In the midst of a moment as I potter around the house You come to me in the lyrics of a song As dusk descends and the walls turn to gold I’m reminded of all things old Sometimes as a poem dressed like an ode Sometimes a movie Sometimes a quote You come and go You come and go.
I had once written about how listening to music while cooking or watching a funny show while ironing clothes can turn boring chores into a pleasant activity. Instead of ‘time-table’, I called these to-do lists ‘love tables’.
One morning, last December, ‘Coming back to me’ by Jefferson Airplane was playing while I was pottering around. I find the refrain particularly haunting and it kept playing in my head. Later that evening, this poem came to me. : )
Enjoy the song with some wine and let yourself slip moodily into a charming night.
Some affinities are greater than other affinities How else do we explain infatuations that never die This love is a happening by chance, they say But in matters of the heart Isn’t it all fair?
It is winter solstice and I long — for the promised kiss Come, let us set the sky ablaze And show a pessimistic world How even a million miles cannot Eclipse the dance of a willing heart.
Written on a cold, beautiful December night when the great conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn left us all mesmerized. An intimacy that will not occur again until 2080! Some occurrences, whether celestial or earthly, are magical and precious only because they are rare.
In the image above, a fiery sky setting Jumeirah beach – and my heart – ablaze. Hope the sunset this evening bring you immense joy.
I write from the mountains where cows calmly graze to the faint sounds of a village waking up in the distance and a plaintive tune of you that I hum over and over and over like a song stuck in my head. Here at the edge of this elusive wasteland I am myself — wrapped in your fragrance moving in and out, in and out gasping, fading, utterly spent.
Lines about everyday life have always intrigued me. In simple acts like the grazing of cows and morning sounds of life stirring and preparing to face another day, lies truth and wisdom. What a poet chooses to archive in a poem and what the resulting image evokes in the reader, is what transforms those few lines into a profound experience.
These lines written in the lap of the splendorous Sahyadri mountains where for a while I shamelessly surrendered myself to reveries. Hope these lines inspire you to lose yourself too.
First, some good news. My poem ‘Methuselah’ features in a new anthology, #Versesoflove, a wonderful collection of 100 poems that celebrates love in all its forms.
I was reading about the 4,852 years old Methuselah tree in California’s White Mountains one rainy September night, and just like that a stream of emotions had gushed out without warning and indiscriminately arranged themselves into verse.
Poetry, as they say, is the poet’s effort to make sense of the universe. As much an observation of the outer world, as it is a reflection of the inner one.
The book is currently on Amazon India and will be available worldwide shortly.
Today’s poem, ‘A Toast to Love’ was written on 31.12.2020. A toast as was raised then is due tonight too. To survival, hope, inspiration and above all, hearts being held with love. Cheers!
Tonight let’s raise a toast to how we fought and survived turning every terrible day into a victory of enduring hope. The way we never let distance stop us from reaching out to say how much we care. Let the new year inspire you to polish your soul to a shine But what is really, truly worth celebrating tonight is someone who knows you by heart, understands your darkness and continues to love you.
It’s been days since I heard music from yonder or what aromas fill up homes or snippets of solitary lives that keep hearts close. I pass by and hear muffled voices from behind closed doors The ones left ajar only open onto empty rooms How are we supposed to go on? The mornings are eerily quiet no birds sing, the air is damp and I can hear my own breath ragged and heavy.
Once someone wrote to me saying my poems should be happier and hopeful. But shouldn’t we also acknowledge and work through the darkness?
I work relentlessly, never wasting a moment, trying to stay motivated and pushing others to do the same. But I also cannot disregard the setbacks, the emptiness that sometimes creeps in, the feeling of loss.
Life cannot be romanticized all the time. How are we supposed to ‘be’ ourselves, if we cannot ‘accept’ ourselves?
Here’s wishing you plenty of birdsong and doors that open onto full rooms. But also, moments of reflection that resound with your own, ragged breath.
there are things that make the heart beat faster desires that rise at dawn and take one’s breath away dreams that keep us awake memories left like graffiti on skin and mind and hearts flowers noble and white a sweet farewell song the slow cadence of your voice warm on my winter bosom.
Spring in Mumbai is not so pleasant, but it’s officially a time for new beginnings and Easter always brings new hope. We might most likely go into another lockdown this coming week, but for now let’s focus on what’s bright and good. So here I am talking about all the little things that make me happy. What makes your heart sing?
Count your blessings and stay cheerful. Happy Easter, everyone. : )
When subtly asked where real, flaming love is found One is inclined to say: The eager arms of a lover The heat of lips on fiery lips A tender, caressing gaze A body warm beside you.
But has anyone told you how words and verses can arouse you in their embrace How the passion of a poem can cause an explosion that rocks your unsuspecting soul and brings you to your knees begging, begging for more.
It is only about three years ago that I started giving myself wholeheartedly to poetry. What started off as a medium for expression, soon became a reflection of my deepest self. I discovered an intimacy in poetry that wasn’t possible in prose. An intimacy so stimulating, a cascade so beautiful, that there is no option but to remain addicted.
I always said ‘we are made of love’ That love should come naturally to us like breathing, eating, sleeping.
I held up that placard like hotel staff at airports waving ‘Marhaba’ to strangers.
Now at times I notice how my breath is held without intention How I eat mindlessly to feed my hungry soul How my skin visibly flinches when someone mentions love or how the night disturbingly crawls into the marrow of my bones.
A whole year has gone by without a single post and it feels strange, like coming home after a long stint overseas. But apart from the obvious pandemic issues, I had a good enough reason. Getting a book published is an arduous process and I’m happy that 2020 wasn’t all wasted. For those interested, my second book, ‘The Silence Between‘ is available on Amazon worldwide. I’d love your feedback, so please get yourselves a copy, read at leisure and let me know what you think.
So now that that kind of busyness is out of the way, and since April is the official poetry writing month (#NaPoWriMo), I’ve decided to resume on a poetic note. Here’s my first offering of the month.
A PRACTICAL KIND OF LOVE
I’m done with romanticizing a longing for what is no more there Why must I keep the nights that tore my insides apart like flowers pressed in favourite books and call it nostalgia? Let me walk lightly, be practical It is my problem that I care You’re not the one to pine for me or interrupt your busyness just for love So take my memory and make a mad, roaring bonfire of it And if you still aren’t warm at night I’ll write you something pretty.