A Writer's Block.

The swaying trees,
Rejoicing the monsoon,
And the falling water on my forehead.
Everything that is meant to be wonderful and poetic.
Everything a desperate romantic would hope for.
It was perfect, at-least it used to be.
But today, it made no sense
It didn't move me to write.
It didn't move me to tears.
The ripples today,
And the glowing fireflies, in hiding
Seemed more technical than magical.
And the miracle seems to have lifted.
Why so ? why this vision ? Devoid.
Something has changed.
Something has gone missing, for too long.
Could it be the happiness.
And the Love, divine.
For all write about love.
For all write about how wonderful it is.
No.
When I fall in love, I'm too busy.
Too busy, loving.
It sure is the anti, a heartbreak.
It sure is the misery, the pain,
The lack of a lover,
It makes me pick up my pen.
The hurt from a loved one,
Compels me to howl, on paper.
Till I feel it.
Till I have it in me.
And today its been long.
Since I fell in love, to break my heart.
Since I felt like a poet.
Since I wrote poetry.

A Tiff.

For today when he sat down in a perfect sitting with dim yellow lights, cool breeze and some drizzling, inspiration did not come to him. He fought hard, for the nib to scribble some words on the once blank sheet, now marked with desperation. After a couple of trials some lines appeared but they didn’t make any sense. A mediocre gibberish. Multiple topics of wonderful poetry passed his head, but none of them good enough. Nothing moved him today. He has been like this since the past few days. The writer in him was suffocating  and dying a painful death. It felt like that. 

 He desperately had to fall in love and get his heart broken again.

Subjective.

So what name do I give you

A stirrer, soul shaker

An amen, or a life restorer

Or just a one night stand.

Leaving Home.

For what joy did I move away from the town and the boys ?
For what reasons I escaped the haven of men, probable loves ?
Probably I was running out of reasons to Love.
Love, so venting, so demanding.
So heartbreaking.

The Call

How long has it been since wood excited me ?

Since the colors painted,

Sounds and smells around me ?
Brass in its luster seducing.
Stone in all its coolness, pacifying.
That muddy smell,
The erotic weathered paint,
Intoxication from an antique object.
One old unlikely embossed tanjore 
reminds me of a kingship.
Gold, rubies and reckless diamonds.
Ah the moth eaten carpets.
Have they become more beautiful with time.
The faded silk and some knots missing.
Those chipped ceramics andplastered faux
These are not the object of a Japanese king, appreciative,
But a broke indian king, spent.
It is a beautiful melody, dying.
A fragile dream, awaiting the intrusive morning.
I too shed a single tear
A silent protest
A helpless lover.

Offended of sorts.

This rapist and that molester

This corrupt politician, that suppressive leader.

Them, these men and women of the unethical-

They are after me.

A fragile flower admirer.

A jovial children lover

A worshipper of women

A helping hand for the incapable

A helper of sorts

I, a gay man,

A confused man.

A half man, a “more than a man”- man.

I a criminal?

I a sinner?

What I see today is a beautiful reflection.

A beautiful creation, in its flaws.

Not sexual but physical.

It’s me, now a criminal.

In a lands of hypocrisy and the unaware

In a land torn between irony and injustice.

In a land that is now ceasing to be.

In a land that seems no longer my own.

Detached.

Altitude twists attitudes.

High floors brews philosophers.

There is something about these hanging balconies,

You can look away and beyond-

Far from the reality.

Once in a while I do give in to this temptation.

I sit too, in my balcony of a high apartment.

At night when the sounds are less, and light specks many.

A game of lego, only illuminated.

Block on blocks, blocks following blocks

Dazzled in patterns of black and yellow.

At night everything is one

No rich and no poor

That blue of the cheap plastic that coats the slum tops

That matt of the stone surface that adorns the beautiful ones

All submerge into one black, just yellow showy crystals.

But in this height, air deprived

I feel detached.

I feel removed.

No bodies to be seen.

No hands to be brushed against.

Eyes disappeared into the dark.

No glints, no hopes.

I’d rather be a thriving loafer,

Than a lonesome philosopher.

So I climb down

To collect another story
To fashion another poem.

March.

The venomous hiss of an inky black backdrop,

Spill over hunting skeletons in cautious attires.

The liberals and the orthodox,

Rant and pray and hunt.

For the twilight is never far,

And the hours are never countless,

Desire is never content.

These forlorn suggestive statures

In the middle of nowhere, at an awkward hour.

Coincidence?

A staged drama indeed,

Ending in ironies and tragedies.

These actors are protagonists, all of them.

The stories, Shakespearean in their narration.

Bombay , stained by sin, awaits a monsoon.