O   O  
        S LIL QU Y

2 05













Song on a string

Ties unto the hand

Of a fugitive

The vague echo of

A glorious world



The feral, now tamed

Parts with itself

An old, forgotten self

Leased at last with

A desirable attire











Pure, unlearned

Willow-limbs drape

The crystal banks and mimic

A tune of early spring

Cluster of praise

Amid falling leaves.


Beneath the celestial symbols

Where earthly creatures

Honour nightly vigils

A random petal sealed

In the inner-sanctum

Of a momentary rapture.

























The remaining days fill

This imaginary cavity

With laughter, unmeasured

At arms length, the light

Of all things caress like

The breeze of an unknown season.


The single gathering

Of a waning contribution

Of a life grown beyond

It’s human skin, finds

Solace in the lucent victuals

Of an intimate moment.










Oh! World of unattainable

Constants, where the foot

Treads it leaves no trace

And when the sun manifests

With an etch on the window-pane

A new beginning stirs, unborn.


Silence marks the distance

Between Earth and Heaven, and

The moon’s allure quiets our voice

When it speaks, it speaks to reveal

The splendour of a day’s uncharted

Journey, taken by an aged-youth.

























Flora, fruit-resplendent

At the mouth of an exposed

Estuary, where mythical creatures

Once drank from its tepid stream

Here, love stole our virginal sip where

Our lips still cling to nature’s goblet.


A flame casts an uneven shadow

The moss-carpet stows a fair maiden

Water drips to the sound of a novel shrill

And beckons forth two metaphors

That lovingly find refuge in

The light of a glaring flame.










Words, face of an

Invisible impression

Combusts without purpose

Climbs the altitude of the mind

From cocoon to thread

Truth wrestles with faith.


Defiant and unworthy faith!

A vineyard of tangled emotions

Offer to sweeten the heart

Of a vagrant’s thirst, and

With a closing hand secures the

Avowal of another lost identity.

























Twilight’s filament

Cascades from ornate sky-patterns

Punctures the cosy haven that nurtures

The whims of a man’s dream

A feast took place, and merriment has

Yet to evaporate from a waking smile.


The splinter of morning

Slits and peels off the ripened skin

That encases an unready love

For love of life seems unnatural

To this young man; as he counts the days

Death out-numbers Life.










Mislaid secrets huddle

At the point of a needle

It awaits the unaware hand

To weave a deadly-strain into the

Finely, coloured binding; the final

Feature to Earth’s infant dress.


Adolescence’s timeless majesty

Opulent with an unruffled motif

Imitates the unshakable trait of

Laboured hands; its work complete,

Slips back and rests upon

The cambered cushion.

























Wishes of a

Withered decadence

Suckles the honeyed-sap

Of a bygone descendant

It’s spiral, lame; spurns

The help of a close relation.


Warm amber juice

Coats the remaining bark

The final remnants of

A decaying coffin, once

The residence of a confident

Man, now but a handful of soil.










Fern, nevermore; fingerless boughs

Recline in a poetic poise

Once steadfast in resolve

Vigilant guardians of

An ancient womb

A livelier wreath becomes you.


The scent of pine loiters

At the foot of the hills

And intrudes to stroke the hair

Of grand-mothers sleeping

A message finds consolation

Before a wrinkled face.

























How they triumph: the vines!

To capture a summer and

Its delayed ecstasy

Nocturnal pledges merge the soul

To eventual traitors, who already

Turn their heads to the confessional.


The contour of the soul’s

Constitution, defined by the

Abstracted version of ‘the other’

Collects a tarnished trophy

All but one hangs proudly

In wait of a restoration.










Brimful of ego, unfledged

Trickles down the chalice

The concatenation of mishap

Leads the common soul to the

Gates of the Inferno; but

Paradise is not in Dante’s mind.


To break free beyond the

Holy placenta, away from the Light

Only to re-enter; the recycled communion

Has lost credibility

Paradise is not beyond reach

Follow thy inner-god, homeward.

























Garden gnomes sit

With a vacant stare

They wonder about

Life’s inaccuracies

And laugh at those

Who care.


They smile artificially

Just to imitate the

World’s hypocrisy

And as soon as we turn

Tucks their leer

Inside their hat.










Buried oblivion

A silhouette of a kite

Cordless, yet groped

By a skeletal fin

Flusters relentlessly

Rotating the spheres.


The sole watchman

Towers over the

Self-devouring night

Devil-mistress lends a

Helping hand and draws

It to the wasteland.

























The parabola of

His scars sketched

On the dust plains

Tear-prints mark

His previous existence

As a nomad.


Into life and out

Of death as easily

He turns villages

Into empty cities

And ancestral homes

Into ready graves.










In between her thoughts

My face is residue

I have been reckless

In my sharing of love

Any more promises and

I will disavow myself.


I have learnt to be

Careful of stray words

Past deeds unearthed

Sooner or later

I will have to pay

Like always.

























The profusion of

A girl’s purpose

Indefinable facets

Of the same truth

That truth resides

Beneath the skirt.


They say it is

The same for a boy

But is it only the boy

Who lacks emotion?

Unless of course

He chases himself.










They come and go

As and when it pleases them

The sun’s command has

Little influence on

Their colour or abundance

Saviour or imitator?


They mime a reflective

Existence to sentimentalize

A florid concupiscence

Cheap imitation!

What flowers can bloom when

Nourished with pesticide?

























Sycamores line a stolen path

Blades of sepia blunt the horizon

Reduced to its core

Its seamless courage

Yields to another day of

An unwarrantable spell.


The vibrating crusts

Shake the hollow monuments

Tears confine to a bundle

Of leaves at it’s’ feet

A vanquished infinity

Wilts without a witness.










I am not myself

As I was a moment ago

These hands seem smaller

My skin less the gift it was

And these eyes were once

Supernovas that shone.


But I am still myself

As I write these words

But who is this self that

Lyrical thoughts pursue?

Time is the essence

That is transparent.

























Our penultimate kiss

And nothing to savour it with

All has been a blur up to

This point; the circle swells

With corners, the triangle

Boasts four sides.


The shadow casts a form,

The light inwardly illuminates

All is a mess, here and beyond

The mind becomes

Unrecognisable like

A dried up lake.










Burlesque beast-man

His smile is filth, his

Memorial flower stripped

Artifice satisfies his candour

As he sifts through the silt

Subconscious turns on him.


Subtle note of myrrh

From what is left of a skin

Ribs propel forth

Like a bursting cage

He condemns her grievance

But instead it is his.

























A thousand miles, my host

Tarmac and concrete

My proverbial companion

Soon we will harbour an

Urgent love, and just as soon

Become a distant memory.


My new love awaits

Beyond signs and turnings

After countless traffic lights

And washroom facilities

She will be there with the night

To welcome myself and morning.