Monday, June 14, 2010

Jealous- Green


From a sober olive green
dark, sombre, brooding jealousy
to bright emerald which screams
its insecurities to your face
to jade- moss- parrot green
to the sickly green pallor
of vommitting food or
unpalatable emotions.
I have turned all
greened all, screamed
from the pain of burning
a yellow-red-orange flame
which I try to simmer down,
swallow down, green-it-down
before it rages and runs amuck.
I wonder what's green about

Lost in your house

My mind went a-wandering
into your house
it peeped through curtains
spied from behind doors, scuttled
on the floors, flew like an airy spirit
into your hair, tried to invade
your mind.
My mind often lives inside
your house, sometimes
even you're not there.
My mind often lurks nearby
hides, and sometimes, it
catches you unawares
comes face to face, no,
mind to mind.
At times, I have to summon
my mind to come back to me.
I take an evening walk
in the direction of your house and
hope to find my lost mind

The Watchman

Girls pass in and out in droves
at all odd hours of everyday
A dirty ragged child squeals
another chases him
buffaloes ruminate in the middle of lanes
chewing their cud.
Workmen-- and women-- carry
bricks and stones and cement
The maids and cooks come and go
a kabadiwalla's voice heard above
the tring-tring of his cycle.
The businessman in his coat-tie-suit
And his car.
The hot torrid sun beats down
upon everyone.
And later, there is deathly quiet
by starlight and moonlight
the faint rustle of a leaf
a cat on a late night prowl
and awe-ful silence.
The Watchman Watches.

Like the White Rabbit
in Alice's Wonderland
no one has time.
Except the Watchman
The watchman is busy
watching a-busy-world
He keeps time on the watch and
He watches time go by
Observing, reflecting, watching
he sees into the heart of things
into the souls of people
into hidden secrets.
He watches and
He knows
a reality that escapes us and
gets lost
while we are searching
for other things.

The Red River

I feel it trickle between my legs
a red river, warm and sticky
forms a valley of blood.
An aching numbness
makes me heavy
a ripe fullness fills my body
pregnant with possibility.

Each month I protest
against the fatalism
that awaits a woman.
against its encumbrances
the sordid, stark reality
with all its itching fusses
and always the bloody river.
I resist, desist, grumble and

this deep red river
flowing, dripping, trickling
is my identity, my pride
at being Woman.
It is a holy river, a sacred river
not a dirty river of waste, or of taboo.
A symbol of a woman's growing, caring,
feeling ,loving giving
The River is not a means to an end,
It simply IS.

Thousands of Duryodhans
over hundreds of years
have dragged Draupadis
to the stake,
to pyres of burning fires,
pyres of rape
violated their privacy,
outraged their dignity.
Societies over centuries
have isolated women,confined
to dark rooms, forbidden
to enter temples, made to sleep
on beds of straw and hay.
Untouchables Outcast.

Shared silences bind women
to women, I only seek
to word-verb-speak them.
Silences in poems have voices
I know that you know that I
know what you know.