Pupa to its Plant

Let the stillness pass

and I will show you  how I am going to light up

this dull winter sky

underneath which you and I

make love to each other, ceaselessly,

and wait for the moment of truth

manifesting itself in beauty, endlessly;

let me burst open

the temporary reality

of this hard shell

and you will see how

our pain and penance

brings the heaven down to the earth

as calmly as the unfolding of a leaf;

let the reluctant sun

with his lecherous face

hidden in the bosoms of helpless clouds

watch us make love:

I devouring

your succulent tenderness

and you feeding me

your own green self;

and let every speck of dust


my unfurling beauty

as I explode in colours

when at last

to you

I bid adieu.



The moon is only a glimmer

of what she used to be

in the cobwebbed sky over us

 of a marijuana grey,

as the dawn breaks stealthily.


There are no pains,

only their distant memories

and numbed even more by the quiet night

I let them slip through my fingers like sand

and hope nobody notices.


A Wind chill through our words

 making them cling to each other in desperation

even as we remain distant

mired in worlds eons apart.


I hear our long famished thoughts gasp

incarcerated in the stillness

of rocks feigning indifference

strewn around us in abundance.


I think of us as people shipwrecked

 trying not to remember where once home was

and huddled together for what there is,

I don’t know, I just think.


This neither is reality nor a dream

just, I’m told, a secret place in between

a pause before the plunge ahead

or a song before silence descends.


*the setting is one among the many quiet places in HCU where we got together after a party.


Cycling, as always on the wrong side of the road
to the campus,
as unsuspecting as on
any Monday morning,
I  confront winter :
a tree all alone
with branches forlorn
and leaves stripped off;
yet, rides away, only faster,
no turning back
no second look.
Winter, I don’t want to write about you.
The way you devour the colours and
turn everything into a grey,
the way your every image
manifest loneliness,
oh winter, putting it down on paper,
I always end up
doing something i would never want to do,
a self portrait.
A poet died
back home
and I,
miles away
couldn’t make out
what it meant.
He had died before also,
almost, I mean.
Like a frog run over by a truck
many a times he had
fallen down on the black mud
of the streets,
drenched in blood,
in wine,
spread eagled,
almost dead.
There were his other deaths too,
less physical,
but more intense.
Mostly murders, i guess.
Love hate lust
and folks like you and me
together had him dead
at the cross, many times,
and yet, from his blood,
holy in its unholiness,
had risen like fire,
burning their way 
right into you.
They called him an addict
and made fun at his back,
but were silent as the stones 
when he rode,
with his ‘bird’ and the ‘snake’*
like a king 
on the streets 
in the rain 
of molten, acidic,
black ink.
I asked a friend of mine
what it means when
a poet dies;
don’t know why, but she said
probably it was a 
‘trick question’.
May be 
that’s what it could mean
when a poet dies.
A trick
to end the agony 
of being shackled to life.
A question
that keeps screaming
in your head, 
never letting you 

* In memory of the Malayalam poet A. Ayyappan who passed away recently. The poet who had led a tumultuous and lonely life remained lonely in his death also. His body remained unidentified on the roadside for hours.The poet had recently won the coveted Aashan prize.
* The poet’s favourite metaphors, the ‘bird’ and the ‘snake’

These days
I find myself
increasingly in love with 
things which I once abhorred:
like crowds,
yes, crowds.

You see, I have my reasons:
A crowd
is the safest place to be
when you are 
a wounded animal.
It lets you
grunt and growl
and lick the wounds
till you’re ready
to hunt again.

Nobody will notice.

A crowd
is where you should be
if you want to play
say, hide and seek.
At times 
you might get lost
that is, lost forever
never able to find 
who you were.

But that’s okay
part of the game.

Once in a crowd
you can slough off
all your apprehensions.
Flimsy pretexts of 
love and care
nagging doubts of
right and wrong
won’t even dare
to come near you.

Instead, you are blessed 
with courage and skill
of course, to kill.

One can hardly miss
the unfathomable 
benevolence of a crowd.

Always keeps you locked
in its giant embrace
until  you give in
and replenish yourself
to a new birth.

Faceless and soulless. 

But do you know what the sad part is?
All its virtues
have yet not made me
the loyal follower
the obedient soldier
that I would like to be.

Still, at times
I feel
that I need to get 
my voice back
from the labyrinth of
its endless sounds.

But it’ll pass, Iam  sure.

For who can resist
and who wants to miss
the might that is 
the bliss that is
the crowd.