Why shouldn't it Rain?

She dances in the crowd holding
Her skirt and I feel teased.
She's like hope of rain in my desert
Of solitude and for the fleeting desires
In my heart, why shouldn't it rain?

For the last leaf that flirts with
Unfinished hopes, and the overbearing
Clouds that want to pour down.
For the earth that needs to be ploughed
And the hunger that needs to be fed.

For a longing unquenched and
Songs unsung. For the wayfarer
That hasn't reached and the night
Un-spent waiting. For the unfulfilled
Waves of the sea and premature
Death of some beliefs.

Why shouldn't it rain to reassure
The worthiness of the wait and
Sweetness of the quench when
The water has been scarce.

One that's Supposed to come

Where's the one that's supposed
To come before it's late?
Where's the one 'I would know'
Upon her arrival and by now,
It seems it's too late.

Wide awake, I wait, for this wayfarer,
Sometimes questioning the sanctity
Of my eyes, and sometimes
The intentions of the paths that
Lead up to my house.

Sometimes stability of the lamp
That keeps flickering to the deceptions
Of the winds, and sometimes 

The sanity of clouds that keep 

Masking the polestar.

I re-oil the lamp, pray for kinder
Paths and prostrate before the
Winds invoking ancient chants.
But there haven't been any signs..

The Lotus I brought droops and
Retires to forests and the songs of
The Sparrows dissolve in the air
For it didn't find a beholder.

Seasons are tired, decades have
Passed. Lamps have made way to
The LED lights and the warfarers now
Are vloggers with Google Maps.

Yet, there haven't been any omens
But the wait hasn't stopped.

The heart seems condemned to be
Unfulfilled, like an unplayed guitar.
But the urge to compose songs renews
Each day like periwinkles in an old
Cement wall.

We're are all Bukowski's Poems

We're all Bukowski's poems,
Stolen from the rawness of stingy
Beer bottles and crotches of whores
Bedding his sadness.

The illegible bloodshed on tissue,
Left unread beneath a park bench and
The one lost to chance while he typed
On inkless ribbons.

We're all Bukowski's poems escaped
For good when he poured rum on his
Bluebird to keep it hidden in his ribs
And goodbye to his broken car,
Sent prematurely to salvage.

Fifty miles from nowhere at Twelve past
Twelve and coffee mixed taste of a cigar.
A twenty-year-old with a 9 mm waiting
To reconsider his options for one last time.

Sleep wanting a cigarette break-
Life coming alive in the dead of the night.
Swollen fingers compulsively pressing
The keys of the typewriter in an
Attempt to erase his suicide letters.

We're all Bukowski's poems, blamed
For crudity and lack of aesthetics-
'Burning in water and drowning in flame.'
Trying to stay relevant in specific niches,
Like 'Love being a Dog from hell.'

Meeting You Outside Poetry

You would have imagined me through
My poems, like I've after reading yours.
And if you ever meet me outside our poetry-

You'll be surprised to know that I've
A dialect that comes clean as an ooze of
Blood and the clarity of English on paper
Dies in the clutter of my mouth.

The feminism in my lines struggles to
Fit within the edges of soft chauvinism,
The romantic idealism chokes itself when
A beggar asks me for a rupee or two.

The ease of love often meets my
Desperation on my forehead at obtuse 

Angles and my confidence goes to toss
Seeking refuge in imposter syndrome.

I can't take a compliment too you know,
That's when my tattered sarcasm
Come alive and the way I talk about
Other's eyes, I can't make eye contact.

My conversation shall be a skewed 

Brawl between my body and soul,
Words may come out with an awkward growl.
And bisecting the aftermath of this

If you choose to say that you're just
'A poem' extending your hand and I might 

Realize where you come from and I say 

'Me too', shaking your hand.

Mirror

What if the mirror comes
Alive and you met your
Reflection in real-time.
Would you love him or hate?

The tunnel of vision staring
Down that abyss of yours and
The abyss looking back at you,
To get on your nerves.

The cascade of conflicting
Thoughts battling nastily to
Expose the dirt you're.
Your own self-negation singing
Threat to your questionable
Existence.

The way you're exposed,
Would you kill yourself out of
Shame or you would attack
The other for showing you
The mirror? Or you'd just choose

To gulp your insecurities to
Bear his mocking smile and
Go, hug him to accept it all?
Would you make peace with
This miserable better half to 

Marry him into a compromise?

Are you brave enough to accept 

Yourself to carry on with life?

Love a thing or two

You must love a thing or two,
One over the other, the other
Over another, till the grit of longing,
Bruises the walls of your
Heart and demands for
The pleasure of scratching a
Half healed scar.

Like a flower leaving a fragrance
With a tinge of lavender,
The moon, making you forget
That his beauty is just a reflection.
The rain, compelling the desert
To sprout grass and the inability of
A dreamer to be sane even
For a night.

Like sleeplessness perching
You down into the submission
Of vulnerability and kindness
Winning a rigged combat without
The need for bloodshed.
The mountains calling you out
In the wake of a snowfall and
The rain-soaked roads leading
You up to a picturesque waterfall.

You gotta give in, to something
At some point of time.
Sometimes over a sparrow or
A cat. Over your own image
Or that of a lovely dog.

There will not be an obvious choice,
But you must choose a thing or two,
To bruise the walls of your heart,
To have a scratch-able old scar,
To somewhere truly belong.

The Stalker

I listen to you across all
This distance. Sometimes
Pick hazy peeks from
Across the street.

The way you brush,
The way you flush.
The rustle of your hair
While you comb and
The silence of lipstick
On your juicy lips.

You wept yesterday I don't
Know why.
The shame in your eyes
While you stood naked in
Contemplation-
Sometimes I hear your
Silent prayers and I hope
That they're answered.

Also I think you're stuck
In that old playlist.
May I suggest you to listen to
'Billy Joel' now onwards,
But how should I communicate
That you?

You slam your stuff,
Especially your phone when
You're angry.
You've a bad temper you know.
After that an ant stung you
Yesterday, you shut those
Windows pretty hard too.
Don't do that, the curtains
Cuss you for slamming
Them hard.

Also you look frail,
Maybe you should consider
Eating an extra chapati
From now onwards.
Dieting has made you weak,
Your sleep cycle is already
A mess upon that.

I hear your blanket slide up
To your face.
Seems it's past midnight already.
I wish you don't switch off
That bulb in your room,
I'll not be able to see you now
From across the street.

Time to sleep anyway,
I'll have to get some of it.
Also I have to hear your dreams.
So good night 'Little Reindeer.'
Hope, I can assist you,
Through your nightmares
In sleep.

Woman in Love

She'll brush your hair in
Slow motion and caress you
Into submission with her
Unsung lullabies.

She'll cut a pomegranate
On sunny afternoons,
And seed-by-seed feed
You by teasing you first.

She'll wear your formal
Shirt with proper tuck-in
And shoes, make herself
A moustache by pulling front

Her long strands of hair,
And will salute in attention
With a hard thump off
The right leg, to imitate you.

This woman in love, who
Can't write poems but is
Poetic enough-
With her carrot halwa and

Masala dosa, with a mouth
That always blabbers-
This woman in love wants you
To pretend like you're a kid.

But your un-shavable beard
Doesn't let you fiddle with
Your own innocence, and this
Absentee intimacy is

The bone of contention
In the bed.

Hopeless Romantics

You slide your hair a bit and
The Gulmohars smile.
Your bangles dangle and
Moon decides to steal
Some extra light.

Some immortals are busy
Finding excuses for
Their distractions and
Mere mortals' vulnerabilities
Are justified.

The attempts to tame
The shudder of the evening,
And attempts to captivate
The fragrance of jasmines,
In empty matchboxes.

I've got my lip bitten
By the bees to sing you
Honey-filled lullabies too.
But you can't seem to
Notice any of this do you?

So the Gods have decided
To gather again to declare
"Let there be more light" in unison
For the extra luminescence
You may need to recognize
The hopeless romantics.

Enemies of the muse

On every full moon night.
The lake wants to host
The moon.

The moths are the enemy
That wants to feed on
The pie of the light.

The stars are the enemy
That want to fall to have
All the attention they want.

The warevolves and
The vampires. The pragmatists
And the sunlight.

The rain is the enemy that
Wants to ripple the brim by
Shaking up the delight.

You ask me to bring you
The moon too. So I've been
Stealing from the Lake-

Forty-six and counting.
You've been the enemy,
And I have been too..

Unfullfilled

To all the shooting stars
That are just falling.
And all the wishes they
Never fullfill.

To all the letters that
Go unwritten and all
The pens that stutter
Like emotional cripples.

The unworn shoes and
The un-left footprints.
Music discarded and
The songs, forgotten.

The moon has decided
To stop reflecting
The sunlight,
He wants to steal girls-

He's much of a Playboy
Himself these days.

But who's taking care of
The aspiring single lads?
The plant with long,
The narrow, serrated leaves?

The government has
Banned it too.

Bad Tripping

The frozen fog on the window glass

Melts to the warmth of your sigh.

The molten droplets merge into

Each other, creating a trail like a

Band of birds making it out of cages.

It's like Michelangelo's marble shedding 

The extra chunks to absolve herself 

As an angel. 

Like a suicide note of a man who

Killed himself became a paper boat 

After remembering his childhood.

It seems like I am a passenger in 

The spaceship of your reveries.

Where my tragedies bad-trip over 

Your fantasy to grow upon

My unfulfilled longing.

Contradictions

For insomniacs, sleep is 

A prayer.

In the kingdom of the blind

Vision is illegal.

A romantic poet in the

Long line of hangmen was

Honored with a noose

Made out of silk.

The goat that escaped

From the butcher shop

Became a mystical lord 

For a while..

So the devil started 

Punishing the bad men.

They were being punished 

With stolen plotlines

From Murakami's novel

For being too good.

Grind

Why does the dough listen to
The commands of my mother?
Like the clay mixed with water
Dances to the cues of a Potter.

Why do the long woolen threads
Follow the thoughts of my grandmother?
Like those bricks falling in line
To the dictates of a mason.

Like the tones of a nightingale align
With the break of light in the dawn.
Why does the axe follow the hands
Of my father towards the intended

Marks on the wooden log?

And the marbles dance impeccably
On kids' fingers in the street and
Kites fly higher and higher with
Each jerk of the tread.

Why do my words run seamlessly,
Upon your instance like
Hailing of fragrance in the garden
Of longing.

And the dreams run wild and
The rainbows adorn the dull sky
As if you walk past my house
Every midnight.

May a story get to you

May the good stories
Find you like the incessant
Rain off the coastal towns
Of Orissa.

May the plotlines get to
You like North Eastern winds
And unimaginable names
They give to cyclones.

And the water level as it
Rises, alarming the chances
Of a flood-

Knees deep, above the waist.
Then over the belly and
Chest to reach your mouth.
This story, may it get on

Over your head to down,
Like an unintended climax.
And leave worried in a
Good way-

Like the taste of coffee on 

The tip of your tongue,
For the rest of your life.

You'll never know

She tells him stories that

He doesn't understand but

He nods his head into 

Submission all night.

He wants to know why

An unicorn copulates with

Cats and Why the Ravens 

Switched to the rap instead

Of their usual caw-caw.

He doesn't understand why

An alien army would invade,

By telling jokes that don't

Incite any laugh and about-

The paradox of why some

Plants volunteered for

Domestication to colonize

The species that thinks

It is too smart.

And she goes on and on

About the monkeys enslaved

To forcefully fart and flowers

Moulded into firearms for

Battles they never fight.

The stories never end 

The sun never comes up.

He doesn't complain and

You'll never understand

Why this has to be a poem.

The Other-side

With a beer on this beach,
I think about myself sitting in
A room biting the cap of my pen
In search of words.

Or all I can do is sit here thinking
About that beach and the eight
Percent of alcohol between
My teeth, as I do now.

This wishful thinking of being
Somewhere else, watching myself
Hike through a mountain in a
Third-person perspective-

It keeps passing through my
Mind constantly like a simulation,
Wondering about all the un-eaten
Mangoes. Untrodden places-

Unmet people and
The unheard voices.

The urge to chase down all the grace
On one hand, and the urge to
Hunt down all the patience with
Impulsive hate on the other.

The fancy of silence in traffic
And the wisdom of the crowd
When I sulk in solitude.
This vacuum of things happening

Elsewhere when I'm here..
It boggles me.

It boggles me when I think about
The other me who's erasing this poem,
While I'm on the edge of penning
Down the final word here.

Let the Evening come

Let the mellow light of
The late afternoon filter through
The gaps in the neem leaves
And its bitter fruits.

Let the dancing shadows form
An intricate modern art on
The freshly painted wall that's
Facing the west and let
The evening come.

Let the chickens go to brood
In the corner of the barn.
Let the bullocks and carts take a
Relieving sigh after their
Treadfull draft.

The moon must pat down
The crying kids to sleep.
The stars, let them thank all
The mothers for the supper
They've cooked.

The cicadas might be wanting a
Silent stage for their daily cry.
And the ghosts- the doused flicker
For their late night dance.

So let the evening come to pat
Down some of us to sleep and
Wake others in their dreams.
Let it come like it always has been.

And sometimes in many ways it
Always hasn't been.

Reading a Good Poem

There's nothing like reading
A good poem-

There's nothing like learning
How the moon slips silently into
Someone's black and white
Childhood photo.

And there's nothing like realising
How the salty breeze of
The sea might smell like
Over-aged Jasmines and how

The boat by the desert can
Carry dreams from the realm
Of sleep to reality with the sailor
Always missing.

There's nothing like appreciating
The funeral in Dickinson's head.
Or the way Linda Pastan listens to
The silence of the eggs that hatch.

And the Bukowski's whores that
Are as romantic as the Faiz's
Pristine damsels or Ghalib's
Misery draped in silk and-

How Billy Collins compares
Forgetfulness to his memory's
Retirement to a little fishing village
Where there are no phones.

And like that when it heaves
The calm oceans of your heart,
To come crashing down on your throat
To finally, break into just a bit of

Moist feeling in the eyes as
Happy tears. You too will declare
That there's nothing like reading
A good poem.

The Silence that won

The king sent a proposal across
His kingdom to create silence.
Declaring, the silentest of silence
Shall be rewarded.

Someone emptied colors off
A rose and brought it to the king.
And another brought the heart
Of a friend who was betrayed.

The blood-soaked soil off a battlefield
Seemed enough at one point.
Till someone offered the thirst of a
Sailor amidst the sea of water.

Someone split particle of a dust
To show there's more to it,
Which was contested by dried-out tears
Of a mother whose son had died.

A Chinese monk came off with his
Meditative mind and when the judges
Entered inside, his disciples
Scraped noise off other silences-

To offer more assertive silence,
That imploded everyone's thoughts
Into emptiness. And that won
The final prize.