Sunday, March 22, 2015

I hate you, AG!


You can Howl,
You can growl
All you want, I don't care
All you need, seriously, I don't care!

Your jazz is jarring,
The thought of you irritating!
You left me in a haze,
Leaving me in a daze.

You can howl for Solomon
Or cry for Ineton
You can grovel all you want
For me you're an infidel cunt!

All I wanted was to know you
And if all went well, befriend you
But you left me wanting to cry
Go fuck yourself, just try!

To you, with love


Let me kiss you once more
As in the days of yore
The crimson of your face
I might never match
But let me try.
Let me catch the golden sighs
And the sweet moans.

Let me plant a kiss on your brow
The flicker of your lash-
Is it pink,
Or a hue uncertain?

Here, place your palm on my bosom warm,
Let me set you ablaze- a fiery red,
Mellowed down to a shimmer,
Amber, the orange will last longer.

Let me drench you in my love, my love,
Mix this violet and blue
And a happy yellow too, before it dries 
A rainbow for you dear, all seven colours true.

Something's missing,
Please don't cry,
I stole an indigo from the sky
For a glimpse of your smile.

Let me satiate you with a green
Which shade will you have?
Emeralds and bowers in spring
Pale before the colour I can feel.

Ah! Here it is
Green of the ocean deep
Unfathomable as my feelings deep
A brush here and a touch there and a final kiss.

I'll come back again my love,
Your picture in my heart I bear
I'll hang it on my wall, dear
To remind me of the love we made
I'll surely come back for more dear.

Wednesday, March 11, 2015

Untitled



The cold wind creeping upto me,
The eerie sound of the bark flaking away,
Coming on fast like an approaching train.
One day the circumference will be covered,
Leaving me naked, unprotected.

No, I'm not ready yet,
The wind pierces my soft skin,
The sun charrs my innocence.
I still need the warm, woody blanket, the fragrant viel of Love.

How I want to hold on to you!
But with no arms, I'm helpless.
Look! I'm perspiring- the agonising shivers it sends through me.
Each passing second thumping on my chest like a dagger.

See I'm bleeding,
With each piece forced away from me.Can't You see?
Let me die with my bark,
Or I'll bleed to death anyway.

Don't you want to see for yourself, asks the Voice,
How the morning breeze feels like in early spring?
The summer heat which tests every drop of patience you can muster,
The freshness of monsoon drizzling over you, promising a new shoot,
The cozy warmth of closeness in the winter, pray, don't you want to feel?

The care of the old will never fade.
Look on your body, each departing fibre has left an impression,
You are, but a mould of the old Cast.
A living testimony of the cocoon that once was.

Don't dissappoint the imago, whimpering like a losing soul!
Yeah! The imago has to complete the circle.
But the young bark? What about it?
It'll stay moist- delicate and tender,
Lest the trickle of sweet scent should dry up,
And leave me thirsty till I die, thirsty for more.

Sunday, March 8, 2015

Love's Labor Lost?


Two war-worn soldiers, exhausted
With bloodshot eyes for lack of sleep
Hands trembling from finger-pointing and trigger-pressing.

They meet at a tavern where the wounded lick their wounds.
They recognise each other from afar,
Uniforms shouting out what they stand for, or what they stood for?

A wry smile, only the defeated could empathise.
A sip of liquor is all they need
To open the dam and flood out pent-up emotions.

Words of emptiness and causes lost
Of being tired and carrying on,
And of giving up and forgiving the giving up.

“I don’t hate you”, said one to the other.
Said the other, “Neither do I”.

“I want freedom”; of soul, and spirit and indigenous shit
Freedom to create one’s own hell-hole, one’s own mess.
Why! It’s liberating to pee on one’s own walls,
Defecate wherever one wants to, fill the nostrils with stench
Of one’s own making. Keep the fire burning. Revolution on a pyre
Of yellowed pages, history, identity, humanity and much more.

“I want freedom too”. To live, breathe, create. To be.
Without asserting, shouting, fighting or victimizing.
Born an animal, an animal I want to be.

Who are we fighting and what for?
A space our own, miles of fields and forest cover,
Or a patch, six feet or lesser still, over layers
Of wisdom, into dirt this cacophony.

Where trees fruit to die giving way to new rush of lives,
Moving on where old roots don’t suffocate, inhibit, amputate
Where change is without regret, unapologetic. Evolution.
In the melee I want to thrive, sweat and deserve this breath.

This futility. Demanding what’s no one’s to give. What’s ours to begin with.
Freedom? First a look into the mirror, a cold, long, stare into the deep.
 To accept, scrutinize, criticize, circumcise the shitty fuss.

 Staring down the barrel, laughing at oneself, begin!

8th March, 2015


The eighth of March comes every year. Every year I get reminded of the post I never wanted to write. How clich├ęd it is: a woman writing about women on International Women’s day! Yet, here I write, only, I remind you, to get it over with.

I have been accused by men of being a feminist on many occasions, for example that instance when I insisted one person’s effort (mine) was enough to take down the 100g or so poster off the stand ( No, thank you. But please ask again when I have a boulder to move or a body to bury!). I might be guilty as charged but I vehemently refuse to be labelled a feminist if it’s the men-hating, bra-burning, armpit-hair-flaunting kind that you are emphasizing.

That I am not, for the simple reason that I love being a woman without playing the victim card. I like looking good and dressing well for the sake of it. I like smelling good and maintaining hygiene. And to the accusers: have you stopped for once and mulled over the fact that, what you perceive as feminism on my part could, in reality, be a manifestation of your own chauvinism?

I love men. I appreciate their sensitivity when they open/hold doors, pull chairs and walk slowly when I’m in heels or their generosity when they offer to pay for meals (though not every time for sheer practicality because if I like you I’ll ask you out a lot!). I get thoroughly impressed when a man offers his seat in a bus without being asked. I marvel at their evolved need to protect. I enjoy their attention, care and love. However, when situation demands, I can easily play my part and switch roles too. I can back up my end of the game. I have the heart and means to return these favors and more when called for/not. All that, without the slightest bit of resentment or judgement.

Everyone talks about gender equality. An evolutionary biologist might have a different take. Sexes exist to ensure genetic variation resulting in better adapted progenies in the event of changed environmental conditions. Men were hunters and protectors and women, nurturers. Mankind evolved and societies changed. Today, these roles are no longer so well defined but the imprints of gender-based roles or the tendency towards them still manifest.  Hence, I’m more inclined towards gender justice. It seems to be a more evolved goal to strive for. But the prerequisite requirement is not easy to attain on the part of both men and women: to relinquish our complexes, whether superiority or inferiority.

I simply refuse to assert or demand respect or equality. Let there be only skills, abilities and opportunities together with compassion and sensitivity and nothing else. No feeling ashamed or shaming. Let there be empathy and not sympathy, more efficient management and usage of resources without squabbles on who does what. No patriarchy, or matriarchy for that matter, let the wiser prevail over a situation. No prejudices, only reason. No dependents and providers, only partners. Let there be objectivity and elimination of denigrated idiosyncrasies; more dialogue and understanding.

Too much to ask for? All I am saying is, my dear man, I promise to open the door when you have a big bag of groceries just for the same reason you held that very door open without letting it swing at my face, without much ado! Happy women’s day! 

Monday, March 2, 2015

His Mistress' Love

You, the fickle mistress,
My life, this life.
Tantalising me
With your whims.
Fuck! The intrigue.

In my grip this moment,
Not, the next.
I own you, or so I think,
Or so I want to believe.

I own you in this flesh and blood,
These muscles and sinews,
This beating heart.
Or not. You slip away.
In moments, seconds and the
Ticking of the second's hand.

You slippery whore!
In my grasp I dream,
I awake with your train in my hand,
Only the end. It slips too.

I feel you in the lover's kisses,
The touch that sends shivers
Rising in tides, come crashing down too
Into drops, a thousand and one.

Everything, yet nothing.
This mighty spirit claws into this flesh.
I rule you. I command you.
Or not! That mocking laughter I can't control.

I let you slip, exasperated.
I chase you. I beg you.
I serenade and seduce you.
Only in death will I own you.
Or not.