A Requiem


, ,

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee,

Cloud of the vapor rising from the cup.


Visible against the morning sunlight-

entrant thru’ a recently opened window.


Someone died yester night, not sudden;

Someone, I knew, never understood.

Death brings comfort like no life ever would.


I can now finally cremate you-

My childhood; put a poem on your grave.


‘the coffee’ has gone cold, the aroma-

has drowned, I always drink it cold.


‘you were true, but, not truth’

-that’s all the poem I could write for you.


The Antithesis


, , , , , , ,

It sees the shadows.

Shows it to the world,

The dark of those illuminated-

The Sun.


Shy of its light.

It’s own scars visible.

Shy of the borrowed shine-

The moon.




Self deluded, self important;

All knowing, yet proud of it’s stupidity,

Not sorry, never sorry; hallucinating-

The heart.


Conscious of it’s strengths,

The social limitations,

Aware of what is good or wrong-

The mind.




With no exceptions, they co-exist;

It’s only u, my love.

Who won’t know it,

Nor ever reply me.


My soul knows and aches-

Of this knowledge.

Is your existence still celebrating-

The demise of your



The Cold Gun



Steel of the gun; cold.

knowledge of things,

but, even colder.

Its nozzle, to his forehead,

Between the eyes,

Where his parents,

Once kissed and blessed.

And one who only kissed.

Fingers on the trigger,

Never trembled;

neither ever pulled.

death was coldest, he knew.

the cold hearts around-

would stare his soul cold,

Cremate and exhume him,

tirelessly till they felt some warmth

or it was time to attend home.

Cold Gun

The Glass Moon

Lying under the night,17714_1290_1_lg

Drunk with cheap whiskey,

Indistinct figure in the dark,

A few floating clouds,

All of them grey.

For his company-

the moth eaten moon;

hung by the pulleys of distant stars.


An untimely ravenous hunger,

The moon went-off with a sound,

deep in the whiskey glass.

He swallowed it in one gulp,

minding not-the bitter taste.


In the ensuing darkness,

He vomited tears and

coughed blood.

The Hurtful Man




This crippled rage,

often makes me grind my teeth.

My jaws often ache-

                         of this constant strain.

I open my mouth, and let out

some filthy words, whenever,

                         the ache gets unbearable.

My incisors have got so sharp,

                         It can cut holes through souls.

Gangs of dogs


, , ,

Bit from fatigue, bit from routine,

a product of 6 years in medical school;

not cigarette, nor any brands, but nicotine,

(recent christening of the relic)


Alternating sips of that bittersweet

coffee and nicotine, I thought,

of success and failure of communism.

(and capitalism, where the cigarette butt

crushed under my boot made/unmade

Gods and Governments)


A distant, shouting barking of dogs,

not stray dogs, community dogs,

and many hurried foot shoulder’s-

(four footed in fact, not 2 as the

conservatives or the revolutionaries)


Thunderous breaths, blood-shot eyes,

wagging alert tails, alarmed front -turned ears,

sniffing out smoke with each breath in that cold.

(I wondered, which brand they smoked?)


One from my right, four from my left,

ran to defend something, I wouldn’t know,

to that chaotic place, where they lived and fought.

(I could only guess, but the noise was dreadful).

Shame on you!


, ,

Under your ecstatic skin;

Creeping, filthy motion,

Venomous black blood-

wrath of the defeated.

Stuporous, celebrating victor-

Shame on you!


Shiny badges hide your scar,

It bleeds, it don’t ache.

The more you are proud,

The more you will bleed.

Blind, boasting virtuous-

Shame on you!


A rock on the edge of time,

Balanced by the odds of math,

when touched by present,

Crushed your neighbor’s hope.

Tremulous, happy fortunate-

Shame on you!


For all the books you read,

for all the sleepless nights,

in all those insults-you-learnt;

your heart sleeps beside ignorance.

Myopic, oblivious knowledgeable-

Shame on you!


Stitched with seams of upbringings;

colorless, greyish, gloomy yet clean,

that cloak for your nakedness-

trembles and flutters at her sight.

Puritan, self deluding shamefaced-

Shame on you!


Her picture under your pillow,

tears of separation, in your eyes;

Love; immersed, sub-merged.

Love is relative not exclusive.

Asphyxiating, drowning beloved-

Shame on you!

—-Another Life—-


InAnotherLife-orig36x36A place of divinity and so serene ,
In the mountains or in the plain,
A whisper and a casual promise,
A linger of fistful dreams in my brain.


A love of purity, a lover of literature,
Of similar joys, apartheid sorrows,
In joyous arrival ,in painful departure,
From those eyes my stories I borrow.


Born to love ,who died to lust,
The ghosts ,those precocious swear,
The peace ,the serene ,is long lost,
Another life ,another time to bear.

Of unfinished Wine, Truth and a half boiled Egg.


On either side of the pinewood table;

One with a crooked leg and a secret drawer;

On chairs with lazy backrests,

And cushioned, hanging armrests-

Truth and me, aged red-wine, bottled anew;

A gift of love, friendship and kinship alike.

                           ‘with this bottle of wine,I bring,

A clarity, guilt, no more nor remorse,

Harmony and peace are my seeds,

acknowledge me, they will grow’

Truth, he said, a harsh but assuring sound.


Mystical rainbow-rays of the half-born sun,

On my early morning face, windows half open,

A heavy head, hang-over of the truth,

I found myself, demented over-

Had the sun knocked to enter the room?

And who had opened the wine bottle?

Me or the truth?


Wine bottle recapped, glasses flushed,

Questions shrugged off, a hot dark coffee,

was it just a dream? Two wine glasses, how?

A solitary egg, a kettle-full of water to swim,

Her?, yes her, but, she hated red wine.

Half-boiled eggs, he had always liked,

Rock with a molted core.



, ,

‘Adrenalin’, he shouted,

mist the rotten smell of ‘sulphos’,

‘increase the joules’, hopelessly,

he screamed.

the man in a white coat.

the son of ‘desire to live’

and the coincidental adversary.

– of Thanatos.


defeated, not for the first time,

he prepared for the next round,

a burnt somebody he didn’t know who,

‘open a line’ ‘airway’, he fought.

no scars from the recent defeat,

some we will win- he was sure.

a foot away, contemplating the delay,

-was Thanatos.