the genealogy of a poem

There were days when a poem was needed
More than any other need, even breath
Or breath only enough for a poem.
Sore and bleeding from all the
Scratching, the skin felt rough
and cagey. But the hands kept itching.
Layers of skin peeled off
But no poem flowed.

Meanwhile,
The mind rattled in its empty spaces
(where words used to be)
with the sight of malice and entitlement
in a twelve year old who goaded her brother
to kick a younger child for daring to aspire
to the rich man's playground.

Ears burst with lingering voices of desperate men
telling stories of hope and "tempered grace",
only to be found hanging from their bedroom
ceilings when they were left to themselves.

Over time, you have accumulated pity
Where once there were poems
Guilt edged love out,
And the fear of loneliness wrestles
with the comfort of it all as daily recreation.
Forgetting and remembering
in turns and at the same time,
what you have become,
You hope words can fix this.
that time can repair what you
Have wrought upon your dreams.

But what pain deserves a poem
And what poem deserves this pain

There were days that you needed a poem.
And there were nights when a poem needed you.
But all you had at the end of the day was a requiem
for an unwritten poem.
And there were mornings you woke up to
the smell of smoke that reminded you
of the electric crematorium
(Though there isn't one for many miles out.)

flight of freedom #4

What rages within you
could have been love
had I not reached in and
discovered Russian winter.
(Who am I to complain –
vapours of liquid nitrogen
cover my own frostbitten heart.)

How far have we travelled.
To now find ourselves out
of our depths, without sight,
hope, or sensation. Frozen.

May the warmth of un-expectation
thaw out the blaze that engulfs us.

Until spring then, Godspeed, my friend.

flight of freedom #3

The furious shadows of fire, or perhaps the
fires of known and unknown shadows, will
burn down illusions of freedom, as much
as its burden; but, painted in melted wax,
when we plunge into the ocean,those flames
and those shadows will meet a watery grave,
and the sun, in anticipation of its own twilight,
would not be able to help that sinking feeling.

As for us, we will float in untapped memories
of corals, and find ourselves sleeping in oysters.

flight of freedom #2

These wings were never meant to fly
Straight to you in raging fits of passion.

Nor to be plucked out in forlorn despair
In fear of time’s machinations, or love’s.

These wings were not accessories
(Not a gift of red bull, or whatever else)

They were not of the world of butterflies
Adorning gardens of luscious spring.

They were not shards of unsteady moons
To be put together in dreams and diaries.

These wings were not delicate chains, nor
awkward gifts of unwanted memories.

These wings were my rebellion.
And Icarus had the right idea.

flight of freedom #1

I shed the last vestiges of my past
today. I plucked each memory out.
it was slow and painstaking. They
had said, it was important, even
necessary, to move forward. I look
different now. Not better or worse.
Different, now that my wings are gone.

In the distance, I can see someone
picking up feathers of unknown hues.
with an unbecoming delight.

My past will sit in a small brown vase
In the intimacy of books and unwept
tears. Meanwhile, I shall spend myself
staring at an unchallenged sky.

Freedom, it turns out, is only about
choosing the chains, and timelessness
binds us just as well as its counterpart.

hide and seek

4:47 am
You sounded rather calm
when you got the call
(and i have seen you surprised
at every mundane sunrise)
Your monosyllabic response
was matter of fact in acceptance.
Sober you couldn't manage hysterics
even when the occasion demanded it.
As if it wasn't the news of my hanging
you were being informed about.
You kept the receiver back on its base,
and went back to sleep.

They would have found a note
If they had checked your messages.
But your phone had been dead
longer than me.

2:42am
"Would you look for me?
Where would you begin?
lost to time, will the words
of a younger me blaze a trail,
or will the breadcrumbs of older
silences lead you astray?

would you dare put your hand
in the hornet's nest of my mind
(that could not sort through its
own memories) to pull out a
forgotten hope of meaning?

could death be one more night in
a tangled mass of festive string lights
that cannot be unknotted?"

They would have found your reply
in your message drafts folder.

2:51am
"Where do i begin?
At the lingering inadequacy of every day,
or the disappointment that weighs heavy
on the laughter we still share,
the anger from this pretence of sanity
or perhaps the sheer exhaustion of having
nothing to say. But we will be free soon.
And in time i will find you.
Like i always have."

But they never cracked the security code.
And you never woke up.

some of us

Some of us live life like we drive.
Eyes on the road ahead. Meeting
potholes we swerve to evade.as cars
chase neglected side view mirrors.And
we drown out their garish frustrations
with pink floyd.comfortably numb (but
for that speed bump we almost did expect!)

Some of us walk, like we live. Straight
into intricate cobwebs woven lovingly
across branches hung low, unsure of the
fragrances of the old woman's backyard,
certain only of the words we have read
as our unsynchronized feet tread on
trampled leaves of yesterday's bloom.

Some of us sit down to our third round
of dinner, way past midnight, tuned in
to a graduation speech about 'keeping the
hunger alive!' (Burp!) Did they mean this?
It would be refreshing.After all the platitudes
that make us reach for crusty old ice cream for
the uneasy oil floating along the food pipe.

Some of us go silent. And listen only to the
music of dead people who should have known
better. We wonder what it takes to walk into an
open manhole, drive past the railing off a freeway,
have a bowl of unnamed white pills for the next meal.
Hope could lie in an accident waiting to happen,
for some of us. Fear could be the only consolation,
for some of us.For some of us, it will never be okay.
and for some of us, that is quite okay.