POEMS

MAY 2021

Here comes a feeling I thought I had forgotten,

I thought was lost in the crowd

for letting my heart wander,

carving its home on people

that do not belong to me.

The weight of your absence

opens the door to a vacant gaze,

collecting moisture in my eyes;

I don't know what it is called

the space between love and loath

you met me, as I did you,

we had no clue who was who.

My words fell like silent raindrops

your words watered flowers,

like the smoke of a cigarette

you crept right in, killing me slowly,

until the northern lights turned dim

and the world stopped right there.

Say,

Can you save me

from dissolving into the universe that explodes,

amidst billions of stars and lightyears?

Because that moment I saw your

jubilant words dance on flower petals

my poetry hasn't been about anything

but you, ever since.

JANUARY 2018

Love was a country we couldn't defend

Love was a feeling we couldn't pretend

Love tiptoed into hopeless space

Crowded with broken hearts

All declared dead at unexpected times.

Stinking of the urge to remember

Stinking of faith to not surrender

Stinking of cries of a second try.

Love came in, love gave light, love shone bright

Maye that is its purpose

You cannot unlove love.

DECEMBER 2019

My house, as I now see,
was built to remain empty
because at the precious hour
a man and woman first meet,
- not within walls
but in nature to renew the
first note of pure beating hearts.
We first met in the house
and ended with parting of lovers
and the house is empty because
hearts are asunder.
The cry of pain must be silenced in me
Or else how will i fall in love again?

SEPTEMBER 2021

I want to find a home
that has eluded all my life,
the currents of
history catching me up
and dragging me headlong,
a home that retreats
into the lightless crevices
of my memories.
My pleasure in it
would melt my aversion to
the world.
Places define people more
than people seize moments
in places.
I don't want to remember
people in memories but
commemorate them in homes
made of the syrupy beauty of
hearts.
The walls will smell of
metaphors and dead sonnets
and I will surrender myself
to their whims and fancies.
A stream would wend its way
through my room,
with men drowned and
men saved, and lotuses
blooming all year.
The domes will gleam against
purple skies and I'll weep
in its grandeur.
I will walk through
scented corridors made of
synchronised silence and
dilapidated bricks that preserve
broken love tales.
My house will teach me
faith beyond betrayal,
inessential hours will melt away
in the cooling twilight,
the guileless mirror on the
orange wall would show spasms
of my skin wrinkled
from the variety of life.
Crimson flowers falling on the snow
will rest eternally
in framed photographs.
Oh death isn't an answer;
I am scared, but I do not complain.
Sing me a song and tell me,
Is this what a home looks like?
Because I am not sleepy
and I have nowhere to be.

Poems: Work