In the Same Vein

In the same vein then
A continuous homesick throbbing.
A steady stream of memory beats
In my heart my temples my wrists.

Every spurt a small nostalgic remembrance-
How you can buy a single cigarette instead of an entire pack
The tiny fragile measures of filter coffee, strong tea
The freshly squeezed orange juice at the fresh fruit juice corner.

Every throb a sob
A sniff a whimper
A childish hiccough of
I want to go home.

Gently then, walk through my city.

Be sure then,
When you have your time machine
To go to that college
Where three men will show you
The world.
And then when they have
Filled your heart
With all the poetry of the world
Walk slowly to the old Max Mueller Bhavan
And climb up the narrow staircase
To where in the little cafe
You can eat carrot cake
And drink hot lemon tea
And talk about how your views
Have just undergone
A sea change.

And when it rains in this little city,
You can drive your little car
To that garage that they have converted
Into an orange coffee shop
That sells hot and cold coffees at heartbreaking prices
That are worth it because no where else
Does the rain look the way it does
From this orange coffee shop.
Walk under the dripping leaves
To the hazy purple noisy pub
Where you can nurse your vodka
Into the night and watch the hectic hormones
The love play
The restless hearts that bob
In cocktail glasses, garnished with cherries.

But softly, mind you, tread gently
Hold carefully all that you hold
Lest it spill over
Lest it crash
Into the whimsy of this city.
Lest you love it too much to leave it
Lest your memories afterwards
Never ever let go.

Another Winter Dreaded

It seems I must live through
Another dreaded winter.
It is not the cold I mind so much.
And even though I tell myself that the distance
From home is what kills me, I know
That that is not true
In the strictest sense. Whence
Then this fear, this isolation,
This feeling of screaming in a soundproof room
This feeling of living in a noisy grave.

This beautiful, cold, hard city does not know me,
And what is worse, she could not care less. Best then
To make the best of her bare trees, her bitter snows,
Her brittle smiles, her beautiful bones.

It is really not possible

To be clever all the time
To lift one's conversation high
Above the mundane
And to keep it there.

But if I didn't, would you still find
Me interesting, or would you be blind
To my duller charms.

Because you see, my dear, I really
Couldn't be with someone who couldn't
Watch me read.

(It's very charming, I assure you.)

Nothing in particular

In particular, there is nothing
Except a dissatisfaction
A shameless secret grudge of the night
That is always on the run.

And is followed by all the sticks and stones
That are the portion
Of a conscientious soul.

A cynic perhaps, would be better rewarded
But I, my dear, would rather be dead.

In particular, there is nothing.

Eighteen Hours since your Loss

My strength is sapped
My blood has been tapped and packed
Into four suitcases of souvenirs
And chocolate that flew back
To an admiring India.

My vitality has been brewed
Into fifty ml bottles of perfume
Silver wrapped, gift packed,
With love, forever,
To India.

And what this clever poem means to say
Is that I miss you so, I miss the way
Of your love and the curve of your embrace
And the concerned, spectacled gaze
Of your parenthood. I miss you so
Eighteen hours into your absence
Eighteen hours since your loss.

Indulgence

When was the last time you fell in love with a word?
With its contours and the suggestions of its contours?
And the nuances and crevices of its meaning?

When did you last make love to it?
Explore all that it was?
And all that it could be?

Did you ask where it came from?
Whether the journey was eventful?
Or tiring, amidst the flash bulbs of allusion and abstraction?

Did you take it to pieces?
And find functions for each part?
Or did you break your heart
On its elementary wholeness, its ability to be
A wall, not a door, nor anything you could unlock
With a key.

Flower

All flower metaphors
Have been written to death
And on their death beds
I undertake
This last cleverness.

All flower metaphors
Have been used
And abused
And in their defence
(And that of the greeting card companies)
I make
This last attempt.

All flower metaphors
Profound roses and aristocratic tulips
And common chrysanthemums; in short
All flower metaphors that are, were, and will be
Are wilting and in a desperate bid to stop the decay
I break my time honoured oath
Never to write about flowers
Or flower metaphors
Or both.

Rhyme

There is a poet I love
Not Neruda, not Millay
This one is closer home.
And he finds no strain in rhyme.
Given a little practice and time
He says, anyone can rhyme.
Well, you can see I've been trying
But I cannot help sounding a little forced
Too obvious, too divorced
From what I really want to say
Simply because of the way
In which I wish to say it.

Hallucination

Everyday I sail to work, all kevlar sails and fibreglass body
And performance and a shining brilliant ambitious tendency
To spot the subtle comedy, the palatable unreality
The almost drug like quality
In the neon nuances and the psychedelic psychoses of the techie
There is a delusion of grandeur grander than most
The metrosexual hallucination that came home to roost.

Like a poem I meant to write.

The new leaves have grown on the trees.
Baby leaves really,
That must wonder at how cold
The spring is.
They are stoic about the whole affair,
As babies go,
But surely, they must have been promised better.

Doubt

The mantra is
Keep Writing.
Someday, if you cannot
Go on, you will know that
You
Were
Never
Meant
To be
A Poet.