B

Some days I wish I could
Put the phone to my ear
And just call you
In two thousand and eighteen
June thirteen
The movie theatre so cold
You wear a rain jacket I own
As your shoulder bone
Leans in to mine
And I can feel the static
Like that first time we were
sitting across the table
Talking bout Black-ish
And Dylan
Or when I was feelin
Down in the dumps
and you told me
It’s just a phase
And I need to get over this hump
Or when you texted me bout The Eels
How they were in your feels
Now we are sitting in a hotel room
Playing all the songs I knew
Playing all these songs for you

But it is twenty twenty
unlike hind sight
It isn’t perfect
And I’m sitting here
Thinking
What is this regarding?
While what I wanna do,
Is put my phone to my ear
And just call you

Announcement

We wish to inform you
that the poet is dead.
And everything
that has been made;
will be unmade

EK503

This is a tale

Of something mundane,

Like a delayed pay cheque,

A job given and taken away

An overburdened promise.

A tale where,

You are not the lead,

Not even the understudy,

maybe, a part of the scenery

Appearing once in passing

As you walk across the stage.

This is a tale,

That I often narrate;

Asked and unasked,

Again and again,

Only so

I can say your name once again.

 

One year

Exactly a year has passed and I am choosing the words of a better poet to tell you how I feel – V

What’s in it?

I heard your name the other day
Mentioned by someone in a casual way.
She said she thought that you were looking great.
A waiter passed by with a plate.
She reached out for a sandwich, and your name
Went back from where it came.

But like a serious owlet I stood there,
Staring in mid-air.
I frowned, then followed her around
To hear, just once more, that sirenic sound –
Those consonants, those vowels – what a fool!
I show more circumspection as a rule.

I love you more than I can say.
Try as I do, it hasn’t gone away.
I hoped it would once, and I hope so still.
Someday, I’m sure, it will.
No glimpse, no news, no name will stir me then.
But when? But when?

– Vikram Seth

Suspended by a fine string

I swing
between
yesterday and tomorrow
Mumbai & Michigan
wet rain and cold snow
the gutter and the gazebo
questions and more questions

Between suicide and salvation

Between heaven and earth

as if, one
can never be the other

Making tea

Making tea, they say
Is easy
Like planting a garden
Or making a child

But before you know
The tea’s gone bitter
The garden overrun by weeds
And the child is a man

Untitled

When I packed and left
my life split in to two
half rode into the future
half stayed home with you

Today I look back and wonder
Which of my lives is true,
The one that I have lived
Or the one which stayed with you

Pi

In the house of my heart
there is a hole,
a perfect circle,
you could divide its
circumference by diameter
and it would be
like my love,
irrational
infinite

Longfellow’s Middle Finger

Remember how it was said
Anyone can write poetry
All that is needed
is to make sure it’s not prose
(rose is a rose is a rose)

If you can, rhyme it
To a repetitive beat, time it
Obfuscate
And make the meter mellifluous
(and let the women talk of Michelangelo)

Then gather around in a circle
or amongst the stage lights
Read it with passion,
enunciate and moan
(fuck fuck fuck)

Bow once it’s done
Applaud your peers
Nibble on the cheese
sip on the wine
(real poets don’t drink beer)

Kiss the critic’s ear
Ideally the air around the ear
Pat everyone’s back
Buy the house more wine
(Who’s your favourite poet? Bukowski & Dylan)

Then wear a dreamy look
And remember
how tough it used to be
this poetry shit
when you din’t know the rules

Untitled

Who will buy from you if you keep an empty shop
Who will come to you if your shelves are empty
People walk by and glance at your dust covered sign board
Where once they waved to you, now they peek
to know if you are still alive, if the shop still stands
if the walls still hold
or have they toppled to entomb you within

If you will not sell or buy or laugh or cry
then shut this place down
whose once happy memories rankle
and slight passers by who once knew it
as a place where they could stand
look at your wares
the candles and the books
bookmarks, ribbons and coloured papers
paints and dyes and shells and angel wings
rubik cubes of a single colour
a jigsaw puzzle with a piece missing
which if they went looking for
they would find their one true love holding it

Heed the call of the children who pelt you with stones
turn the key in the lock and lock it in a box
weigh it down with stones
drop it into the deepest sea
and
let yourself go