The Ant – WIP

The black ant is going home
the grain of sugar is heavy
the scent is long lost
and he needs to hunt for it.

Bloodhounds can’t do better
but the queen is waiting
his life has no meaning
it is hers after all.

His fellow ants will greet him
they won’t know his name
his is the life of the worker
he can never admit to pain.

To N

we still have so much left to say
i hope you won’t leave – don’t go now
the hours, the years, the minutes will stay

our limbs entwined in moonlight play
even when we know, it still seems wow
we still have so much left to say

not even the rain will fall today
not even the sun may take a bow
the hours, the years, the minutes will stay

such small hands with which to pray
large eyes, small mouth, strong brow
we still have so much left to say

nothing was lost, nothing to betray
nothing to give, nothing to allow
the hours, the years, the minutes will stay

not only sadness: joy, goodness and fey
we sowed and reaped them under plow
we still have so much left to say

you were there each night and day
you showed me when, you told me how
we still have so much left to say
the hours, the years, the minutes will stay

Potato

i have no mouth and must scream
my eyes will follow the knife’s descent
i can only hope that it’s a dream

my skin is tattered like a paper’s ream
i feel every shard, every rent
i have no mouth and must scream

i don’t see any tears that will stream
i wasn’t noticed when i went
i can only hope that it’s a dream

the frothing water turns white as cream
from here the world seems somehow bent
i have no mouth and must scream

my clothes were bursting at the seam
but with no money, not a single cent
i can only hope that it’s a dream

i want to make it over the beam
but no one came from where they went
i have no mouth and must scream
i can only hope that it’s a dream

Laugh

you should laugh
this is the theatre of absurdity
nothing which you do now
has been done before
nothing which you want
will you get again
the tears you have cried
have flowed through the valleys
of your hopes and dreams
you were lost and looking
the map of your world is written
in a language you don’t know

laugh then, laugh with the clowns
they have permanent tears for you
tears that you have shed before
the big top will always be taken down
when the show’s over;
but at the next town, the next life,
you will pitch it again.

[Posted with hblogger 2.0 http://www.normsoft.com/hblogger/]

Sadness and loving

I sleep badly at nights,
tossing and turning the dreams away
You were awake,
meanwhile, on the sofa,
in the other room,
surfing the net, or
watching tv,
or maybe even staring out of the window
at the huge beautiful dark scary tree outside

You come to bed,
I lie still, hoping you won’t notice,
hoping you won’t ask,
but there is some part of me that hopes you will,
and I can tell you,
that I haven’t been sleeping well,
not just tonight,
but for a few days,
not every day,
but sometimes.

I want to ramble on,
push my head onto your lap,
wait for the moment when the tears come,
feel your hand on the back of my neck.

But I don’t.

I hear you
change your clothes in the dark,
brush your teeth,
flush the toilet,
get into bed.

Are you awake? you ask
I’m feeling scared and alone.

And then I turn,
hold you,
kiss your forehead,
and miraculously,
as you feel safer,
happier,
so do I.

In Memoriam – Ram

An unpoem, for my oldest friend

I can’t remember
the first time we met.
You were a few hours old, I was told.
I was all grown up by then, a huge three months.

And later too,
I don’t remember the first hi’s.
No akwardness even then
like we had always known each other
from back when.

Don’t you remember
rollerskating down the corridors
the lending library on the campcot
the hailstones which tried to catch?

I never quite managed, although you did catch a couple.

Much older then,
were you eight or nine,
when we couldn’t find cycles for kids
when we tried finding the tigers
when we were at Bharatpur
and my mum called you Aditya II
and yours called me Ram II.

Stronger than any blood tie it was,
christened with each others names.

I remember in school,
we used to sneak out at break,
buy orange toffees,
and spend the rest of the day
sucking them in class.

You were the bright boy,
the well loved clown,
the happy-go-lucky,
never-give-a-care one.

Older, never wiser,
out of school,
you used to come over,
and spend the day, the night,
talking, playing, awake,
and we fell asleep after
watching dawn break over my terrace.
And then when you were leaving,
at the bus stop, we’d wait,
route number 137 it was.
And when the bus came,
it was always too full,
and we’d wait for the next,
neither of us wanting the time to end.

You vanished once before,
for nearly five years,
abroad – that where you were,
another land, and you never were great
with long distance
and neither was I.
But you came back -
nothing had changed.

But it had, and I didn’t know.

The beaches in Goa still await,
the drive around the world hasn’t happened,
bus number 137 still runs,
fuller than ever.

Aren’t you going to catch some hailstones
with me again?

Learning

you watched
as i typed one word at a time
so as not to confuse you

do you understand, a nod, hesitant

and so i turn back to the screen
point and click
wait for the page
(whydidn'tyougetbroadbandslow)
to load and then

there! it's simple; another nod, slow

now you try, getting up
waiting for you to sit down

no no, not there! there, there
impatience building
yes, click it… CLICK IT

o god, here, why don't you let me do it!

a nod, not hesitant at all this time! 

The flowers bloom yellow

The flowers bloom yellow in the field
My father’s voice comes and sings to me
When will it be time to yield

The time has gone, the bells have pealed
The world somehow has ceased to be
The flowers bloom yellow in the field

The stick has come for me to wield
Why the urge for me to flee
When will it be time to yield

My wounds have not yet been healed
There is only one thing I see
The flowers bloom yellow in the field

When will it be time to yield
I can no longer keep climbing the tree
The stick has come for me to wield

The time has gone, the bells have pealed
Someone somewhere is touching me
The flowers bloom yellow in the field
When will it be time to yield

Today

Today
it seems so hard
almost impossible
you start here, somewhere
the somewhen was a time ago
when I was younger, braver
I am not Sisyphus
the rock does not always fall down
but the mountain I climb
is infinite, a dim view
like Everest from the South Pole

Today
it seems like it won’t stop
or when it does, I’ll be left hanging
like on the ferris wheel when I was young
and the man was letting other people on
The snake Ouroborus
goes on eating it’s own tail
and my tale seems neverending
like rain on a monsoon day

Today
I want it to be different
from when I was younger
I don’t want to need to be brave
I don’t want to be strong
like Job with pressure to succumb
to betraying himself in hunger
I don’t want to be hungry anymore
I want it to change

Today

Always downhill

He is standing at the bottom,
panting with hopelessness.
He has been here before
and knows what will come next.

He was mighty once
he captured death in his arms
and old men did not die
till Ares could free him

He will lift his strong arms,
and push against the mighty rock.
His broad shoulders will tighten
and his muscles will ache
The rock will move, slowly,
gathering speed
up the hill of no ending.

He was clever and cruel
escaping from the underworld
pretending to need his wife
he rose again,
but not anymore.

He will tire, break down,
then push some more
and the rock will rise again
Almost there, almost
there, almost
and it will fall again.

Based on the Sisyphean myth – a work in progress