A Small Wish

When the Moon
Drowns herself in the dreams of Monét-
pin a few broken
Couplets
at the satin edge
of my skirt
with poppies and pansies

And
let a torn lace
from-my bodice-
bandage-
the crushed-
breaths
on your mahogany bed

And when
the naked mirrors
cover themselves
with blue starlight-
tuck the emerald
of the earth
in my hair
and let these forests bloom
as jasmines, olives, and sandalwood
on the white horse of your pillow
That rides
On the wet waist
of Heer

And when
Each drunk moment
opens as a full-blown pink lilac
Climbing to the ceiling
That onyx eyelashes paint
Frescoes on-
hook the anchors
of my floating soul
to the crystal beaches
of maple songs-
that
f
a
l
l
On the folds of a naked rose


…and
sleep, sleep, my Love, Sleep…

The blush dawning on hill-tops
Shall wipe your
Gulposh
w
i
n
d o w s

C l e a n… 

Available at poemhunter.com

Are You the Wolf who Stood at the Edge of a Forlorn Fairy Tale?

...against the pink sky the bones are still crackling

refusing to melt in the heat. The fire that lit up

anecdotes now folds winter in your eyes. Are you

the same that howled for Princess Vasilisa? Her

hair brush was a forest of fresh seasons. This mist

rises from your cold fur that you couldn't get rid of.

Don't wait for the moon. The threads of dry rivers

have used it to spin a forlorn valley where you

would catch her smell; that was a dew eons ago.

These tufts of grass that sleep at your legs are kingdoms

she surrendered for you. Your blood never heated again.

When the sky turns red, you might find an address:

You might find fire.

Published in Visual Verse

For Shakuni

Below the reign of pollen

Is a staircase where an

Ampersand awaits.

…and i throw the bones

of my forefathers

On the dusty Game Board

The dice cracks

            o   p   e   n – an atlas where

history

            b

            l

            e

            e

            d

            s

Cartilage boils to your whispers

Carthage and Hastinapur wake

In the slipping satin from

The tips of Time

And in the nucleus of sapphire

King Priam was already r i d i n’

on the minutes dripping

From the veins of crown

Shedding jungles of gold

Now a cluster of anemone

You decorated the slave girl’s

Hair with.

Did the moving stars not tell you

Termites will be the wise ones

with screeches of chariots  - lost

digested, safely

In their bellies?

Published in Contemporary Literary Review India

Blue

Time has become too old

Even for history

Here -                          Dust it off

                                    From window pains

                                    Polished planets

                                    Have played

                                    Chinese Checkers

                                    For too long!

From an empty

Glass square

A rusted season

Has fallen on

The wrinkled

Log hours

With bullets

for fruits

and shelter

in dead leaves!

                        Climb! Climb!

                        Up! Up and up!

                        Pluck the rainbow

                        Even though

It is half of a circle…

Open its Blue

Carefully

For your

Sky is Lost

Find it in the long winter sleeves

Of your pherans

…ice will soon cover you

    The red explosions

    Will turn you

Into

    news-bleached

    Bricks.

 Published in Contemporary Literary Review India

Post Script

Yesterday. Today. Many days...

Calpol of bad news

Saved your waxed laughter

For cold logs to burn

Till

Mad Hatter takes you

To Brooklyn Bridge

To a market

Where your last coin

Will be your laughter.



Published in Coldnoon Travel Poetics

Caterpillar Voices

Tomatoes

Stuffed with periods

Gushed

To two worlds.

On cascading sewerage

P&G...Xerox...Britannia

Tossed into balls

Bell jars explode

In caterpillar voices

The green strip moves to Savannah fields

Pygmy pods open

With yellow seeds

The heart was never dark

Veins never change on map of blood...

Pitcher plants ate the last butterfly

Tattooed on my breath.

Who will make Russian salad with Chinese cabbage?

Red always cries

In tomatoes

Of Hanging Gardens buried

In tongues...

Published in Coldnoon Travel Poetics

At Lake Street

Potter-wheels-fingers

Light falls only   in    his     hut

He mixed night with porcelain

A strip of Czech

Brushed-bruised-briefed

On bleached brunette head

The walnut

Missing its wires

Snaking through Apple’s map

Foxtails. E-mails. Blazers. Razors

Clumped into a globe of Day...

...your world, white, cold

A grey eyed child

Buries black bones

Every winter

In the hut – your Uncle whore as a crown!

Published in Coldnoon Travel Poetics

A Torn Note

The moon’s last cry

Sound of lilies

Frosted in the violin

Winter nest             bleeding womb of poppies

Wail of papyrus in summer                   n o o n

The petal Book of Black

A scalpel tears

the algebra of Braille...

My shadows fall apart

Red-orange-yellow

Aflame

Thin sunlight s...i...m...m...e...r...s in rice pot

She stitches fresh roses

On dew dipped blouses

Inside hijaab          

Little tulips fight

For Spring

diaries you wrote

Still smell of camphor

Your letters sway on c-l-o-t-h-e-s-l-i-n-e

A blast somewhere

In-visible cities

Atlantis appears on your swollen skin

Tin kettle sweats of Shopian

Glossary

Hijaab – a head covering worn by Muslim women

Shopian – A small town in Kashmir also known as the Valley’s Apple Orchard

Published in Brown Boat magazine

Questions

1.
Is the grape only a ripe pitcher 
Of Shiraz and Bordeaux?
Or is it the breast of a pagan goddess
Hiding behind the leaves 
Of primeval thirst? 

2.
Why does Chopin leave
wet roses 
on lines and dots
of Guernica?

3.
Is a tear 
an ocean’s only jewel box 
or does it hold 
Bohemian treasures also?

4.
Will the letter-box 
filled with blue moonlight
Ever taste 
the salty winds 
of floating worlds?

5.
Why do white roses 
of your mornings
bloom 
In wombs and words?

6.
Which harbour 
do lost paper boats
Drop ancient childhood 
laughters to?

7.
Is the butterfly a flying flower?
Or had Monét stolen
all the water lilies
From its wings?

Bangles

Halo of planets

Kaleidoscopic

Dance

            Body flames

Light up iced-candle-eons

            The sun stole

From our mouths

            Moulding rainbows

In glass

Breathe, like a gentle rustle of feathers

Dreams are melting

Into slivers of moon

The dome of the Taj shakes kahkashaan

                        Millions of stars rain

                        On thin, brittle entrance

                        Of Koh-e-Kaf

Zafar’s broken syllables

                                          Hang

                                                     Sun-washed

Silence dribbles down

                       Hennaed wrists:

Calligraphy in blood

The dewy air rising from Zabarwan

                                        Wraps the

                                        Cool ivory

                                        Hands

The jingle of stars gives way

                        For a diamond to cover

                        The islets of eyes

And shakes snow off

The glow of planets

 Descends

 Tinkling

With palms rising as lotus

Sending forth murmurs

To the fajr skies

The silver-dust seals the envelope

                        That in dreams

                        You called Prayer

Footnote

Neruda’s songs

Fill

Your ankles

            The waves in the seashells

            Die

            Under heavy boots

            Descending from

            Ghost trains

Fish the fading sounds

Of your lost tongue

In the net of blue mist

Pocket a few syllables

And scatter them

On tufts of grass

                        Growing near rusted

                        Rail tracks

                        Separated by

                        Sand of old voices

A handful of glittering granules

Make a glossary

That the wind will

Carry as rose scents

                                    To the frozen faces

                                                At

                                                    Lal Chowk…

For You

                                                                                                                               

In my veins

You? Reign?

                        My scarf was a lonesome bloom

                        In the shadow of Autumn

What was that sun

On your rooftop?

                        Have the seashells carried

                        My future

                        Azure? Ashore?

Question marks always turn liquid on balmy beaches –

The nazm I dived in

Was God

Sleeping

            In ice sheets

A bleeding dream mated me

                                                Trickling from silver birches

Orion tasseled with vākhs

Brings baskets of birdsongs

            A world filled with green and sun

            Awaits its own return

Frontiers of colours

Sun the park benches

            It will take an epic

            To pluck your phantasm

            From ripe fruits

            From rice shoots

From the sleepy hazel ocean

A bud of Word bursts open

                                                An aster world has fallen

                                                From the dot of i

Fall reigns

Over tufts        

Of honeysuckle!

The forlorn future is my watermark

                        Papyrus dyed in lamp-years

                        Curls around

                        The soul in inkpot

The last twinkle

Of sodden Night

Shall drip

            On your closed eyelids…

Shortlisted for Raed Leaf Poetry, 2013 Contest