Examination bed

It lay there, the bed, 

quiet, like a dead patient,

busy bodies breezing past.

On it had collapsed

a wrinkled shroud, 

rather blue,

like a relative in 

a mid-lament swoon.

When the doctor 

taller than her big name

stretched a gloved hand

for an internal, 

I spotted it 

in the folds -

an abnormal twirl 

of single black hair cut off, 

perhaps of a pregnant girl

previously there. 

She by now may have

delivered in the gen. ward.

Conversation with Bobo

 O he loves You, Bobo!

& your well trimmed tail

with its rhythmic sway.

O You Lucky Bobs!...

I have so wished I had time

 

to love & cuddle & kiss you

but I hardly ever get time

between walking You

playing & cleaning you,

your gummy eye-boogs

 

& wax from droopy ears

& shearing your complex curls,

keeping detail of appointments

with your good doctor.

I'm sorry that you have

to stay home alone

when I go to work to earn.

Make the best of that love,

Bobojan,

for it is preciously short-lived.

success

The stories we hear of success are dramatic. Perhaps it is the element of drama which makes them stories in the first place. No one wants to read stories of failure. Perhaps because failure is no story at all...

Vincent Van Gogh himself died miserably . Some years later when his art was 'discovered' he became a sensation. So many such people, perhaps worse off than V V Gogh, have lived on this planet and are still living. They might never be celebrated. Their misery and their masterpieces may never be known. 

What is the success:failure ratio? 

Some geniuses shun that world of glory like plague. Others revel in it, flaunt their fame, thrive on the benefits of success.

Yet many a famous creative person have died mysterious deaths. Many of them have ODied. 

Why would they want to end a glorious life, the like of which millions wish that it was theirs? 

That success and celebrity status changes NOTHING of the deeper sense of emptiness, of futility, is the suggestion here. If you can fill the emptiness up with distractions, do it. If not, develop tolerance. Or slit a wrist.

All this is while we live anyways. It matters little once you are dead and gone. Your rags to riches story will perpetuate the illusional goal and many may strive to be like you, but these things do not fundamentally change the ''sphere of sorrow'' we live in.

While you breath, make sure you have no lung issues, that's all.

رات

اپنے گناہ کی قیمتی کرتے کرتے نند نہیں آئ 

کھلیں آنکھوں پر طنز کر کرتی ساری رات گئ

He could not sleep as he counted his sins 

The whole night marched past his open eyes 

حزاروں ‏خواہشیں

خواہشیں شاید ہی پوری ہوتیں اور ہر پل ایک نئ لہر دل میں دوڈ پڑتی ہے ! میری ہزارویں خواہشوں میں ایک یہ بھی ہے کے کوچھ لکھوں۔ لکھتا بھی ہوں، پر جو بھی لکھتا ہوں وہ مجھے ہی نہیں بھاتا تو اوروں سے کیا غلہ؟

اپنی بات کیسی کننے والے کان میں جای تو اسکے بڈی خوشی کی بات کیا ہو سکتی ہے؟

بس، لکھتا رہونگا۔ 

میرا ‏جینا

کیا وقط ایسا ہی گزر جاتا ہے سب کا؟

صبع دو پہر شام و شب و نیند

نیند میں خواب نہیں

جاگنے کی ہو طمنا 

وہ بھی نہیں

آدتن جاگنا ہوتا ہے میرا۔۔۔

ہاں، بھوک لگتی ہے

ورنہ مرز ہوا کہتے،

علاج ڈھونڈھتے 

مجھے تو مرظ بھی نہیں۔

جاگتا ہوں تو اٹھتا ہوں، 

کھا پی کر سوتا ہوں‌۔

یہی جینے کا سلسلہ

موط آنے تک جاری ہے۔۔۔

امکان

صبےرے کے سورج کی مسکاں سے زاحر

ہے روز امکان اچھا ہے، اندار و باہر

सवेरे के सूरज की मुस्कॉं से ज़ाहिर है 

रोज़ ए इमकान अच्छा है, अंदर ओ बाहर

آج کر لیتے ہیں حساب اقدار زندگی کے

کیا ہے اچھا برا کیا ہے اندر و باہر

आज कर लेत़े हैं हिसाब ए इक़दार ज़िन्दगी के

 क्या है अच्छा बुरा क्या है अंन्दर ओ बाहर 

 

خواہیش ایسی بھی نہیں ‏ख्वाहिश ऐसी भी नहीं

خواہیش ایسی بھی نہیں کہ جس کے بغیر

دن نہیں کٹ جاتا اور شب بے خیر

ख़्वाहिश ऐसी भी नहीं के जिस के बग़ैर

दिन नहीं कट जाता और शब बे ख़ैर

آدھی غزر گئ باکی بی غزر جایگی

سؤ سال جینا ہے کسے مہبت کے بغیر؟

 आधी ग़ुज़र गई बाकी भी ग़ुज़र जायेगी

सौ साल जीना है किसे मोहब्बत के बग़ैर?

only if...

Many unlisted to do tasks and one never-ending desire to do them all.

Question Clogged

With the first faint stirring 

from the realm of dream

I woke up before a live

question - clogged night.

Neighbor's old wall clock

made a triune sound, 

musical, then it went 

back to her deep sleeping, 

like an alcoholic muttering

in some other world.

I made to open the sac

full of questions

but it was already open

just the way I'd left it

as I fell into sleep 

p'haps, while tackling 

the entire Yesterday. 

Brushes

 A friend has posted a snap of his 19 years old oil brush on instagram. I liked that. Brushes are so there with you when you want them that we hardly notice them. We take them for objects. Inanimate, lifeless objects.

Brushes for certain have personalities. I feel they start living with us just as other living beings.

We name pets. Pets don't speak. They don't all work for us. Some are great companions. We load our cats and dogs with our tensions sometimes. We provide then with food and

medication and we bathe them, In short, we care for them.

But we take care of brushes. No, we don't provide them with food or medicine. After every painting session we wash them, dry them and put them away. Yet we don't name them. Why?

I had names for my brushes when I used to paint more regularly. Now my paints are drying in their tubes. My Dippers have gathered dust and animal hair (my own hair and my girlfriends also must be stuck there!)

Seeing that pic of my friend's brush I remembered some of them. I was fond of one, a sable hair #5, a white bodied, well behaved darling! He was 

'Gupta '.  Gupta, the brush. I used to talk to him sometimes. Mostly about painting but also about sex. I think he liked sex talk.

Now all are gone! Where, how, I have no idea. When I stopped painting they just disappeared.

Now I have 3-4 left. I have plugged the drain hole of my built-in room with one fellow. I remember only his name. Tagadu. He is a strong, thick oil brush with a long body. 

Today I became aware of their existence. All these years they had ceased to exist for me...

I don't deserve to be a painter!

Journey

Remember?

We embarked on a journey

a journey, just a journey

and it has come to this:

We headed for a light

filtering through the un-

-certain ahead.

Now, by advantage of Vantage,

we call it our future,

what was then our future

which now is this...

a couple more steps

and it will be past or grave.

Actually, our choice 

was wasn't choice -

We were lured into this –

a journey without choice.

Life's span

Look! how the moths fly in at evening's speed;

Just now I was standing, marvelling at the dawn.

Was I standing firm or was I tottering?

I could venture to tell if my legs were only my own.

Forty Four dusty almanacs

A trivial page to the world,

one less important than an obituary,

where warm smiles are caught

in grey pictures of people once living and warm, now cold and dead.

That page is my residence.

Beneath forty four dusty almanacs

scattered across time’s table

and the passage of years.

Ration out Love

Glaciers have begun melting.

Rains

on the creeping expanse of the Sahara

quench nothing,

just dampen in patches - tormentlike - the parched soil.

I must 

quickly learn how to ration out Love

lest the Earth should gasp and go frigid and die.

Till then, to live.

Yearning

I translated this into English from the original Konkani by  दिसपट्टीं कवनां
                                                                                  

                                                                                        Yearning

tender turmeric reddish yellow
                                     paths & roads like the feet of crow

 meandering the vehicles move
                                    along the swaying betel grove

paddies hillocks estates ranches
                                           disputes spill through lineal branches

sons and daughters and grandchildren
                                      shadows of fronds; and the moon-lantern

a thousand rivers a solitary sea
                                          plough in fields, temple's bustling festivity 

In Bandivadem Naguesh, in PriyoL Mangesh
                                             The very loveliness is Goa's dress

In missing her I waste my days
                                        My being laments, my heart bursts 

O why I desired egress for progress
                                           this lifetime spent on foreign terrain

Now that I am young no more
                                      to return I long to my native shore

where my Father's pyre was lit
                                     There, O dig my final resting pit.

minute

                               

 I waited for it to go
           the minute - the long minute.
                       A sky-wide moment, a minute.

Moment

like the last orange
into an impersonal grey
sinking sun-curve
far away

Barrier

An airy quality
Buoys me above
Barring my brave plunge
Into the sea of love....

Red

Sometimes turquoise
or simmering green
then a sudden gold
Where red had been-
a bold belligerent rioter:
the color without poise...

Bull-frogs in local pubs

Where are my childhood heroes?
Tall giants all,
bull-frogs in local pubs;
bards who sang
of adventure and heroism
From far-out lands,
On sandy beaches drew
Makalu and Manaslu
or sitting on dunes
Dreamed of deep oceans
Where they said they swam
with silver mermaids
and chased white unicorns
In Takamanohara...

I grew up on their dreams.
But today
Where are they
now that I wish
to compare mythologies?

Thoughts before killing a pest

Whoever named you first
felt a loathing, for sure, 
but more, I think, a burst
of a wanton anger
Just as I feel now,
for you even fly
your brown shape about -
a sackful of shit
and other offal
and a pasty white
emulsion, and air-
daring gravity.

I know, o I do,
I have killed before
many of your kin;
they pervaded in

my childhood right up
until I spurned home.
But you sought me here.
Away and hidden
I battle-weary
soul in solitude
from the whole world hoped
for a tranquil breath
Oh! I will kill you!
You, if not a pest
would be a naught!
And because you are
a wearisome pest
I will twice kill you.
Once to kill just you
and next, all of you!
 

Same Stupid Face.

Every time a big chap walked in a hall
full of sane men from sane society
The fun side of my character showed
Up: I grew a tail, whooped and screeched;
I practiced my nonsensical rhymes
confronting the sense-less hierarchy,
and with my nonsense gibber countered
reason and sense and order and the tall
among men swished their fingers and the small
Caught me and caged, some laughed, some raged…

That much I have done for my race—
My coat, thy suit; my tail for thy tie
For when a king in coffin and a beggar lie
Both dead men have the same stupid face.

People Grow Up

                                                               People grow up                                             27/7/2014
without their sires.
People grow up
without mothers, too.
They grow. They grow
scorched by the sun
fed by the earth they grow.
And if people were trees
they would grow
with a million nodes
and a thousand scars 
on their barks
and one green
growing bough
above.

Broken Amphora

Wish I could tell you
that I knew but what
I love In you is your strain
to hide from me the vain
tedium and that, my assurance,
I would hate to lose
for that is where you and I
feign to piece and  glue
smithereens of our pride
and the broken amphora of love

A ghost vignet

You adapt, I do
not upgrade.
the conjoin
of parallels
linked up, so
to say, by You
and I - like wheels -
and yet
you bend back
while I'm stuck yet
At every crossing
we are abreast,
Bearing upon
Our tired backs
The load men call
Loving! Loving!! What
loving? Tomorrow
if the sun lingered
A bit in the night
For you either or I,
all these conjectures
and all the precious findings
and profundities
Will scatter amidst
the inane and
after the briefest break
Fog will link with fog.

When I was a younger man

When I was a younger man

Art was a lonely thing -

No Galleries, no collectors,
No critics, no money...
Yet it was a golden age

For we all had nothing to lose 

And a vision to gain. today

it is not quite the same.

It is a time of tonnes of verbiage:

Activity...

Consumption.

Which condition is better 

For the world at large, 

I will not venture to discuss

But I do know that many 

Of those who are driven to this life

 Are desperately searching 

For those pockets of silence

Where we can root and grow.

                                  - Mark Rothko

 

A string of ninety one pearls

 

 

Eager soul starved so starved that being Soul it feeds on

Its eagerness and every dim shade that filters light

It catches in flashes and is moved to burn in action 

As flaring momentary flashes like moths in flight

On a content night.

Where a drunken joy fights to break the heart's trap open

And run out amok as a wild forest fire free

And fling upon the winds all the care and all caution

And be lost in some stupendous and wild ecstasy

In rapt reflection.

misanthropist's oomph

It is in the power of belief

To hold the entire life-time hostage

 Within the sanguine red tunnels

A rag-like hope tumultuous drifts

Along the red rapids to anchor

In the docks of glacier-death,

So fuck God!

 If he be, then let him kindly be:

I shall not waste lust on an altar

Where an imagined image stares back

Without blinking, nor admonishing

Nor encouraging but cold, cold

like a mute dozing at a question.

Heard you have gone

I heard that you have gone
 To join my ancestors.
We'd see you from now on

In our hearts or in pictures.

All these fifty odd years 
You were to me but loss 
And as my own end nears 
From vacant fields across 
I hear your cheerless call.

Sometimes I have so longed 
To recreate a happier you
And seize up time, but all 
I recall is irredeemable pall 
Of pathos clasping you. 

What is this ice?

What is this ice?

These non-melting

Transparent

Mute glacier-

Stares, those cold looks

In your eyes pin

Me to my first

Wrong impression-

Or impression

That you got wrong-

I made on you.

Come, let us crack

This frigid sheet

For in its clear

Transparency

I see you smile

At my heart's rose.

 

Neighbourhood

Three Buildings

That scowl and crow feet

And that Cowboy stare

Which meets its object

Somewhere in mid-air

Is Nordic.

And you come unasked

Unlike him thru' pain-

Utterly unmasked

In a sense to complain

Of nuts!

Now descend some steps.

The Italian door

You'd do well perhaps

Simply to ignore;

You're not welcome.

Then we walk past light

To the door shut tight

At the extreme right

Where always the night

Will morning greet

Without sun.

On the lower floor,

The mystery sis,

Below the blue door,

On a posted kiss

Lives from her son

Her neighbours transfer

Every month or two,

But surely after

Some hullabaloo

With lovers.

And in the dungeon

The young Russian

Peels off memories

And other debris

From his mind

Then the new couple:

He looks like a bun

And she, an apple,

Both hopple-topple

To computer dens.

***

Second Phase 

Linking corridor
Consumes the breeze
Wafting to and fro
Leaving dust to rise 
From heated floor

Then O! The queen
Of France but if France
Had ever a queen
who at first glace
Was a Rhombus
On stilts

The quiet bash
Of Piet's addictions
Are confessed in Trash
Yet all his actions
Are laudably quiet.

Then comes the horror!
Scandal embodied,
A frame of rumour 
And shallow, studied
Ambition on feet.

Cristine is pristine
Sedate and quiet
But Hey! she has been
In a sordid riot
 Paying for her loft
In three continents!

I can hear her fart
In my idle hours
Her loose membranes part
 In her quiet bowers
Disturbing my calm.

Now! Meet the luck-man
Who fixed my fan
And when it broke again
He fixed it again
Only to burn the coil
And get paid again!

***

 

Paper Boats

Parting

Is a gift.

 If part

You must 

Like ashes

And dust

Then part

Unbroken.

It is 

An Art.

**

Funerals

Those long- Drawn

Rituals

Deliberate

Are Designs

To salvage

Dignity

From Human 

Morass

**

And let's now

 Come to you

And I.We 

Drifted

Apart like

Paper boats

In puddles

As they dried

By monsoon

past.