Storms that Rage

Storms that rage

at the shore of my mind

drown out the cries

of thoughts

trying to swim to safety.

All lifeboats thrashed

into tiny white and grey shards

amidst the cold

spray

that turns the extreme

to unfeeling.

Only Darkness floats steadily-

Darkness can hold so much anger.

Blue anger,

White darkness,

Dark blood-

In some hell,

it hangs like

a pretty picture.

Gus Van Sant
From "Good Will Hunting"

Quiet Afternoon

Everyone else is sleeping.

Even outside 

the snake skinned stick, 

curled around wires, 

sways in the wind sleepily.

The bristling sun is halted by

trees

wooden doors

and thick curtains.

The living room 

is lit dark

and still-

Enough for 

an idle thought

to appear but not linger-

Enough to 

blur

outlines of

sun

wind

stick

tree

door

and me.

Sometimes

a bird chirps unceremoniously

in the afternoon-

Sometimes

a striped lizard scurries along

a hard wood beam-

Sometimes

the shadow of leaves shifts

on the ceiling-

and then

a thought becomes 

an idea

an idea becomes 

a story

a story becomes 

a poem

a poem becomes 

an agenda-

and then

the stillness breaks.

Perhaps that 

is the tragedy

of a quiet afternoon-

A perfect stillness

broken

when it is known.

Footsteps of Monsoon

I had forgotten what monsoon sounded like.

Desperate whirring fans-

trying to cool air

that presses down with

the weight of its

unshed tears-

unable to break the

silence 

of salt

slowly 

sticking

to cloth

and skin.

Without warning,

a heat wholly opposed

to evaporation-

Evaporates

with a chilling cry

into the rumbling clouds.

The clouds hide their faces

in dark beards that stretch the sky

but the wind carries: 

the sound of their 

watery footsteps 

beating on the pavement

louder and louder

Pach,

PaCH

PACH-

faster and faster

Pach,

PachpachPach,

PachpachPachpachPach-

the sound of their 

watery hands

beat on the door

Dhar

DHaR

DHAR-

the sound of their 

watery ghunghru

strike on the roof

tapar

Tapar, 

TaPaR!

There is no sense

to this liberated chaos-

liberated children

liberated garbage

liberated bodies.

Shimmers of 

silver gota on a pallu

crackles in the sky 

as the clouds move onwards.

They leave a promise of return

on an unspecified date:

the familiar

uncomfortable silence.

A papiha trills for respite

as the darkness turns grey again-

I had forgotten the sound of longing

for footsteps heading 

home.

Uncredited: news18, June 17 '20