tossing through
the yellow room the ship of shadows
in all this talk of trains…
to see pink buildings sail the sky
you can’t miss them
buzzing through in a taxi’s
butterfly flight
where blue red green
and other colours you’ve seen
bring you back home
in an orange steamer’s dream
blowing in the afternoon.
The above poem is from my second book Circling the Sky (2013).
of a comic book character
broke free from
the minds of the children
playing in the verandah.
In the wind
it floated through the dark passageway
of bathrooms bursting with stars
into the mango tree nearby.
There it remained stuck in the branches
mistaken for a bedcover
which I always cover myself with
before going to sleep.
Looking out at the sky today
from my window
it’s beautiful bright blue
everything seems perfect.
Part of the terrace
of the building across mine
is a child’s painting
from a sketch-book.
Two white pipes
rise beautifully quiet.
A crow flies next to it.
The above poem is from my second book Circling the Sky (2013).
This endless swaying of the green treetops
The beginning of the world
The tie and the bridge and the tongue burning
The hare and tortoise race
Madness
Howling men and screeching spitting women
Children hanging from trees upside down grunting like stray dogs
I swallow the oceans with all its creatures and life
I switch on all the streetlights and then I switch them off
I hound all the bars all the shops selling skulls and bones and flesh
I eat 200 cats and 400 rats and 600 bats
I eat every strand of my hair running wild
Through the shops closing shutter
And now you can imagine my fall into the gutter.
and walked in
the noonday sun
till my clothes
turned into a river
I swam through
the heavy traffic
asking for directions
no one knew the place
I wanted to go
I walked back and reached
the railway station
with crowds swarming
all over the bus depot
the streets the restaurants
the tea-stalls
the street-food sellers’ carts
rickshaws puttered everywhere
then someone pointed out
the building
well I had passed that place
but never thought
it would be there
off the street
in a cluster of several others
I was looking for a seven-storey building
and not spotting one on both sides
of the road
had walked on and on…
finally entering its cool foyer
for a moment I thought
how nice it would be
if I could forget myself
forget my purpose here
if the lift with its sliding iron doors
forgetting its function too
could take me straight to the sky
where large white clouds were blowing
unthinking in every direction
unmindful of anything
that happened here.
The above poem is from my second book Circling the Sky (2013).
was the word
the man said
imagine the picture
the vest
the god
the fluorescent tubelight
the green walls
the grey grey Wednesday
he said the spark
had caught
it had scored the music
he could see the other houses
sailing in the moon
their windows open burning with light
the red BEST buses
creating a roar
and the lines and lines of washing
singing in the wind
he said he could now hear the music
setting the stars on fire
making them jump and dance
in the municipal gardens
where the children made new friends
and cheered and played
he said it was the spark.
The above poem is from my first book Reeling (2012).
of these buildings
to come visiting
across the garden
when childhood
and youth
have gone
when middle age
has taken residence
in my body
giving me hypertension
now it’s that rocket
in the middle
of that garden
that knocks
on my mind
reminding me
of my boy glimpse
into the atmosphere
the world beyond
the sky
I could not see
well it’s that same world
where I’d like to be
O woe is me
I’m an old monkey
hanging from a tree.
on a big thought
with that in its mouth
it has slumped
heavy
in a corner
the thought talks its own talk
words grow out of it
building
collapsing
my mind desperately tries to reach someplace
divided in itself
disappearing
under its own weight.
The above poem is from my second book Circling the Sky (2013).
in brightly coloured shoes
scratch their scruffy hair
till they shake off a train.
In the dark at Oval Maidan
Rajabai Tower’s clock
rings its half-hour chimes at 9.30.
Beautiful red BEST buses
their interiors lit fluorescent green
go skating round the ground.
Like fallen beads from a chain
sparse groups of men in twos and threes
sit under the stars hanging hard.
And the trees so free
swaying so mightily
turn into rockets
ready to fly.
The above poem is from my second book Reeling (2013).
on one wing of my building
a long rectangle of light
from the bed in my mother’s room
where I lie reading
I see another block of sun
on the building opposite mine
and in the evening
across the choc-a-block
stretch of buildings
in Jogeshwari
all the way into the far distance
the light plays and plays
with the faded colours
of whites, orange-pinks, blue-greys
right till the very end
where nothing more can be seen
but the sky
hanging like a sleepy eye.
The above poem is from my second book Circling the Sky (2013).
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).
