Tuesday, June 7, 2011

The Remained

The love you impart when you walk in your

Careless clothes, your hair undone, your lips

Wrinkled, your feet barely bearing the weight

Of your shapely form covered in an aura of

Unhappiness. The sad love you always impart.

In your steps there is a missing part;

A husband perhaps? A far-fetched dream you

Once had but have no more? A lifeless child

Buried in you? Something I cannot speak of.

A lover sent to the battlefield yesteryear?


When you put them together in a photograph

And look deep into their faces, imagine them

In the trenches, troops of enemies invading

The ground they sleep on, the muddy layer of

War on every surface of the personal belongings

That they have brought with themselves from home,

From the place where they were loved and born,

To this place that will soon be their grave and tomb.

And as their old eyes, the same eyes that looked

Deep into your eyes for the first time, the eyes that

Fell in love with you once you smiled back;

Those eyes, where is their rapture? Those bones

That your stews and cakes helped put flesh on,

Why are they suddenly so visible through their

Torn army uniforms that you will never sew?

And yet, as their old eyes, the same eyes that

Make you leave things unsaid, wake you up

In the middle of the night out of breath,

Gasping, sweating, as if your sleep synchronized

With those eyes and the sad fate they meet every night.

They have taken a part of you and the home they

Shared with you, into the battlefield. You are there.

They never left town, they never came back,

They never existed, they were a delusion

Of the moment; and the first time you met,

Never happened.

Saturday, June 4, 2011

The Runner's Gravestone

You will never reach me

I'm so much better a runner, so much faster;

In a glimpse of an eye I run from Delhi to Chicago,

I stop only to drink water

And I wear my anorak to swim across the oceans.


Like Pinocchio,

Get fooled,

And Rembrandt can't paint my portrait

Cause I'm always running.

I've bought my gravestone

In Nevada

And am running to get there in time.

Was Mine


My lad

The spring birds

Muffled his chant

The autumn wind

Banished him to the barren lands

The lofty legendary of his existence

Partly devastated,

Partly risen to the red sun

Of 5 o’clock in a winter afternoon.

In Praise of an Apple

What I owe the world
For raising me as I am:
In love,

Upon that first bump on the road
Was a man, standing, with his arms open
To embrace me, and a whole gang of men
And women,
Behind him.

For me Adam is a cyclist,
racing for peace.
With such skills,
No-one would ever yield.
He keeps on riding along the world;

And yet: An apple,
An orange,
A pomegranate!
He stops pedaling.
Why wouldn’t I?

Sunny Dreams

Summer stretched its legs
Over my warm body.

The cold will not kill you today --
Maybe tomorrow.

In the morning they will pull out
The remains of you
from under the pile of snow.

Black pigeons have lived on top of you for a night,
Have left brown souvenirs,
Have made your flawless existence

Friday, June 3, 2011

Second Life

Everyday I lose my virginity to the
stupid crowds in the streets or

in the public places where I still

appear in private.

But at night time, at my desk or

lying on the bed,

I gain it again from

the sages,
the bards,
the dead.