a thing of beauty

a bright yellow butterfly
stands perched
on the door of a
public restroom.
a picture of
delicate gossamer rebellion
against its unworthy mothness
(the spiders don't care anymore)
holding fort
under the lone flickering light
that throws rusty shadows
of the unnameable.
ready for flight.unmoving.
its gaze is turned towards
the floral wallpaper
whose hard to believe
initial radiance stands
expectedly dulled,
corrupted by occupational
hazards.
(Would it have noticed
that the lily has petals missing
or that it is not the season
of chrysanthemums?)

meanwhile the licentious room
open to varied onslaughts
throws them back karmically
on suspecting and
unsuspecting visitors.
virulent vileness
greets abused senses
flinching in perfidy.
uncensored bawdy encounters
scream from walls and
sometimes cabins with
broken latches
unstymied by the rattle
of an exhaust fan falling
off its grimy hinges.

in this wholesome frame
of equivocal hideousness
a spot of beauty can be repulsive.
but the bright yellow butterfly
does not understand.
and holds its ground.
pasted on the door.
ready for flight.unmoving.

muddy water

did they see you
come in with glazed eyes
your heels in your hands
uneven folds in your dress

did they suspect
the nature of your consent

did they wait
for the morning
to unleash their questions
made of stone -
those incoherent barks
of dogs in heat

or
did they corner you
in the dim light of the street
barely reaching you
before you could shut the door
to what needed
to be left outside?

did they whisper
judgments meant
for you to hear
that sounded eerily similar
to what screamed from televisions
and laughed in twisted emoticons
on whatsapp humour?

now that you are home
sleeping a disturbed sleep
with legs closing themselves
tightly, arms occasionally flailing
then falling
and a pain that has not left
your face since you came back,
i wonder if i should have asked you
about tonight.

for now,
i will lie next to you
and let my gaze travel
from you to the yellowed moon
outside the window
in the backdrop of
other closed doors
behind which i know
what people are saying.

third eye

blank spaces
don’t always need filling
there is a quiet in the void
that
like a lone feather
separated – by will or force (who knows)
from its herd
falling through the sky
in a breeze less elegance
is uncertain of destinations
forgetful of origins.
a pair of eyes
follow that nameless flight
that is but descent to them
what does it matter
how graceful it is
grace cannot undo
the sinking .
and so they float back
those eyes
to appealing heights
lending themselves
(a little too) comfortably
to successful conclusions.

in the distance
a third eye
an inept embankment
of life’s griefs
blinded by greyness
finds itself shorn of the luxury
of a universe colored and peopled
and fills the spaces
of its autumnal memories
with the melody
of dissipating smoke
(in a reverie of its own making)

origin story - a poem speaks

This is my question for you -
Is there a story, the story?
Do you actually remember how it all started?

Who am I ? Where did I come from?
Packed in neat little boxes,
my ‘stories’ have invariably been written
in black ink. Times New Roman. Font 12.
Glossy white paper.
Do you notice though
'About me' is always an about you.
Or is it the other way around?

'Fascinating stuff', that scrubby fellow had said.
the one who visited yesterday.
not to me. I doubt he could hear me.
the one who has the rights for your tell all.
about me. And some others.
(without my consent. or theirs.)

You told him over lunch,
how you looked for me.
in sweaty armpits of lovers
as much as strangers on the bus.
the jostling went on even after i came.
(You greedy bastard.
Always wanting.more.)

i could have been the midnight miracle
that headlined the out of print magazine -
or that forecasted monsoon
responsible for this year’s drought -
perhaps a temporary respite from boredom
crumpled and hidden away
when your company arrived
at the coffee shop.
(did you throw me away, and 
then come looking in
the desperation that only hope can muster
among filthy quarter plates and rotten food?)
was i the hurried patchwork
of discarded limbs and sinews
from all sorts of places
put together in slow painful deliberation
and then declared ‘functional’?

Oh, how you have boasted about
those fantastical adventures .
when you met me in kubla khan's dome.
wrestled me out of an alligator’s mouth
just in time.
dug me out of the grand canyon.
recognised me in a lost & found ad.
or was it the missing persons one?
 
Always playing to the audience.
Always playing me to the audience.
as if i were your personal whore
pimped at your fancy.
just like that.

and I travel
from one fine print to another
unsure whether you are my albatross
or i am yours.

unfinished

when an unfinished poem
chances upon you
be ready for questions.
empathy is important.
memory may desert you.
love is likely to be one sided.
self doubt might be mutual.
 
when you chance upon
an unfinished poem
do not rush through it.
finishing it need not be a priority.
apologise if you feel like it.
allow yourself to wonder.
walk on the periphery of the blank spaces.
 
remember those moments for
an unfinished poem is a mirror.
relish these chance encounters
with yourself.
they may not be all chance.
and believe without fail
in the beauty of the unfinished.