Nightly knocking..

The spoken comes unbidden
Reckoning the secrecy of the unspoken
Never inches to the written but,
Only amuses itself to an openness -
Ephemeral in its etherised denial
Diffusing to New York's smokeless burial.
Need you as a mirror, till you shimmer
And while Ackerman sleeps behind bolted doors
Nightly knocking you whisper my name
Unspoken perhaps. I can only hear rain drops
Latching yours to coma.
A today left me unrecognizable
Just a multitude of reflections
Beamed and frowned at
While the distant sun rages a crescendo -
Beneath, the grains of repentance
Ripen in the unrest of unknowing.
And my infinitesimal being
A night in its burning dream
An agitation in the friction of metals
Mirrors the momentary you
To the distant opaque eternity.

Threshold of Joy - I

I see bubbles of rhythm, floating between
Knowing and unknowing, dangerously near
To wanting; beyond the skeptic distraction.
Not born for season, but for shifting, flowing, melting -
Forget all, the would be's and should be's
The deluded depths of egotism
Shedding of skins over few nightly gestures
Let this rhythm teach you a new song
Melt the woman in you beyond alphabets
Till cloud carrier surmises
His piles of blues for an entire octave
Vastness, still and surreal
As you unbecome my night
For a jostling day.

I, the individual

I crossed the threshold of today
Chasm of time, some lost in half retreats
Others in indecisive diagonal paths
Cigarettes, caffeine and other technologies
Each lost to misnomer existence
Individual soliloquies, pacified
Consoled in chaos.
I am the eternal pause
Amid the incessant dynamics
Between thinking and doing
Where ambiguity spurs silence
Astounded in imperial charity
And the subconscious vices
Start the naive pyre
Elaborate in fake modernity.
I, the individual
Needs no country
No axioms of religion
My individualism is my agenda
Relentless and unvanquished altar.

An Accusal

Poetess, none will read your words, your metaphors
Staunched emotions , sprayed graphitti
What can your poems give me?
Where are the words in your poetry?
Daylight insults me in your poems;
Night, it follows suit.
And I come back, retracing
The ink stained room of yours
After two decades of surfacing
along a debauched circumference.
But, do I ever see you lingering?
If it is not so,
If your voice fails ,
To resurrect my own
My shimmering fingers will not
Even touch your words.
Your poems surround you
And there lies their death.

Penance of the Infidel.

On a dead morning, debris of snow fell.
The howling of a distant stray dog ,
Hammer of an abandoned clog
Broke the lyricism of silence.
I walked, purring the weight of heavens
Invisible traces you left on my mind,
Embracing the void of the night,
With a patterned umbrella in hand,
Treading the path of a woman's life,
Leaving behind a sea of tears.

Following the twisting river,
Meandering paths of a lonely shepherd
Led me far by the lamplight.
The frozen cranes didn't move,
Wept rain and wind.
The ice of the frozen pond
Reflected the silhouette of your sylvan hair.
If only I could hide my tears,
With a patterned umbrella in hand.
Treading the bitter path of a woman,
Her heart sank to mine,
And mine to her tears.

Honor, compassion, tears, and dreams,
These aren't my forces
yesterday, today.. all without the hope of words.
I commit my body to the river of bitterness.
To the woman falling to the ground
Beneath the patterned umbrella of carnage.

Suppressed patterns

I'm sane, I'm un-uttered
Beyond self mortifying metaphors
replete with cliches of prejudice
I'm the dream you had for alienation
The dreading yet coveted loneliness
Streaming from eyelids, then dripping down
Slowly. The moist chin of stoic nights.
With the advent of stealth solitude
And people, one to greet, another to flirt
Till the unravished pride rips apart-
Ah. Bittersweet taste of skin
Losing to an external flesh
Epicurean acceptance , an opaque mirror?
But believe the absolute, not the relative
I belong to you.
I belong to you absolutely
There is no imagination in the silence of nature
But in my words, in the humming interlude
The heart of woman, unlike its stony counterpart
Needs love, no ambitions
And together we will befriend
The lonely solitude, the lyricism of silence.

Reawaken monologues

I'm neither the son of earth, nor of water
Fire is never my beginning, vastness never my end.
I could be the inertia you felt in city streets
The gravity that hindered your flight
The nightlife you never wished
The daylight you always ran into
In bare trees, raped in mid winter
In demolished mosques, dried debris of Muhammad
I spring, secular and unknown .
I'm the sleep in a wearied traveler's eye
The indecisive fate of Alfred Prufrock
The Irish vessel ,which emptied itself
Once upon a cold January night, seldom tampered.
Somebody would desire me in their lonely caffeine drink
While another in her ambitious swim
Across the sunflaked channel
I play executive with death ,
Instrumenting the impervious elegies
The roaring requiem at the Fall of Berlin,
The torn walls of raw towns
Where dying is a belief of life
And living, an unconstrained persuasion.
I'm the pen scholars never held
The questions they never asked
The veil forbidden from light
The comfort you felt in suicide.