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).

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The Branches

flare like an open palm

lifting me into the lap of the breeze

the azan from the mosque

is the sky caressing my heart

long cool notes

become the silence of the universe’s dawn

and now the cocks crow in relay

a clear cacophony of joy

as I fall through

the leaves of the pine trees

spread out like a net of smoke

turning into a big black langur

and I feel more

than thousands of years old

falling into my armchair

and when I go back

from the balcony

into my room here at the homestay

to take a leak later

I look at my face

in the mirror

I look at my face under

the blue woolen cap

I look at it

for more than usual

first there is only my mother’s profile

then I get a glimpse

of my father’s face

my own face

I find

it takes such a long time to see.

 

The above poem is from my third book The Branches (2015).

Meeting

Calling them strange occurrences

would be wrong, yet they seem like that.

As though there was a world

beyond the question-mark

you had to slip into and like.

Here, there is a cauldron of constant

possibilities and impossibilities.

Here, the game plays out,

which will outplay you.

Let us just be grateful that

you and I have met this evening.

In this rain, in this wild horn

of traffic, we stand under

our umbrellas. Let us be grateful

that we have met.

 

The above poem first appeared in Nthposition, and is part of my first book Reeling (2012).