'Where did he go?'

'Where did he go?' - a first draft

Over a month now,
I miss him
Where did he go?
My aaku koora person,
my leafy vegetables vendor
For three years now
His feet have marked our road
His voice has given the morning
Its verdant smile
Except for a rare day

Body as puny as a child’s
Skin the colour of bitter chocolate
Coarse dark hair brushed back,
When not subdued by hair oil,
Stray to the forehead in spirited tufts
Or stand up on the top of the scalp
like a coaled peacock feather
One hand polio-stunted
As small as a child’s
Dirt winks from under the fingernails
He walks his bicycle
All bones with its rattle and clang
Calls out in a voice strong
As a brawny young man’s,
‘Aaku kooralu amma, Aaka kooralu …
Methi, palak, kothmir, karve paak…’
The call marks time – a half past eight,
Or earlier
So much coziness in this routine
That seldom goes awry

On nippier mornings
He sports a child’s school sweater
Navy blue with white bands
The colours have aged
Frequent washings squeezed out
Their freshness
A handloom towel
Knotted around his head
To keep the cold at bay
Is his drab crown
On rainy mornings
A plastic bag like a jester’s cap
Shields his head
Its crushed transparency
Mottled with raindrops.

One day, I tell him,
My aaku koora person,
‘Take this kadipatta
It’s from my garden
Sell it
Make some money for you.’
Hand him a capacious plastic bag
Overflowing with aromatic leaves
Appetite stimulating charms
In abundance
He looks at me in disbelief
The widening smile festoons
His crinkled face
And I, who would have
Someone pluck stars to festoon
The doorways of my life
And light up the thresholds
Of its festive moments
Feel humbled … for several lifetimes.

Where did he go,
my aaku koora person?
To his village I hope
Or to some other colony
To offer his leafy freshness
I thrust away all fears
About his well-being
And ask God to bless him
Who blessed my mornings
with fresh offerings of greens
And more

'My word strain to touch ... '

words ... silence (first draft)

(Friday, 06 November 2009)

My words strain to touch
the hem of your silence

Too human your silence
Too ill my words

No greater folly than this
to seek the healing brush
from a garment
fringed with worldly cares

Tassels

Tassels

(Sunday, 15 November 2009)

The tassels of your silken silence
stroke my words
lull them into stillness
Old flusters twitching in my words
put to rest finally -
that's the hope
The tussle between
your silence and my words ends?

'I tell my son'

'I tell my son'

Thursday, 05 November 2009)

I tell my son,
'When i was your age,
like you i did rage
now when the spirit whimpers
i simper,
say, 'All the world's a stage ...'.

Move on, dear friends,
don't pause to critique this page
:)

'when i was four'

'when I was four'

(Thursday, 05 November 2009)

When I was four
my heart did glow
with home-grown joys
Now it sears
with borrowed fears

When I touch fifty
with smiles thrifty
I will dole out frowns
At fifty
How nifty!

'smile ... frown'

smile ... frown

(Thursday, 05 November 2009
For a smile, swap a frown
bury the frown deep down
make it wear a tipsy crown
Heads turn to say,
"Someone new in town!"

'My words are sandbanks...'

'words ... silence'

(Wednesday, 04 November 2009)

My words are sandbanks
Your silence in spate
washes over them
Yet nothing of it
seeps down
Dommage?
I guess

Triolet

Triolet (my first one)

(Tuesday, 03 November 2009) at 22:43

A daily sampling of poems should be the regimen
Should you wish to craft poems, not blindly dart
Many poetic forms know, no gaping at each specimen
A daily sampling of poems should be the regimen
Read, feel more, what will not suffice is acumen
The going tough, from the ABC of this art, start
A daily sampling of poems should be the regimen
Should you wish to craft poems, not blindly dart

'Cloven hopes'

'Cloven hopes'

(Saturday, 31 October 2009)

Cloven hopes
Dreams leave
Grip on life
slackens
a little more

'despair'

'despair'

(Friday, 30 October 2009)

No one dabbles in despair
It takes you by the throat
Leaves you high and dry
Now release that choked cry