Thursday, October 1, 2020

#37: Sestina for Remembering

It is nothing that hasn't happened before,
Yet every time we hold out hope;
We wake up, hold ashes in our mouths,
Lying in bed till the day breaks
And forces the sun to rise red,
Over a country that refuses to stay still.

This land is our witness, and still,
They say that we were mistaken before;
"What stories you heard, lies you read!"
The blind eye of justice extinguishes hope.
Three decades ago, masjid and law breaks,
And a birthplace was born from a million mouths.

To shut a state in, they barricade its mouths,
And for over a year Kashmir has stayed still.
The voice of dissent weakens and breaks,
In streets, and villages, and colleges before;
Our jails raise the klaxon sound of hope
As saffron hues bleed into red.

Can you look away and not see red?
I bite my tongue as you silence a million mouths.
How dare you seek to dream and hope
For a tranquil state, calm and still?
Gagged silences never lasted before,
A million rise for every spine you break.

Every system falls, every institution breaks
And leaves a wake of truth untold, unread.
The fourth pillar bows and bends before
Lives, and lies traded for by word-of-mouth
Turn immolations into funerals, and still
You smile at the end of the month, and say there's hope.

The voices you stifle continue to hope
To be heard some day, even as they break.
But you ask the courts and cameras to stay still,
While they scream to be heard, tongues bleeding red.
Caste and rape are dirty words in your mouth,
'Equality thrives', you say, 'like never before.'

Where do we seek hope, when streets run red
With the laws you break to silence our mouths?
We stand still, and vow to remember, just as we did before. 

Thursday, August 6, 2020

#36: Spring Cleaning

May whatever Gods you believe 
In bless the forgetfulness that has
Let me live through this year
And the one before that
And maybe the last one, too, I forget

The shape of your smile, and your voice
Has lost its sweet saccharine- I hear

Old addictions seem repulsive after a while.
34, feels like 43, in degrees
26, feels like I should have held on to

Semblances of happiness that we were allowed to imitate
Are all forgotten, I clear out
Shelf after shelf of space 
In memories, in memoriam.

You were nice, mister-i-forget-your-face.
It must have been nicer to leave that day, I suppose. 

Tuesday, August 4, 2020

#35: Love Is A God From Hell

What is it about drunkenness that
Sets us so wide apart, Charlie?
Your inebriation was foggy,
Soggy three-day-old-newspaper charm
And mine is the sad silence of a sadder hotel room.

I spilt water on 
My favourite book and
I thought of the man that gifted me it
And his smile is getting harder to remember each day.

You, you and I,
We held on to the loosest of threads.
Our palms grew sweaty with
Fear and maybe we still have to
Learn what love is.

Is selfishness really that bad, Mr B?
Is it okay for me to want adoration
Even if it is sexist, objectifying, shameless
Mirthless adoration? 

Loneliness feels like a dead spider's home
Collecting dust in a corner 
I can't quite reach yet.

What is it about laughter that
Makes its remembrance so sad? 

Wednesday, July 22, 2020

#34: Of

Of everything you 
Took it was my words
That have been the worst
It's hard to write with what
I've had to unsteal from you,
Letter by painstaking 
Letter, rummaging through the
Offal that was. 
Some days, I got entire 
Sentences to free you from.
Sentences you were free of
Ran into each other,
Clinical clanging doesn't make up
For your absence.


We keep looking at empty
Spaces we think are better filled.
Words and music and haze and days
Try and take a you-shaped outline.
The edges remain jagged. They
Stick in my throat. 

Monday, October 22, 2018

#33: Halfyear Hiatus

1.

It is almost morning.
I have tried sleeping
Seven times already,
Eyes squeezed shut
In the face of wakefulness.

The cicada probably perches
On a window, outside
My room, resolute -
Its strident song
Replaces my darkness with noise.

And this is how
Our stories never end.
Exeunt Actor one;
Fuck your inconveniences.
The parody must play on.

2.

The sun will soon be seen
Nodding its head with sympathy
At the ones that wouldn't sleep.

One must imagine Sisyphus happy-
How else would you tell yourself
It's alright to keep living

And leaving, and let the
Next knife plug the last wound?
This is alright, we are

All quite okay, nearly there.
All our emptinesses await another
Refill, please, hurry up now.

We'll win, waiting in endless
Entropy, imagining happinesses in sliding spectacles.
Can you feel me leave?

3.

I think the cicada's finally asleep.
Maybe I'll turn the lights out
For a minute, before the day
Takes this dear desolation captive again.

We promise, to keep returning, to
Keep going for going's sake.
Honestly, darling, it's easier
To lie here, sans light, sans sound, than
To lie to a lover, keep the ball rolling,
Exeunt, self. Fuck this.

Friday, May 4, 2018

#32: Hot Days

I turn the nightlights
off, turn to you and see
you turn into an unbargained-
for heaviness in my throat.

Wednesday, September 6, 2017

#31

her hands probably shook when she
lifted her lightweight life belongings up
onto the shoulder not carrying a 
shivering child, who hasn't eaten since- since.

the trail of feet moves like a slow centipede.
eyes down, keep walking, don't look up,
his instruction is her rosary across the night.
a dog howls in the distance. more join in.

her chant is frenzily feeding her.
walk fast, walk silently. don't look back.
her shoulders grow heavier. she's forgotten
what she'd packed in the last bag she left.

the child stirs. still cold. very.

a decimated people will gather around a fire
tomorrow, trying to rub life into blued limbs.
(i used to be a nurse, a woman with silvery cataracts offers.)
none of them ever learn each other's name.

A few days later, the radio announces
Between news of a new film release and another minister frolicking in another country
A landmine attack. A couple dozen casualties. Refugees. The unwanted. The unseen. 
Their anguish, undeserving of our benevolent generosity, carpeted in a bed of Riverside mud and shrapnel.

If there'd be a God in the sky that night,
He'd probably dim the stars down.
Even the skies know how to mourn-
Even when they mourn the living.