Beyond Words and Paper

I want to write a poem
only for you.
I want to leave the pages empty
and scribble in the margins,
Tiny little words.
Your words.
The words should not talk
Of the moon,
not of the scattered stars
and not of the dark grey clouds
Who have often reminded me
of your veil.
I want the poem
to be devoid
of the river’s calmness,
of the cool sand
and of night’s mahogany fragrance.
I want the metaphors to shrink away
and similes to die and be lost to the wind
rise from the poem,
Only the letters which spell your name.
I want to write a poem only for you
So that it becomes mine.
I want the poem to begin
from the tip of your eyelashes
and flow through the night.

To the lovers who were sitting in Gandhi Maidan one evening.

 I have been sought by many
but have truly been loved
by only two women.
I have sought no one
and have truly loved only one
so far.
Seven lives it may take
and seven loves in each one of them
to understand why the leaves decide
to wilt when the clouds go away,
or why the typewriter gets
out of ink on the nights when one
sits to write a love poem.
The solutions to the mysteries of the universe
are unavailable in the local book market.

In the meanwhile;
we keep writing poems,
attaching words by the arms and commas by the head,
rearranging the clouds in the sky
and we keep falling short of
that one perfect poem.


One may never completely learn
the etiquette of a language 
that has come to him
on imported perfume bottles
and sweetened milk cartons.
One tries though!
'La amour'..... For example.
(One makes funny faces
in front of the mirror pronouncing it.)
Make a mental note.
(Mental note: use it to have some effect on people.
See if it’s working.)

The language, whatever it may be, 
demands a person
to nurture it with some blood
and build houses
to make it feel home.
(I wonder how would someone
Feel home in something
(Mental note 2:

whenever a language meets a person,
(in whatever way it visits.)
It brings to him,
The woes of his battles,
The joys of its games,
The smell of its grasslands;
and a person,
on his tongue, can taste
The seas of that language.
(Mental note: make a ship so
big, it sails.)
(Die! Choke on these expressions.)

There are corners in a language 
where similes live; and
attic where metaphors hide.
(Remembers, a ghoul lived in Ron's attic.)
Any traveler can rest there.
(With the journey so long
and roads this hostile,
One needs homes too many.)
(Mental note:
 vice-versa that.)

Both are home. 
(“Excellent thought”. merci.)

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