Sunday, November 27, 2011

Casanova Psalm

Focused on snippets of skin
Baffles and intrigues
And simmers on lips
That’ll spill into a smile
And sauce my plate
With spices of sense
That liven with lust
Dollops of boredom and smog.

Cut it as you will
And colour my sins
But this much I must confess:
On tips of my eyes
Hang heavens of sense
Whose presence I never regret.

The Rubaiyat of Dorian Gray

Snuggled in the corners where lights never creep,
Cradled with roofs that utter not a peep,
I shovel through the mire I have piled
And ledger in pain the corpses I keep.

Thursday, November 24, 2011


They shimmied on sky
Over motors and horns
And flew through my pallor of grey
As networks of wings
Beyond drains full of filth
With immaculate whiteness of
Indelible gleam.


Monday, November 14, 2011

Abinash C. Halder in Love

What she had asked was common to the core -
Trying to be civil, artifice of care.

But it tugged at my heart
And played on those chords
That fling my shutters unbarred.

But I who have stumbled on simplest of stuff
Recall my letters in trash.

So why should I risk
My image for a fall
And burn those robes that glitter.

So I measure my pros
And weigh in my cons
And bottle my words into safest of packs - 
Nuggets of proper and prim.

All that are left are sealed into self
Where they would flower and grow
And build from the ashes of questions unasked
Shrines beyond time and its roar.

Saturday, November 12, 2011


In leaves of grime and grease
She blossoms her tunes
And livens our noons
With fragrance of jasmines at dawn
which tower over streets
Of asphalt and horns
And soars into clouds
With pollen on wings
That glitter in the twilight of dreams.

Holed into hours of targets and tasks
I search for her trail of feathers in haze
That light up my lamps at night.

Sunday, November 6, 2011


I’ve sat by the trickles of en-diesel-ed days
And played with pebbles in tar,
As bouquets of red and yellow and mauve
Have withered into shades of brown.

Torn into cubicle of antipodal shifts
Ours are tracks that rarely converge –
Halved by the meridian digits on clock.

Packed into cans of unmoving past
We’ve chewed over recollected passions in freeze.

Digging our hours from albums of still
We play out our acts and crave
Times that are bolted in frames. 

Thursday, November 3, 2011


I’ve gazed into slime-sodden canals of night
With larvae of fevers and pain
And even have chimed with toads that croak
Concert in gutters unclean.

Roots that have rotted are all
Eyes in the bushes can grasp.

And though I’ve searched while choking on mud
Proverbial lotus in filth –
Swollen with bites of insects unknown
Mine is the harvest of rust.

Peeled into puppets of pulverized husk
We totter on the banks of canals of slime
And slither into blind man’s bluff.

Further upstream, the beggar still sings
Blind but dreaming of stars.