>> Friday, August 29, 2008

along muddy, trash-strewn lanes
past taverns and hotels, I linger
whiskeyed eyes peering through
tree-lined boulevards,
fogged over windows up on heights
where exists a large mansion,
betwixt darkened verandas
little plays take place
in the alleys of my mind

there are three of us,
a family, you, me and our love,
playful, affectionate, mournful,
prattling, hushed, I dart ahead
like a honeybee tasting modest delights
in the strange sanctuary of darkness
afloat on stilled black waters
drifting in slow aimless swirls

thus we wander, left and right
around boulders and bushes
cuffed, rolled, embraced
whence fire roars all the way
in a curled conflagration,
burning ancient sins, until at last
nothing remains of you or me
except a smoldering pile of char

enflamed dramas, send me reeling
back to toss and writhe in my cot,
crying like a baby in swamp,
I’d sleep all my life, assaulted by
night exaltations, morning terrors,
while someplace far off,
you’d careen about the skies,
a wandering star or comet
due to return in a distant future.



>> Tuesday, August 26, 2008

neither lewd nor respectable, in
short enough distance from you
to appear suspiciously intriguing
despite my teasing proximity
conspicuously puzzling centrality,
evanescing, a struggling stammerer
still subduing the nemesis syllable
not a stone-throwing lover, but
a word-throwing poet, unlike you
soft, sentimental and ineffective,
I'd leave behind paroles, besides
a delightful playful word itself,
the sonic prankishness of
two syllabic pops and closing click
encasing unobtrusive twin vowels.

You were Fucktastic



>> Sunday, August 24, 2008

I am in these verses,
improbably evolved into somebody else already
there is little left for me to imitate or fantasize
the temptation to quash oneself, become imperfect
a sham, looking like myself
sounding like myself, even laying claim to
convenient scraps of my stories, and yet
beneath the disguise of me, someone entirely other.

Speculate, will you? speculation requires
a gambler’s taste for running a risk
daring to tamper with the taboo
which has marked my own past
try your luck, make your mistakes, overdo, undo
follow an imaginative line that yields nothing,
then something might creep in this mess,
rounded, pointed, structured
projecting the illusion of having been
spontaneously generated, coincidental,

untidy and improbably probable, as love.

How violently my mood wavers

radiant with a crude forcefulness
anguishing heartache stricken minutes later
it might subordinate you to me,
everything exists in generous proportions
an infatuation with the exciting fullness of
a wavering presence, which made you visualize
bold carnality with mists of innocence hanging over
that might enable you to go somewhere

for it is only in part the urge to suppress
the sudden-lit fire, to feel against your palm
beneath this soft plump mass of flesh
the power of my heart.....

Go figure!


metaphorical death

>> Saturday, August 16, 2008

Late summer and fall lie ahead, but will they be full of ghosts? That is the trouble with long summer evenings and the sparkling monsoon days, they are haunted. The question is, if worst comes to worst, what is the prospects of a new life in a new dead world, with this that or whoever. I struggle constantly with a rebellious spirit, my mind in a continuous state of disarray and brooding resentment, contemplating nothingness. Not for the pleasure of being alive and desiring, for life is all too often no pleasure whatsoever, but it makes you leap and rejoice for having had the opportunity once a while for existing at all.

It has finally come to only this, a tiny bubble of consciousness surrounded by thousands of sheets of virtual paper – these dozens of folders filled with disordered scribbling. The words come without warning and they chill my blood. Disheveled heaps of words, an incoherent jumble and snarl of truths, lies, memories, fantasies, adding up to nothing. They are said to me in my own voice, the sentences dripping into my ear like slow poison. To silence them I rouse myself into a fury, a literal blood-letting, making my whole body a visible and tangible shout. For as long as my shout reverberates in the air I do not hear them and I keep scribbling something. I take turns, exalted, depressed, terrified, lustful. A regular night of witches, devils, thorns in the flesh followed by contrition and clear sight. Followed, of course, by the old friend, morning terror. I can’t write.

And all at once, the terror has a habitation and name – I am having "mood swings" .. right that’s what they are .. Suddenly the morning sunlight becomes just what it is, the fresh lovely light of the morning. The terror is gone. Another week and lying in my bed, I become prescient and clairvoyant, orbiting the earth like an angel and inducing instant angelic hypotheses. I saved myself by naming this terror, knowing the worst of me, then naming it with ordinary names, English common nouns, smiling and moving on.

In times of ordeal one’s prayers become simple. I had prayed that I faint in a private place where no one would disturb me. I had closed my eyes and then there was a pleasant sense of being attended, strong hands laid on, of another’s clothes rustling nearby, albeit virtually. I wonder; did it break my heart when this latest illusion died? Yes. I constantly expected this death and yet did not anticipate it. There was even the knowledge and foreknowledge of it while it still lived, life still had its same peculiar tentativeness, living by the usual fits and starts, aiming and missing, while present time went humming and the foreknowledge that once the imminent collapse is accomplished, remorse would settle in and give past time its bitter specious wholeness. If only I hadn’t been defeated by humdrum humming present time and missed everything. I knew and still that time went humming. Then everything was over and here came the sweet remorse, like a blade between ribs.

I do not understand the principles of attack and siege, strategic retreat, counter-attack, and ambush. The sloping shadows, hibiscus blooms that had quailed and folded, it is all exactly as I had remembered and continues to exist. The delirium is over, I am still not in control of myself, marveling at and regretting the now dead excitement. There is also a compensation, a secret satisfaction to be taken in this death, a delectation of tragedy, a license for drink, few words for a new verse, a taste of everything for the taste’s sake.

What has been broken torn stained chipped smashed bent cracked pilfered what has to be repaired replaced repainted thrown out entirely; a total loss. I love nothing in the world so much as the sight of a perfect unsmudged carbon copy hence everything is repeated over and over again. Life seems larger at night, swollen with dark shadows and strange creeks that terrify me yet I can not help exploring it, wondering if there is anyone else like me, awake and catching glimpses of the unknown. Every morning there is this temptation to see signs of the end and that, even knowing this, there is nevertheless some reason, with the spirit of the new day being the spirit of watching and waiting, to believe that … what?

pS : to be continued. for I am, presently bored of my poetrics.



>> Monday, August 11, 2008

the night that followed
your arrival
I’d gone deeper
in embrace of death,
I was dying, or dead
with nothing left of me,
except a shadow cast
on the near wall

those words tumbling
like a death rattle, a last
prolonged exhalation

your visit sounded
a final knell, driving me
into purgatory, which
I neither had the courage
nor wisdom
to descry on my own

there is no forward
or back,
an ascent to heaven
or descent to hell
until I lose myself
and my thoughts
in vinaceous smell
stumbling backwards
in the flow of time.....


obscure longings...

>> Thursday, August 7, 2008

This is 51st post on Terminal Moraine.
I’ve been ‘blogging’ for over three years and this is the first time I completed 50 posts in one place! I had abandoned ‘my tryst with sins’ after 48 posts, which means that finally after three years of wallowing, I’m about to complete a fragmented century!! The quantity isn’t worth reveling and certainly not earth-shattering still .. its an event of sorts…
On that note, it’s kind of deplorable that most of my ‘old blogging pals’ got dispersed. Some are hitched or have lost interest or both. I do wish they come back .. but then as they say .. if wishes were blah …

I wanted to scribble something, a kind of dedication for my muse(s) .. who wangled me into being a poet(!) .. haah .. if at all I am one..
Perhaps it could have been better. I lost interest midway ergo I am posting it the way it is ..
This isn’t a poem . .just few lines for those beguiling stimulants.. who only complain ..
and so here is my quetch..


Comes again the longing -
all bacchanalian paraphernalia
plentiful, untouched, disorderly
the desire that has no name
it has to do with being
both seventeen and seventy

With winter sun striking down the backyard
or is it dusk in our garden, you beside me
in my arms a child to whom we would later,
by the crib, recite our poetry ..

Desire has a smell of
cantaloupes and honeydews
an attachment so rooted
it could not help branching
into affection both infernal and holy


Seduce, the resonance of this word
transpired on me
neither from pulp magazines or pornography
it befell through agonized readings
of your celestial poetry
it is facile to be intimate
hiding behind these words pounding
securing all our pores
the sun heating and drugging
our senses to cover monstrosity

in the shade and darkness
cool and clothed in our grounds
how do I voice a word
to lift that underside of love..
would you resolve in "three words"
this dilemma of insuperable integrity ?



>> Monday, August 4, 2008

the wind that parted clouds
has opened the sky
melting in the sunlight
at this moment, all is change
transformation seems permanent

a promise of bridging dead chasm
between body and mind
then sundering the soul
eternal gain and irretrievable loss
to be parceled out equally

with simultaneous depression
and exaltation, languidly
for a moment or two
I've lost my ability to imagine
you reading these words

poetry therefore has briefly
come undone or has regressed
to a moan, and you turn into
half-forgotten incantatory chant
invoked to ward off my loneliness


Latest comments


Back to TOP