reflections

Town girl aspirations

I once promised myself

Himalayan narratives in poem and paint

Remnants of a life lived vicariously

Through story and art

Experiences imagined

Through stained windowpanes of my ranting mind

But tonight, I am empty

Of exotic love and great addiction,

A life only made of mundane battles

And ordinary war.

Didn’t you ever wish you were interesting?

(more…)

Growing Up

I told you long ago
That I had grown up
Altered for the better
Casually crushing
Your hopes for sympathy
Forgiveness
Needless chatter
Comfortable silence
I said
It was never love
Child’s play
A rocky distraction
Of youthful lust
And clandestine mistakes
Today
I remember you
As I tell my story
To another one of you
Charming
Caught in a haze
Of blinding allure
Distracted as ever
Perhaps
I have not grown up at all (more…)

Narratives of the Lake

I enjoy solitary walks on the side of the murky
lake with its gluttonous fish and their unthinking feeders.
It’s therapeutic, I tell myself.

The grey-green grass, dew kissed leaves and dark marshy footpath-
They’re all part of the poet’s parcel.
I’m supposed to love these kinds of places.

Some days, I pay the men with the horses exorbitant amounts
so I’d have a pony to pretend was mine.
The ones I got were always ordinary,
ordinary as the dull grey pigeons that shit all over the city
buildings in New Delhi.

In Shillong, the lake is more alive
but the fish have dull eyes as they gather beneath
the bridge, fighting for their bread crumbs
and corn chips.
The water reeks of death
like someone was murdered and drowned
as naive fish watched and waited.

Do lakes and death walk hand in hand?

Mirror

Behind dilapidated buildings
of a cold heart,
half constructed skyscrapers
of untold futures,

torrential storms of summers past
and unforgotten,
bouquets of dying yellow roses
now lay brown, untouched.

There are trellised streams of salty waters
formed on what once was a handsome face.

There, the soul of my deceitful self lay.

On a valley on top of a mountain,
In the worlds I created in that
honeycomb of a mind.

Messy networks of beautiful lies,
forgotten and now buried
in jars of black clay made of a magic
dark as the pupil of my eye.

Purple blood run through my veins,
the remnant of undisclosed secrets,
of undiscovered lives.

There are cracks on my lips that
even expensive lipstick does not cover.

Signs of the created past I told
with the smoke I breathe
out of the same mouth that tastes
only bitter blackberries.

Graffiti on the walls
of the last chamber of this soul.

I will one day return
to the beauty of unspoilt innocence
and unadulterated truth.