An Old Man

He must have loved them much,
His children, his innocent wife.

Through rising, running, rippling tears,
his pain translates to flowing waters,
where softly, like sea-foam, float -
the memories of his past,
slowly, out to nothingness.

A fish fresh out of water,
he still flaps his slippery fins
groping for warmth - tepid coastal waters.
His rhythmic dance of slow death
has now,
carried him on wearied legs
to some mirages -
some wounded healers
carrying flaking placards
of some mistaken nobility.

He with his tried tears,
pours out again
his withered heart,
into unwilling palms,
shrinking surreptitiously
from his wizened countenance.
He curses in mumbled words,
(wrath of hellfire)
his ungrateful son.
Kisses the few kind words
(with flowing tears)
spared his way.

In the unblemished mirror,
of his lonely sorrow -
I see reflected,
me, him, all.

We are,
He is,
I am -
all, dreadfully alone.

Dec 21st, 08

No More, The Moone?

In purple loneliness,
many a-times,
when searing -
my heart throbbed,
split asunder...

In opal faithlessness,
coining rhymes,
when screaming -
my eyes sobbed,
rain, thunder...

I scarce conceived,
ever,
in splashes of crimson pain -
that inured
my bruised heart
would fold insidiously
in neat starched layers
its flightless entangled wings.
That it would cease to care,
enough.
That it would learn to live,
without loving,
enough.
That it would hunt, even scavenge,
in search of warmth,
just enough.
That it would hurt no more.
No much more.

Listless, O so listless,
once a vagabond,
this wandering gypsy -
squatting tepidly,
has shaken off colors,
all gaudy apparel.
It dances no more.
No much more.

Lifeless, O so lifeless,
once an wayfarer,
this vagrant troubadour -
speculating insipidly,
has abandoned pied pipes,
torn all manuscripts.
It sings no more.
No much more.

How, but How, O December moon?
Not having moonlight -
hurts no more.
No much more.

This apathy annihilates me,
In my own blood
I drown.

Dec. 13th, '08.

Loneliness

Tears - watery, saltless, plasmatic
expanded on the rocky terrain
of her weather-beaten face,
like a dam undammed -
in a vast desertic plain.

With her dripping questioning eyes -
Chocolate brown?
(What color is a question?),
and a lone long (strangely long)
trapezoid incisor,
she sat bent, waiting.
Waiting?
What Had she, but loneliness, to wait on for?
(She was old, oh so old,
and alone -
her lone crooked tooth (strangely long)
- part white
quarter yellow
half, question-colored -
punctuated her shriveled features
like an omniscient exclamation mark!)

The Reports spoke, neutrally
of a well-acquainted friend -
Adenocarcinoma uterus,
and requested (even more tepidly)
to evaluate for Anesthesia.

Why, though, did she weep?
What More, at over 3 quarters of a century,
did she long yet to see?
In the dirt-laden poverty of her charity tatters,
what life still, did she yearn for?
What disquieting question did her question-colored eyes,
so questioningly pose?
"Will I live?"
or
"Will I die?"
And which way did they bend, her tired tried hopes?

(My tired tried mind digresses,
its shifting gaze wavers as it settles
like a fluttering moth on a new subject -
Me.
Would you, Madeeha, alone
- at 25 or 75 -
Ever want to live on More?)

Nov 17th, '08.

Today was my first day of house job.

Moonlit Night

An egg-yolk moon, unsettling gold
Rides a purple mist-laden sky,
Where listlessly they swirl:

Some ugly memories,
Some forgone dreams,
Some un-kept promises -

Packaged once,
with 'fragile' labels
And wantonly left -
Out -
In tepid monsoon rain.

The pale, stale, cold gold light
Of tonight's full, oft-hiding moon
Sweats out in silvery pearls
Crawling in fuzzy milky trails,
Firefly milestones blinking
Like Gretel’s innocent bread-crumbs
On endless violet darkness.

Fuzzy? Yes, those memories.
Blinking? Yes, the dreams.
Innocence? Yes, ah once!


Darkness?
3 drops of ink on blotting paper -
Pervading.


Nov 13th and 15th, ’08.

Death

Part 1 - Tête-à-tête with Death

[First encounter: Jan 28th and Feb 2nd, 2006.]

Over,
and over,
and over,
and over…

With detached, disbelieving, simmering terror,
I saw them removing.
The tubings
of a mechanical, alien ventilator -
a declaration of Death.

Like an uneducated audience
watching disinterestedly
a morbid Shakespearean tragedy -
I stood
scarce comprehending,
scarce registering,
scarce believing,
the Horror that leaned over -
covertly eyeing,
calmly waiting,
for me to acknowledge
his outstretched hand.

In the nearby flashing of a lightning
In the unexpected arrival of a beloved
In the distant tolling of sudden bells
He would visit me,
in days to come -
Lava
pouring out in gales,
from my stony eyes.

Over,
and over,
and over,
and over…

I would watch Him,
the simmering terror -
erupting Vesuvius
ashening over,
my entire world
smoggy, sooty
- utterly blind.

Oftimes,
in extremis,
I would scuttle blindly
in the abyss where I live
searching for cover…
in vain,
fraught with unassailable fear.
Always,
a Shadow,
I could barely discern,
walked shoulder to shoulder
in abysmal dark…
whispering,
blood curdling insinuations.

Ah, them…
True, I could not save!
But…
Had I to watch Him? –
Death,
squeezing out their souls
from withered bodies,
like lemon juice
for fresh lemonade…

And me, to then -
Not Die!
Had I to live?
So He could visit…

Over,
and over,
and over,
and over…

Nov 5th, 2008.


Part 2 - Death Be Not Proud


[Second encounter: Nov 10th, 2008.]

In seven hushed whispers,
far-off, we spoke.
Yet He!
He heard us
as he sat
covertly,
His hands
one on each tubing.

Watching, I waited:
For Him to finally -
claim,
For us to finally -
give up.
The tussle long,
long,
futile.

Her sedated intubated face,
flashes,
recurrently,
in the shadow of my eyes
as they roam across -
the neatness -
of my bachelor cubicle.
Yes, her glowing face.
The skin on her fingers
her swollen feet
stretched taut
splitting
like glossy cowhide.

-----------

I am ready.
Tonight, I am -
for that handshake,
that fated acknowledgement.
Tonight I shall clasp,
tremulously,
with my clammy hands,
both His steady ones.

I might dare too,
perchance,
to upturn my stained face
and peer
deep
into those abysses
- His eyes.

Tonight,
I will cry my heart out.

Nov. 10th, '08.


(Were a keen artist
A portrait
to paint -
He'd paint Him
powdery grey.
And me?
He'd think hard
in vain.
He'd wonder long
oh how -
To paint a standing shadow!
What shades of "void" to use?
To color -
stark emptiness.)

Face to face
wizened, stood -
Together
I and Death.

Nov 11th, '08.



Part 3 - The Dying, Dozens, Die.

The dying, dozens, die

Pain - like molten lava -
pours onto my heart,
my contorted chest,
my chained insides.
Faces - multitudes with death -
lurking in their utter pallor
in their slippery sallowness
in buttercup yellow of their eyes
in putrid froth at their mouths
in mugfuls blood bubbling out
in gurgling silence
in pulselessness
in a straight line.

The living, I, live

Knowing - like an iron anchor -
sinks into my being,
the sea of my soul,
the ocean of my existence.
The little harrowed child
hides in corners, within me
fraught with the consuming fear
of discovery, exposure.
I laugh to keep from weeping.
I talk to keep from screaming.
I walk, bustle around, look busy
lest I should see where I am
lost in a haunted wood
Gretel, afraid of the night.

Nov 23rd, '08.

Solitude

In a stuporous daze
I open half a hollow eye,
among noon voices and sounds
clamoring narcissistically.

Silence speaks softly,
its lilting voice echoing
off bare walls to my
ears mechanically.

Folding a yawn I drag
unshod feet,
disregarding the babbling silence.
And walk out oblivious,
accompanying myself…

…into a boisterous world
blithely ignorant
of a self-bred ingrate “nothing”
encroaching stealthily
effacing itself.

Oct 23rd, ’08.

Poverty

Poverty bleats
like a lamb
boldly stalked –
by the big bad wolf.

Beseeches feebly,
hematite marbles
nailed, unrelenting –
at I, the shepherd.

Gorgon-gazed
helplessly, I wrestle
to contain –
this troubling emotion.

Why, this shepherdry,
just I, endorse?
This blame –
acknowledge, sole me?

Licking flames
orange-red, rise
charring clamorously –
my perplexity, hurt, all.

Poverty shrieks
like a banshee
fore running Reapers –
harvesters, of shepherds.


Oct 17th - 20th, ’08.

Desert rose

I am sad today
Though
I was happy yesterday

You want not to see me, the mirror.
I want not to reflect myself, from me.

I am hurt and moaning.
I want not, for you
to feel yourself,
in me, the mirror.
I want the pretence to be put up long, long… of feigned happiness.

Oct 24th, ‘08.

Tomorro is Another Day

“He is dead, but my heart is not broken,
Do you think it wicked of me?”

Wicked, perchance, but oh, oh!

That this confession could possibly imply
that your brimful, heart-shaped heart
has spilt and made room - a little tepid corner,
for long a waiting groveling sojourner!

That crawling on my knees – all fours
I can climb those precipitous, flesh walls
and dive breathless, into that warm spice-laden sea!

That your innocent heart-cleaving admission,
unknowing, admits me!
.
.
.
But what in this entire hullabaloo, heart, of ignorant naïve you?
What of that shifty assassin you harbor, heart, – cloaked guilt?

O where, heart, will you hide, seeking refuge from yourself?
How far, heart, will you run, on tiny unaccustomed cat-feet?

Saunter in shadows, forever you shall…
Where wistfully I’ll grope.
Groping, catching
whiffs of you
slowly I shall desiccate.
Smothered painless, unawares
in perfume of your smell!

Oct 14th and 16th, ’08.

I am Happy Again

I am Happy Again

I am happy again,
for some discrete,
countable minutes...
.
.
.
till leaden,
of a sudden,
my weathered heart
sinks?
nay, gravitates...
into my hollow belly.
On Jupiter?
I pull up hard,
God! to stand.

Never a smile
walks far enough,
so to carve transitory crow-feet
beside my glazed eyes.

My cracking verses
fracture
splutter
unrhymed -
shards scatter,
(brittle hand-blown glass);
pearls strew,
(jerked off necklace).

That cold icy hand
wrings my heart again,
In extremis
gasping
I whimper...

He is so so deaf
Or I, so so mute!

Another merry moment
soars
on bleeding wings
to its apotheosis...

How, I miss him!

Oct 9th, '08.


I qualified as principal candidate...

History Lesson

Were it for History and the Stoics....

I would but wait one night, moonless blue
just one night;
to walk beside you, starry.
I would but clasp once, your calloused hands
just this once;
to smell their warmth, mahogany.

I dream not a puny farthing more,
even a farthing;
History bridles with dreamproof reins.
I do not to, this little joy, comply
even this joy;
Stoic school snuggles pruned bowers.

....We would be

Sep 23rd and Oct 6th, '08.

Gaston

Speak on,
Ye All,
of Philosophies
Great Questions
Paradoxes
Enormities.

let me squat
(toss few dimes)
unshod
here, by the wayside.

i have seen men,
enough,
with my simple eyes.

Oct 6, '08.

Sneaky Cheat

Wor-rds
topple out
brro-roken
jagged...
blurr-rippetty

My past feigns,
it has left,
left me well alone...

Sneaky cheat -
waits
in corners
to come at me
unawares...

It loves to see me,
skip a beat,
turn ashen,
lower my gaze.

Shifty rook -
boos
in company
from behind
cupped palms...

It gloats when I,
squirm with unease,
lose composure,
struggle to speak.

Slinky fibber -
clings
to my satchel
like Velcro
with long arms.

Ambushed,
I -
discomfited,
Stand ground;
chagrined,
Never abscond.

Oct 2, '08.

Rebirth of Venus

Venus, O goddess of beauty,
what great knowing lends
such intense gravity
to your sad tearless eyelids?
With intimidating finality,
they cautiously clothe,
those deep dark eyes.

I stare a little unsure
into your steady veiled eyes.
(a fathomless calm sea
where sailors drift eternally)
Eyes that steal my wistful gaze,
from your flowing gold tresses.


Some grave grave wisdom,
of...
what was,
what is,
what shall follow -
dims these sunstones
to honey hazel;
smooths like ironed silk
(or starched cotton?)
some pleats that once were
some crinkles at their corners.


Why do you not smile?
An unwelcome rebirth they say...
In deed -
who from the heavens would wish,
carrying tablets of once-lived fate,
to walk again...
this sorry sorry world.



Sep 30th, '08.

And still, I write...

I have heard them sing tonight
Lovers, in unison.
And we both know -
how true this is,
just as much as your love.
Yes, I keep inventing ruses to hurt myself.

I want to think of you.
Consciously,
yet again, I choose -
to wallow in misery,
the little solace it brings.
Forsaken lovers have weird ways of rejoicing.

I function so normally,
each morning,
they never happen to notice -
the emptiness I nurture,
the hollow left by you.
On long nights, I paint charcoal auroras.

Sigh, one more - eon long
I spend remembering you.

I am the great lover, no?
Aching in memory of you.
Altering not,
loving still,
hating not,
Wishing still.
.
.
.
Ah!
Great lovers are morbidly selfish.

For in wake of my musings,
my disgusting self-pity,
oftimes, my little brother peeps.

Begging warmth, night after night,
from my stone-cold being,
quietly, he once again sleeps.

And still, I write...

Sep 27th, '08.

Unrequited Love

[Easy, it is
(you don't believe me?)
- to Die,
to suffer no more,
to wash your hands.
(clean?)


To Live,
(die each day?)
share one dream,
keep a promise,
(Lovers do that?)
- too Hard.]

Tailing mirages
Parched, I fall...

I seek a love divine.


Sep 24th, '08.

Shall I?

Must I,
Rain,
Love again?

Fickle,
in'it?

Romeo's capricious,
over-done whims.

Can I,
Rain,
Suffer again?

Sep 24th, '08.


Observership in US...

The Stakes

Lift me, Life,
Set me free.

My spirit, a song -
mellow,
on wind's wet lips;
sonorous,
on dew's crystal skin.

Sing me, cuckoo,
On an apple tree.

I bit it not, luscious
(blood apple).
I am of, the bound
(angel's kin).

Ever, in heaven
- my reward -
I burn.

Sep 23rd, '08

One (al)

.

I am (I think) Happy today
Alone.
I was (I know) quiet yesterday
Alone.

Alone
Al-one.
Aloneness
Al-one-ness
Al-in-one-ness.

Godliness - no?

I am (I think) mistaken today
Alone.
I am (I know) Al-one each day
Alone.

Sep 19th, '08.

I received the interview call.

The Sunny Shadow

Dedicated to my lovely bhanja (sister's son).

In my little world,
Of big sad people,
A year back,
A giant tiptoed in.

A big happy giant,
With a whopping sunny shadow -
An omnipresent circle;
Him, centripetal.

Now, many seas across,
I oftimes repel
Big sad shadows
With sunbeams - gifted.

September 13th, '08.

Happy Birthday

With accustomed familiarity,
(A warm blade in melting butter)
It sauntered in,
The answer to a why:
This September, too kind, found I.
(After months, my muse was not shy)

Autumn breeze
O autumn breeze...
Pity me this september.
(Lo, she hides in that tree's hollow)
Drying trees
O drying trees...
Hearken, I tell your story.
(Sigh, they avert their teary eyes)

By the setting sun on yonder wall,
A lone bent shadow is cast.
My pores dont sweat, they bleed,
Hushed whispers of my smiling past.

Mid-September was important; is.
But where once we laughed; I strain to weep.
(Do you too - bleary-eyed - awake, lie?)
Long once, for 12 chimes, we waited; I long to wait.
(In deafening dark, pray whisper in my ear,
do u too count the ticks till late?)

In silence, solitude, desertion,
Cold fear of coming morrows
- do you too, heart-cleft, aching, hum:
'I stand alone among ten thousand sorrows.'

Train of "Thoughts"

The late Ramazan nights are warm still,
september sweaty.
A gibbous moon stares at my window-sill,
quarter-bald, fatty.

I sit lazily on the bare floor,
half cool.
My laptop rests on my crossed knees
all warm.

My fingers type slowly,
calling, recalling;
creating, recreating;
carving, moulding;
making abstractions -
palpable,
tangible.
I ponder hard and pause,
ben a note and plink;
click backspace and pause
type again and think.

I poke a thought with my finger,
turn it round and round,
between tommy and peter,
squash my plastishine mound.
I shape it into a caricature;
a burlesque, a miniature;
color it amethyst and midnight blue
camouflaging its real hue.
I roll it into a ping-pong ball,
play table-tennis in my mental hall.

I recline - sleepy, and fold a yawn,
talk softly with my clay pawn...
I revv up - excited, and flash a smile,
wink mischeviously at my mauve nile...
Enamoured, I charm them;
battered, I harm them;
they flourish, they suffer,
my fellows - my thoughts.

I love them, I hate them,
I often re-create them;
They tease me, appease me,
nervously, they seize me...
I shun them, I stun them;
oftimes abandon them;
They shoo me, they woo me,
they never misconstrue me...
My soul-mates - my thoughts!


Sep 11th, '08.

New Age Sun

In the gathering gloom
Darkness drips from our clouded sky
Grey drops turn to swirling mists
Engulfing.
Haunting ghosts garb me, dark grey.

Can you see your hands?
I cannot find my face
We are blinded.

An icy chill creeps up my legs
Frozen fingers find my heart
Wring it in their freezing grasp
Pulseless.
Blood clots in ropes in my veins.

Can you feel your heart?
I cannot hear mine beat.
We are frozen.

A darker shade of black
This moonless night must be,
We must wade this tar together
Stoically.
Pray, O new age sun, rise.


Sep 7th, '08.

On Joy

When next I write
They asked me to speak of happiness,
In the passion of my lines
To reverberate joy,
In the piercing intensity of my words
To echo ecstasy.

And as I smile
My muse sniggers,
"May I take a nap?".


August 31st, '08

Autumn Rain

Incipient trickle of memories,
Slow creepers, stranglers, mistletoe.

Tiny barbs, cold steel
Pin-pricks of Autumn rain
Strive to awaken in me
A young woman
A forgotten self
A memory.

She who dreamed
Of quiet peace
Cottage beside a lake
Tiny happy universe.

She, the dreamer
She, the naivette
She, the deceived.


From cargo jettisoned once,
All that the rain could salvage:

Incipient trickle of tears
Slow creepers, stranglers, mistletoe.


August 31st, '08.

We Don't Die Easy

We don't die easy
Like sunbeams,
at sunset.
Like an ant,
crushed.

We're slow,
lazy even here,
at dying.
We beckon it,
death.
It dallies,
drags its feet,
turns away,
returns,
retreats,
relishing each moment,
of our waiting.

We don't die easy.
We, the forsaken.
Salvation,
forbidden on us.
Ripped from our bodies,
we wander,
abandoned,
begging the sands,
to carry us,
beseeching the winds,
to blow us,
to some haven.

We don't die easy.
Like dreams,
in a moment.
Like a vase,
broken.

We crumble,
bit by bit,
like civilizations,
at the mercy of time.
We decay,
flesh by flesh,
like rotting logs,
at the hands of saprophytes.
We don't die easy...

Yet counts that less,
than what it breeds.
Yes hurts that less,
than what it spawns...

We can't live easy.

- Aug 12th, '08.


But to the dead,
does it matter?
That the dying -
die slow?
Do they recall it?
the pain -
of not dying easy?
Can they feel it?
the hurt -
of not living easy?
Why wonder?

The pain -
the goddamned pain,
of not living easy...
We, the living.
We wonder not,
for curiosity,
but for hope,
of deliverance.
Long-sought Eden.
At long last, succour.
Life,
or Death!

- Aug 13th, '08.


Helpless,
hopeless,
we gnaw at our fingers,
claw out our eyes,
plead...

We still don't die easy.

- Aug 17th, '08

View Through The Window

View Through The Window

(A sick child looks at the moon on a cloudy night.)

Vehicle of light,
I voyage the moon.
Brilliant, a-lighting the night.
A sea of foamy nimbus, I'm crossing soon,
A-stir, a-rippled by rudders of light!

Somewhere below, she watches waiting
Past barred windows, deep in the night
Lone alone, for my chariot of light.

The ocean traversed, I drop no anchor
Ashore I fly, above the sky
I have no care, I'm soaring high!

Long she longs,
Longs she long...

Jubilant I,
She soon to die!

The Rainbow

The Rainbow

In a spatter, like a have-to-do errand, it fell
Rain, at the feet of a begrudging cloud grumble

Amidst the last condensing drops,there peeped
Two rising sunbeams in an incoherent mumble

For a moment, the briefest of moments, I imagined
I could see it arching gracefully, a long-sought rainbow

All seven shades, shimmering like yards of silk
Over sector 1, the Major's mansion, the extension - jubilant in a row

The moment passed, in all its auspicious brevity
Lugging, dragging - its shades, two pots of gold

I thought i saw a rainbow - I didn't
I didn't even wish it much- I'm told

Yet a rainbow came; came, but late
A hope I was destined not to see
It showered free, its gold on all
None was meant for me

Perhaps I was too impatient; resigned perchance
So inured; no more, could I let me hope for hope
The conning rainbow conspired perchance
Hiding camouflaged, till I departed to mope

Which is which, I do not know
I only long I'd seen that Rainbow!

How Utter is Loneliness?

How Utter is Loneliness?

How utter is loneliness when
Even the unwelcome persecuting voice,
The "As you sow, so shall you reap"
Is smothered, buried somewhere deep,
Swamped by the resounding echoes
Of one infinite, timeless question...
Why?

When random friends chatter, smile
Say "Best of luck" in a casual way
Send an automated message on your birthday
Oomph on the change in the weather's mood,
Idly comment, " Yeah, life's good",
Yet evade that one overwhelming question...
Why?

When in the deepening dark
The silence of helpless tears
Accosts you with a Goliath bark
When uselessness of calming your fears,
Taps you on the shoulder and asks...
Why?

Clambering onto the choking emptiness of desertion
You grope for shadows in some dreams broken
You hide your swollen eyes in a layer of kohl
From the interrogating gaze of a hypocrite school
Prodding your emptiness with their merciless query...
Why?


Utter is loneliness, yes.
Absolute.
Non-negotiable.

Of the wretched woman deserted,
Clueless, by her platonic lover
And forced by a deceiving nation,
To flaunt a "I'm fine, Thank you" smile.
Hollow, jagged - like an old empty tin,
She laughs often.
A walking zombie, she roams the streets...
A living monument to that one unanswered question:
Why...

The Last Poem

The magic of verse is undone,
No music warms this stoned one.

Dare I write the last poem of all tonight?
If only man, in his ecstasy or plight
Could ever gauge the failing of mortal flesh
The weakness bred in bones, in skin moulting afresh
He would hide behind his hands in utter shame!
The mystic would find his God; the lover, his love - lame.

O weakling I, were I but as resolute!
I would paint the swirling winds a mournful gray
Garb the waking world in a coal array
Parade my sorrow in a platter on my head
So stoned, no verse would stir me, till I was dead.

But weakling I, in utter weakness sigh!
A bubbling mirth when it rises today
Is smothered, by a pang of guilt, on its way.
But tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow
The day is underway when this immense sorrow
Will succumb to the weakness bred in my bones
I shall laugh my heart out as I kick on the stones...

No, I dare not write the last poem
For Oh! I Cannot write my last poem!
My resolutions are, like my very life, paltry
I know I shall smile again on things petty
The dance of rain will stir my heart yet
Music will melt this ice palace wet
I shall be happy, someday soon, again
And so, I shall write, O so soon, Again!

And I wake...