Most misty Bangalore mornings

On the right side of the Banaswadi flyover
Runs a road
One side lined with yellow lumps on metal grey
The other, full of throat clearings.

In the soft mist of winter
The shallow putrid gutter flows,
Foul and fetid,
Men with rakes
Make little heaps of plastic and black mush.

Little kids run barefoot
Snorty and naked
playing and nagging
(across the road and along it)
Others sit empting their bowls like others before them
The ladies in green overalls
Bend double
dust pan and broom
collecting heaps, stuffing them into bins
tinkling along
on their push carts.

I race by
Looking for the blue bus ahead
Watching my every step
Not daring to swallow.

6th January 2008

Untitled

come oh yearning,
live in me,
permanently.
Give me the courage to make you reality.

23rd June 2008

Seeking expression

yesterday I asked myself Why
today the question is a lot Bigger
deep in my inner ear
it vibrates
a scream in a lovely song
a headline on a web page

yesterday I asked myself Why
today the question is a lot Bigger
in the squint eyes of a scrawny man
in the scent on the air
a wizened old man totters by
a cough in a quite church

yesterday I asked myself Why
today the question is a lot Bigger
so I recite the serenity prayer
take a deep breath
sip water
push back the pain in my throat

yesterday I asked myself Why
today the question is a lot Bigger
my memories meander on a soothing violent current
jaws clench in determination
a quiet pledge
a loud thanks giving

yesterday I asked myself Why
today the question is a lot Bigger
tears in my rice
an instinctive flinch
come fill my nails with grit
let me hold on to the warmth of the dying sun

yesterday I asked myself Why
today the question is a lot Bigger
in a new borns cry
an empty chair at the table
in that feeling that wont end
In the discomfort of my questions


yesterday I asked myself Why
today the question is a lot Bigger
the face contorts in a cry
the familiar texture of a shirt
the blue of mouth wash
yellow marigolds on a grave

yesterday I asked myself Why
today the question is a lot Bigger
in the unspoken voice of a strong lady
first fruit of the mango tree
crumbling beams of the wooden room
empty bottles in a dusty cupboard

yesterday I asked myself Why
today the question is a lot Bigger
old pictures in a draw
a scapular and an old watch
come back, oh come back, come back, oh come back
what would I not give to have you back.



20th June 2008