Sunday, July 15, 2012

An attempt at the The Villanelle Verse Form

In an alternate universe you are mine
This hope too must I cast asunder
Because banished I am for a crime

I didn’t commit by the council prime
Of that dark and dangerous place where plunder
Rules and murder is considered a fine

Hobby for young bloods who often dine
Boasting of dastardly deeds, as they thunder 
For more ale, they will easily break the spine

For sport, of some serving wench, who catches their shine
This was my crime; as I dived under
The table to save one such poor soul from their sin

Now, I lie, banished as a good man, and pine
For you my love and wonder
That I would forever not be thine

Suspended as I am in this web, lying supine
On thorns that kill not but by thunder
Bleed me to death and then bind me in tine
Of life again, with only your memories to sustain me, over time

How different is one funeral from the other?

The phonerangincessantlytillsomeonetoldthemantotakethecall
He was grieving 
His brother’s death

His nephew
On the other hand 
Was stealthily on the facebook via his new blackberry

Someone was crying
It was the daughter who had just returned from a trek 
And was confronted with a mountain of grief

Her friends discussed the trek amidst comforting her
One remarked that the new climbing instructor looked cute

The widow had the biggest bags under her eyes
And my mother’s eyes
Though the colour was different
(They were grey. A grey which had gone cold)
But the eyes were the same as my mum’s 
When my father had died

How different is one funeral from the next, really?
The neighbours gossip
The close relatives distance themselves
The distant ones make it a point to appear more close than they are
Unsolicited advise, like “take care dear,” or “call us if you need anything,” 
Flies thick in the air
Women make tea
And people gulp it down in sudden jerks
And mumble more meaningless words
And leave hurriedly
Plans are afoot already
To mend lost meetings
Voyages, movies and TV shows

I wonder
Do we cry over the departed one?
Or that this too solid flesh would melt soon in the funeral pyre?

What lies in blood...

The question should be
What I’m 
And what you make me
Am I a caveman whom you make a poet?
Or vice versa
And more importantly
Who decides these distinctions?
Have you not seen cave drawings?
May be the hunting scenes meant something else in their language?
Why the hell should anyone come back to one’s cave after a hard day's hunt?
And make stick figures 
If not to say
“See, I risked all for you, woman.”
The poetry in the bloodshed
We fail to see today
But somewhere deep
Its there still
In our blood
We have changed
But not that much

Godzilla Love!

Godzilla’s rampaging ways
Are but
An expression
Of his love angst

He blusters through
The concrete jungle
Searching for the spoor
Of an elusive mate

He fondles skyscrapers
Just for some good clean fun
A practice session
(You may say)
Of frothy couplings

People mistake his ardour
For madness
Is love not madness
All those who flee from him in terror
Have they tasted
This madness not?

He will die
In super-slow motion
His heart-cries
Lost in translation
Audience! Be warned
He died not because of the super weapons
But of a broken heart!

(written on May 26, 2009)


Breathing in…
Breathing out
Because the air is heavy with your scent
I want to keep it all in
I have been trying 
since childhood
To keep in all the smells that I like
(Like the first time I smelled the rain)
I remember its play on the grass
I remember the sound it made as it fell
I remember being glued to the window pane
But I don’t remember the smell
It eludes me
(Memory is a sieve, really) 
The good bits always go away


I have mad teeth

And bad teeth

And out of place teeth and crooked

Good teeth, sharp teeth, blunt teeth and broken

Used teeth, abused teeth and rotten

But they have bitten life (and been bitten back)

And given fight

And have chewed, absorbed, distilled…lived

Portrait of a girl hating unseasonal rains...

The rain drowns the glorious sunshine of your hair which look like wet and soggy remains of an over bright morning. You hate the rain and the slumbering local and the stupid rickshawallah who is sure to leer at you later and would try to make small talk and give some half-dirty half towel in the faint hope that you’d half use it. You hate your over long stilettos and your too short skirt (which you had to wear today only) and your boyfriend who is stuck in a meeting and your best friend whose phone is off so you can’t crib…