Category: Poetry

Straight line

I decided to be brazen about my thirst for her. And I think she liked it to be wanted so badly by a man who nobody had managed to reign over.
As I drove back from her house I had a firm smile plastered across my face and so flagging down by cops, for what they called “routine check” for drunk drivers, came as a bit of a jolt. Anyway, I rolled my window down as instructed and I was asked my name. I replied lazily because I knew the drill; they would not smell any alcohol in my breath and just let me go. But he brought out his breathelyzer and asked me to exhale. The instrument beeped hastily and I was asked to step out of the car. The cop then ordered me to walk in a straight line. I thought this was like crossing a line. I told him that I didn’t drink alcohol ever; not today, like any other day. Now these bunch of cops were looking at me like I was lying and one of them said that if I could walk that straight line, they would let me go. I summoned in my mind all my walking skills from the last 30 years. I had to do this. I felt like an Olympian. I felt like a 7 year old boy being watched by his physical training teachers in anticipated dejection before failing to perform five pull-ups. I opened my eyes as I took the first step and walked a complete straight line. But that didn’t help much because I was walking two and a half feet above the ground.

Her Tooth

One day I decided to peer into her succulent mouth
If she had something nice to say in one of her bouts
I saw many colourful things including some rather uncouth
But I got charmed by her beautiful mis-aligned tooth

Living out of a suitcase

You ask me why I’m strong

As I search for where I belong

It turns out I have been checking in and out of hotels

Instead of finding my home.

I cannot write poetry anymore

’cause I can’t leave my night-lamp on when I walk out the door

And how should I sign my name when I’m only known as ‘Room no.604’?

You asked pointing at my suitcase what it holds

It has photoframes and memories waiting to go up on the walls

I never really unpacked out of fear that the concierge may again call.

Gone too soon

There are people in my life I know
Of some I have managed to let go
But some linger on in blood and sinew
Ever crisp like the morning dew

Time is the best healer they say
And all the memories will turn gray
I don’t know if it’s a bane or a boon?
What we had is gone too soon

I have recently formed a band with two awesome friends and equally awesome musicians. We are called The Blue Job. And while writing a lot of our original songs, we also discuss our personal experiences, moments, lessons and disappointments. As artists we have noticed that some of the most intense songs/poetry has come forth during periods of intensity. But what baffles me is this: Why does intensity associate itself more with feelings of pain or anguish? Is it because we contaminate our intensely blissful moments with tinges of insecurity? Possibly, questions like whether this happiness will stay or not, make the intensely happy experience a little diluted. This in essence might hint at a truth that as human beings with vested emotions, we are greatly insecure because of the lack of knowledge of the future or fear of the unknown.
As a poet and songwriter, I and many like me, have a different challenge to tackle. When we fall in love, we make this person our muse. So after a heartbreak, apart from getting used to not having this person around, a bigger problem arises because the poet within is threatened with extinction. I really do not know how many will truly truly understand this predicament!
Not being able to write poetry and sharing it with someone who enjoys the beauty of it is akin to asphyxiation.
But as shameless as life is, it makes you live anyway- maimed, bruised, battered, scared, hopeful and hungry for companionship. After a point I think it’s not even about love. And what the hell IS love anyway. Nobody seems to know it and yet everyone is searching for it with the desperation of a famished man. All we know about love is a few symptoms. But that’s about it.
A poet’s heartbreak or even his breaking-point brings forth something so pristine and real that it’s almost tangible…as sensations in the body as we read his lines.

There’s a poet inside each one
Who needs to be satisfied
Whose intensity and passion
With mediocre life can’t be pacified

Ode to PMS

Asked her with terror

What IS that blessed thing?!

She replied beamingly

“It’s my favourite mood swing”

I don’t need stilts

Or the high trapeze

Just my pink swing to

Put me right at ease

I blow hot and cold

I go high and low

In a moment I can go

From raging to mellow

I’d warned you about this

She said turning red

Now you are screwed

Till I get my next period