chaiNboli

How tragic it is  To think that at given second Anyone of us can die  And be forgotten within a month, may be a week. Melanin wings of a dragon fly torn by jaggery coloured thumbs of autumn, A poem lies naked in the wash basin spelling death as beauty. Beauty as in the drooling of sunlight over your honey skin. Don't ask me what happened to the poet- He was plucking potatoes near a coal mine to feed the crows and pigeons and it was the last location he was seen as per the reports. Our ancestors taught us that we are daybreaks made up of dust, soon to be back from art to clay. Don't ask me where they are now- Last time we talked , they were massaging the foreheads of their plushies with their little hands, trying to ease the pains of these stuffed beauties, arguing could they can save anything for they can't even save themselves. So, believe me when I say we are all the same sometimes. From protein deficienct mother tongues to  sly lullabies on autopsy tables. But then we ...

My hands, not courageous enough to hold all the sadness together, thinks of a monsoon cloud as blood clot in sky's brain and weeps for it. My hands, a January child, silent and dry like a mustard seed over cooked, tries to remember forgotten love songs and to write it in ancient colours. My hands, a language died before passing it on, mouths mute prayers to Greek gods before falling asleep over a journal. My hands, who chauffeurs me into bathroom every night, hangs the head low when it's lover asks it to give a proper goodbye. My hands, tearing its  stitches itself, hangs like a clothline over an unmade bed, waiting patiently for an apocalypse. My hands, performs mediocre poems on new year eves, shouting it's lungs dry. My hands, not  afraid of blood and beestings, keeps duck tapes in its purse to glue together the broken pieces of strangers crying in the seashores. My hands, a self declared God, feeds it's wounds but never caress them with soft smiles. My hands, an fun...

Apples teach us that there is  life and sweetness in splitting open ourselves. The monsoon cloud who awkardly asked the rain if he could walk with her in the city, only to be rejected, teaches that a sigh can shake one's world. While running away with sunsets in floppy disks, our mother tongues fractured their skulls only to teach us that sadness not only stands closer to railway platform,  but also jumps suddenly infront of a car. Folded mountains who take trial room selfies even after realising there is volcanoes inside them speaks of uneasiness of an artist  parading in the battle grounds for inspiration. Burning like sodium lanterns in the nook of clay houses, a poem left behind asks for a hug,  spilling blues everywhere it goes. It is asking whether it is making any sense. May be I should blink twice and pinch my nose,  May be then someone will teach me what a poem really is.

Sighs in a march afternoon is  An equatorial spring where carnations walk slowly. It drapes saree over bougainvillea with the  divine hands we believed to be stored in our little wooden churches. The fingerprint of a honeybee resides under a leather chappal, dreaming of all gluttonous apples it can feed in heaven. The pitiful roll of a dice when the bangle seller wondering about the puzzle of kneeling before god talking about pain in knees. Silence spreads as if in an ouja board in the verandah, listening to oranges arguing about lemons being their half sisters. This is when poetry decides for a walk with amputated metaphors in place of legs. The snake who was making a bed for her lover looked at with sympathy and offered it a cup of pineapple juice. The morning paracetamol someone forgot to take danced in circles around it asking for a throat to sleep. It walked through the staircase of the shop where the songs of owls are auctioned like it is an emergency exit. The shoes beg...

Because my rage is a single parent Not welcomed into social gatherings nor into mothers kitchen, It melts unsold  birthday candles to sweet words everyone loves to listen to. Because my rage is a vehicle sure to break down in the middle of a traffic, but can't afford to do so, It gives angry horns as yellow clay butterflies try to sunbath in the dewy light. Because my rage is an auctioneer with a parched throat, desperately wanting a sip of water amongst ridiculous bids, it smiles at you with glorious insanity and keep the mouth closed. Because my rage is a cold star residing in the cave of swimmers, with a life jacket torn and muddy, it makes matching necklaces for the hands of shadows  that danced on the funeral match of a young poet. Because my rage is a sixth sense dialect questioning the impatient song of a bird,  it let you mistranslate it rather than giving an explanation no one asked for. Because my rage is a hotel drenching in the roaring monsoons where paper boa...