Begotten

Begotten in the sand where for long the granulets
Have sought to be drained sought to be soaked
In light

Forgotten where the land meets sky lining the curtain
Of time with a resin thin enough to not give a damn
This way or that

Beholden to a truth closer to a lingering than a calling
Closer to the thin shroudiness of evening than to dusty
Afternoon

Forbidden by laws that permeate your skin and travel
Duty bound to places objectively untold materially un
Sound.

sukooN aur masti

sehpehr ka ruKh-e-noor ab sehr ki aaR may
kya kare jub
        neend ka nishana-e-zauq tharra ker
tumhaari mushkil ko aasaan ker bhi sakay or
nahiN bhi

kya yeh shahraah-e-farq sawaad-e-harf se
itna juda hai ke rawish samajh nahiN paati
        ke subh kahaaN shuroo hui aur shub
kahaaN tamaam; teen din Thehernay ke baad aur
teen raat

kyuNker ye bahaar-e-Khauf sard madhdham roohoN
ki kaawishoN ka zamin ho sakti hai? jub rah
        takna lab-e-farsh se uTh ker muNh moR
le to tum ye samajh lena ke sukooN bhi hai aur
masti bhi hogi.

Capturing less and more

There are so many arrows flitting about capturing less soul
and more the foul There are so many depth ridden fleeting

forays into summerhood that capture less whim and more
the resigning chime There are so many guilt laden mindful

strands of bile guilelessly capturing less din and more the
shine that heeds not, bleeds yes, thunders less and less.

Tawdries

When the gone tawdries collect woebegone dust
And resettle on colonies of ants and moles
Bit by a fever of callous callings and dry
Recollections of a past that never was and a
Future that will never be, the here and now
Will of course be host to tawdries, of necessity
Collect woebegone dust, all the while resettling
On colonies of ants and moles.

When the fever of callous callings and dry
Recollections bit by the recollection of a past that
Never was, reach out for a future that will
Never be, the gone tawdries have naught to do
But collect woebegone dust and resettle
On colonies of ants and moles as the here and
Now is host to tawdries, stricken by a fever
Bent on biting, the fever of callous callings and
Dry recollections recalling, reaching out.

The interjectionistas

The right to make amends in the image of your
Father, the right to bridge the gap between the
Has-to-happen and the had-to-happen, and the
Right to proclaim the blindness of it all, the
Proclivity of truth to reside in the wholesome
Bosoms of untruth, and the right to swoosh it
All off in bad tempered speech, ill-mannered,
Foul-mouthed interjections, because that too
Has to happen, that too had happened, had it not?

Perhaps the right to want to make it happen got
In the way of the proclivity to truth, and perhaps
The gated corridors of untruth were all that
Remained to console? Perhaps not. What seems like-
Lier is that the arrangement to conceal the dis-
Tasteful got lost in the accumulation of mistakes,
And the interjections interjected in their all too
Unpretty interjectiveness at a time when the right
To proclaim blindness saw the light and ran away.

yuNhee, takallufan

subukdosh hawaa ki chaap darya
           ko samjhanay se aajiz hai ke
wo thamta kyuN naheeN

usee aajizi ka ik ruKh-e-be-parda
           hawaa ka Thehrna hai uss
subh-e-ghaafil

ko ke jub rooh aur maut donoN
           aik doosray ko bhiR
jaanay ki ijaazat
  
de rahay hotaiN haiN. yuNhee, takallafun.

An aftermath

An aftermath is the burnishing reminder of
     latency in
     readings
             in past confirmations of leaden
tasks groping
anticipating
     a laggard
     journey
             that revels in annihilating, in
brunting the
hope of some
     and minding
     the gashes
             of a lifetime’s revealing clots
of hunted blood
some of which
     can re-trickle the hearth giving it an odd semblance to the poet’s last words uttered in silence.

The loonish and the petty

The loonish and the petty revolve, taking turns
As the garish and long rest on this corner of

Lost days and sleepy nights. Rest without breathing.
Rest within the seeming hollows bereft of noise

Caught in a shackle of pariahs holding out for more
Forgiveness, more longing, more rest. The loonish

And the petty resolve, taking turns as the garish and
Long rest on this corner of fast nights and dreary days.

Rest as if belonging to hollows of counting one’s and
Two’s is alright. And seeking such seeking that ought to

Be sought. The loonish and the petty resolve, taking
Turns as the garish and long rest on this corner of Mist

And Haze. Rest glad because rot has the upper hand.

The feckless flacks of fancy

The feckless flacks of fancy deride
Noon for                     its harrumptious
Debacle of importune proportions

As it makes its way to the mulberry
Bushes                       carrying forth the
Luminous tentacla of lugubrious depth

But that is just the beginning of fancy
Or is it?                    Much depends on
The sweet little grapes of troth dumbing

Down whatever it means, whatever
It means,                    whatever it means
Since tomorrow is linked with this and this.

This is not a dream

This is not a dream that can be transformed in
A bucket full of postulates and caravanserai

Loopholes full of logic and derivative lemmas
Trying to strangulate, triangulate where it is

Possible and coagulate, disambiguate where not.
But the power theorem of contingency aside, where

To look for answers that border on the infant’s slight
Ness of glance, asking once and for all to climb out

Of day’s career and step out in shade of yesternoon that
Is not a thinly disguised veil but a broomfull of vapor.