Stock Market Haiku

kingfisher’s dilemma
Sensex rises –
falls


Intact

My love is not a one way street.
Indifference I wear
in tight fits.
So your memories will
not drench me. Wake up, angel.
Tell your mother to keep
a vigil.
I will steal you, in a whisper,
from her cradle
again.

This is my offer:
two meatballs,
and a foot
of shin. In a saucepan
with garlic and coconut, I sauté
you from dusk to dawn
in fetid lust. If you keep
your skin, you
are
mine.

It’s not a laughing matter
I am boiling.
You are a showboat. In the garb
of kindness, how bored?
How glorious are
the shoulders of Zoot,
the legs of Bugatti,
when you tickle
your nether and moan,
say it’s a harmless fantasy?

I am not harmless.
Your mortal enemy,
now that I want you. Hurting you
I taste
the nadir.
How alone
I
am bereft of you- the body, the navel maze,
the precipice. In its cavern
love slips out, slides back in.

This piety. This claustrophobia.
The remedy is flaring up, become cinders.
Unfettered obsession
frightens even the Gods.
After, they are
curious. I am
curious to see you burn.
Curious how a fire turns
candescent at your body’s pillage,
keeps our love intact.


Defaced

It’s not unusual
for the new
to be born again-
overcome the old-
be without a
past.

And prosperity
of the old to cling
on to the rusty anchor
of eternity- tried,
tested,
sacred.

I
in the middle,
tame and,
tantalized
by
both the camps,
stuttering
at an absurd prospect
of being
a soloist.

Who
couldn’t look afar
to forgo
now, and now
to surpass
the might
of the right,
to disavow
holy skirmishes
of what is left of
the left.


Ambition

Courbet went to the Louvre
copied Velázquez,
everyday
after lunch. A
man
on a loan of two
sumptuous lakhs 
goes instead
to ‘Orsay-
a loaf of
bread,
and a red
apple 
hidden in a
Dell rucksack:

Copying Courbet
on pale loose
cotton
papers,
swishing 
charcoal sticks,
darkening trembling
hand on
impoverished
kins
who lived
as timidly 
as
his own
country-
men, or less:
in the Courbet gallery.
How much Courbet
is he? 
How much Velázquez?


Happiness

But why, happiness
is a fickle business.
Coldness or a
better bearing.
A coin is tossed.
Unbeknownst to all &
till it doesn’t
fall on face:
an equal kismet.


What Such a Poem Will Do

It will not last.
Not made of
immortal blocks. Will cave
under the weight of snide remarks,
will be run over by
scholarship.
Its rhymes
churning like a babble,
no litany of a chant.
He who wrote it stealing
hours
from a long April night,
wrote it furiously
before dinner,
trembling now in
its futility
in
the next afternoon.


It doesn’t ooze- anything.
Doesn’t wear ornaments
that tinkle sweetly.
Mindless, resting;
its critics took its wallets.
Its grand ambition is floating
in the Arabian Sea, with fishing nets, a
submission page.


I will not ask you
to befriend such
a poem. To indulge it or to listen to its grumble
will be a waste of time.
If it does not die of shame,
some strange disease will take it.
Enlist its name
on a charity roster.
Buy it a puff but,
leave it without hearing its woes.
Strange nightmares will obliterate it,
today or tomorrow.
Its heart is thick now,
so thin is its skin.

What such a poem will
do
that can not laugh,


can not love itself?


An Almirah-full of Love

Jumble, jumble, my heart is tumbling
over the slants of your
shoulder. Your nape is fragrant.
Let me kiss you, rose bud.
I am no one without you.
Without a metaphor,
a greedy monster. Will you reconcile
with me, soft petal?

When it’s time to be separate-
a clarion call has come
to be evenly strong-
without me- an individual. I am a reactionary,
not strong-
not wish to be. Without you- aloof, bitter,
violent. You are remedy. My life’s cliche.
I abhor you, darling, I love you so much!

For another separation: death.
The departure of you
from myself and I
from you. A vacancy remains not,
there’ll be new loves. Will they remember us?
Or, say, it won’t matter, who loves whom?
How our hearts got broken in fickle ways?
Forgetting is an almirah of loss and regret.


Stiff Love

Love made of
iron bends
in the ochre
flame of guilt, rusts
by inches
with age.

The hand grow
stiff in stiff
hand and
calloused- in
a jealous lover’s
cage


Grass

If they could be counted they
would have matched the heaven.
On the green great mound of a meadow
as abreast as twinkly stars.

Take note, the average, the oblivious,
though not you are stars, not prominent.
Frail roots will hold each other under the earth to
make you one and tenacious. You are humble grass.


Sex

Softly, petal, it does not die:
the urge. The memories of grainy
softness, brush. Soft curls new
dew clad on
mound. Goosebumps
are preceded by kiss.

Raise, raise, raise two hands,
two wings. The arm pits are
naked caverns, seek!
The body flesh: it’s water, it’s a stone.
A sweet love is
love and technique.