the early winter breeze nods familiarity
and the yellow leaves that fall to touch your face
are already familiar
stray dogs at the corner of the street
do not stop to look at you with suspicion anymore
the world is the usual place as it used to be,
few sneezes ago, the same old world
as it is out here, now
where you already are an old person