The Mist Takes Away

the palm trees’ worries.

They stand there dreaming.

 

You think of yourself

coming to an end,

slowly.

 

Then, the wet red roof tiles

of the houses below

breathe awake

stirring the bluewhite

in the sky

like water.

 

You see all this.

The cream buildings

bathed by the sun

smiling in glee

and the grey gloomy ones,

 

the old,

standing impassively,

and that leaves you

looking on quietly

with nothing

nothing at all

to say

to the day

waking outside

your window today.

 

 

The above poem is from my first book Reeling (2012).

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And Now To Defreeze

the mind

under the melting sun

why it smells so strongly of leaves

earth has taken residence

in your mouth

your eyes see endless green rivers

and the sun

how it beats down on your head

carrying lines of poetry

between the continents

how we drink of it

and come alive

and then the world is no more

it leaves us and goes away

we breathe we just breathe

because we need to

and now when the stars come out

in the sky

you realise you can’t move

you are neither awake nor asleep

you can really do nothing

except stare at the moon

an old homeless lady haunted

how she appears slowly

by your window

peering in.

Belapur To Bandra

In the darkness of the bus depot

the bus arrives

its interiors lit fluorescent

beautiful green

I am travelling in a bus

after ages

and we turn and turn

road after road…

the neon-lit streetlights

and buildings go past…

while the bus makes a sound

like a wave…

my fellow passengers

are such quiet men

such sweet women

in this late night ride

reminding me of so many others…

O what is that guy up to

in his life…

what is she doing…

and the dead whom the sea

remembers so clearly

so eloquently

so well…

and there we already are

turning one last time

down this narrow near-midnight street

parked with cars asleep

the driver blares his loud horn

a rickshaw gets out of the way

and we race into Bandra bus depot

burning brighter than a festival.

 

The above poem is from my second book Reeling (2013).

Riding The Grey Crest,

the grey acres of the city,

the mind’s misses…

 

Who can tell you

what is what dear

returning home

at night.

 

With this grey road ahead

in the oncoming traffic

in the weariness that dies

in this noise…

 

We become ghosts

to ourselves…

Strangers passing by

in the dark.

 

 

The above poem is from my first book Reeling (2012).