Saturday, June 7, 2014

Song of the Banshee

As the moon rose within her womb
She covered her face
And wept—
Tears that could give birth
To babies with ten heads—
A dream
Clutched in each paw.

A wail arose from her self
A song—
A lullaby that had once put
Nightmares to sleep.

Years ago,
Many would join, 
They would sing and rejoice—
A chorus of sirens,
Each with an unborn baby.

Now,
The babies have grown up—
Men with innocent stubbles 
And daylong lusts.

So now,
They have fallen silent—
Afraid of the melody,
Teeming with the coldness of memory
And the warmth of abandon.

Saturday, May 31, 2014



You suffocate me, yet
In strange ways you liberate;
Inwards I walk, yet
I see the shadows of my thoughts
Reflected
Upon your bridges, columns and arches—
More than two centuries old
Their cold largess
Inspires ideology,
And drives me mad
With lust for revolution.

You bred me in your body, yet
Ravenous, I feed
Upon your dying flesh,
Just as you devour my life-force
To sustain your hunger;
Your poets, your songs, your insanity
Are mine to hold,
Just as my loves and desires
Are yours to engulf.

Tomorrow,
An alien space may take hold,
And unwalked streets may seduce,
But you will cling
Through known voices and faces,
And, even as I lie dying
You will absorb my traces.   

Tuesday, May 13, 2014

To a pair of blue jeans—



Perhaps the lather was enough!
Yet … I scrubbed you clean—
Peeling layers
Left by
Unknown lanes and unwalked roads,
And by shaky fingers and trembling lips
Which perhaps paused briefly
At the zip.
I scrub some more…

Am I a mermaid still?
In these jeans of yours
With their names still on it?
Should I clean the traces
Or let them remain?
The choice isn’t mine to make.
I scrub some more…

Even as I know
I
 won’t ever do this again!
The ritual of cleansing
Has freed me of legs
And given me fins.

Monday, May 12, 2014

Waltzing through corpses
I can finally breathe—
The stench, the filth
Are all mine to bear…

I can lie back now,
And observe the play
Of lust and decay,
Did you know?
Doppelgangers howl too!

Moments will turn into minutes
Minutes will turn into months
And my feelings, too, will become
Museum objects—
Shelved and preserved
Antiquities on display…

The corpses will return
To haunt my waking hours;
But next time—
I will let them pass
Maybe.

Thursday, May 8, 2014

Ode to a train



Post by Sanjay Ghosal—

Good evening train, good evening train; 

Took my 'boy'- friend to the hills
Too much rain, too much mist; 
'Boy' is the one my friend kills.

Good morning train, Good morning train; 

Bringing back friend to me
All the rain, all the mist; 

Now the 'boy' belongs to thee.


Post by Author

The 'boy' died long ago

And distances just seemed to grow
The train carries his frozen frame
As feelings too have lost a name;
Mist outside, rain within
Pasts... presents collide, cave in

Spent 'love' is all he could feel
Yet...the 'friend' remains...and always will.


To Kanchenjungha



For you could not be seen, you could not be seen
As my eyes strove to find their tear-kin,
For I knew then, as I know now—
That all beauty is meant to die somehow...
When my hand reached out and clutched his sleeping frame,
I knew then, too, this love had no name.


I smelled his breath, I tasted his woe
Even as my heart dreamed of the golden snow;
I lost my self with each thrust of his weight,
And regained my self in the frozen cold after-sweat.
May the mist clear, may the traces remain,
Even as I may not hear this song again.

Friday, February 28, 2014

Stranded-
Between being and space
Stranded-
For defiling rosebuds.
Books stare
And monuments gaze
The recalcitrant self
Still seeks approval...
Reckoning nothingness
Empty introspections.
They thrive
On goat's milk and ashes...