April 2 Poem: DEGCHI

my degchi feels empty right now,

i have used the last of the bread slices

to wipe the leftover masala clean,

there’s nothing, nothing left to give,

years have tarnished the once shiny outside,

it’s time i scrubbed it clean, outside and in,

the stains are so tough, cracks will show.

they say good cooks don’t use chemicals to scour

their degchis, it takes away years of skill,

and love poured into the dishes cooked,

each dish a living, breathing experience,

built on what went before,

when do they know it’s time to hang it up?

i look at own old, greying crock pot,

holding it under cold running water,

feeling the cracks made by heated

arguments and unsavory relationships,

how long will it last? how long will i?

april is poetry writing month. poem #1

when you fail at crossword

fail at sudoku

you put the pen down.

what do you give up

when you fail at relationships?

if i could paint...

if i could paint,

i would use my fingers,

paintbrushes cannot feel

that burnt sienna slithering,

sliding, settling into the grooves

of fingertips and between nails

before marking an impression

on the empty canvas.

i bought a smock and took classes

so i could feel the crushed charcoal

smooth underneath my fingers

and spread on the page

i practiced the delicate touch

and manipulated water to spread color

where i wanted to.

do you not see, my love is not acrylic

it is living water, coal, oil.

i need you to understand why  

i’m not a pristine, empty canvas

i’ve been painted over, discarded even

no spring colors will make an impression

you will see winter grays when my fingers pour

my heart out, squeeze dark colors of my soul.

me

i’m standing tiptoe,

and the stars are right there

aching to be plucked,

weighed down by their charm,

i’m melting ever so slowly,

helplessly, into a jamjar of verse

you penned carelessly.

elemental dissolve

some call it.

there are incessant crickets

in this suffocating, cloying

butterscotch stained evening

you poured into the jar,

and sand from the beach

that smells of aftershave and seaweed,

i’m drawn deeper into your cold

and crowded secret heart,

waiting patiently at the bottom.

i watch a bubble escape

my lungs, it can hold

only so many honeyed lies

i’ve told myself and you’ve told me.

your crooked smile,

has left its fingerprint on my throat,

i’m drawn to the starless night,

let me go. i need to fly.  

affair

i live between two poems

iron out frustrations from uniforms,

sprinkle sighs on endless breakfasts,

clear up dishes, think of lunch,

wash clothes, get homework done,

shut windows to mosquitoes,

fluff pillows for my kid’s head.

sneak back downstairs, pick up

dishes, toys, books, a half-eaten apple,

and eat what’s left on kiddo’s plate.

if the mythical lover shows up,

i turn into an orange blossom scented houri,

if he doesn’t, i let a cup of assam seduce me,

and when the whole city is quiet,

and moonlight has settled on my pillow,

i’m armed with an ink-filled waterman,

i begin a raging affair with poetry.

घर

सुबह बस एक कप चाय बनती है,

और टोस्ट भी प्लेट पर तनहा ही दिखता है,

आजकल हमारा घर कुछ अकेला लगता है.

अपने पीछे दरवाज़ा बंद कर निकल तो जाते हैं,

दिन का खाना ऑफीस के कॅंटीन से ही मँगवाते हैं,

काम में डूबे रहना ठीक लगता है, क्योंकि

आजकल हमारा घर कुछ अकेला पड़ता है.

थकान से चूर चाबी जब ताले से लगती है,

और माइक्रोवेव की बीप कहती है खाना खा लो,

टीवी की आवाज़ रिक्त कोनो को भी भर देती है, फिर भी

हमारा घर कुछ अकेला लगता है.

नींद भी आ ही जाती है सौ पन्नो के बाद,

किताब भी लुढ़क जाती है लाइट ऑफ होने के बाद,

खिड़की से हज़ारों सितारे झाँक कर देखते हैं,

उन्हे भी हमारा घर अकेला लगता है.

अपने अकेलेपन पर जब तरस खाते हैं हम,

पड़ोस से कड़वी आवाज़ें सुनाई देती हैं,

रोशनी को धीमा करके, राहत को तेज़ कर देते हैं हम,

सोचते हैं, हमारा घर अकेला है, मगर अच्छा लगता है.

coward

i think i may be a coward.

in this lonely house, shadows scare me,

in the crowds, loneliness.

loud voices make me shrink,

silent insults crush me more.

afraid to get lost in books,

also worried if i should lose words.

should i dream or not i hesitate,

and dread the waking moment too.

i’ve locked up my tongue or i might,

come undone by the truths it hides.

dying to be touched by you, but unglued

by the prospect of inadequacy.

i drink my coffee hot to mask my sighs,

and always know location of exit doors.

my eyes are lowered or you might ask

for that rare smile i stole from you.

i look for safe places to hide, wrapped

in this long list of mostly unwritten fears.