Dear, some of my things are still lying at your place. A few rain lashed days and perhaps in one of my letters Lie wrapped all those nights. Forget the nights, Return the letters with rest of my things.

It is fall now, isn’t it? From that other fall, echoes of a few leaves falling From a branch, (remember that one, under which we were kissing?) I still wear like earrings. It appears that branch is still shivering. Just cut it down. And return the rest of my things.

Under my flimsy umbrella, remember after we were suddenly Caught by a storm and reached your place, half wet half dry? I think I dropped something as I dried myself then: my heart. See if you can find it next to your bed, still wet. Please return it along with rest of my things.

One hundred and sixteen moonlight nights, the line of your shoulders, The scent of wet henna on my hands, my silly complaints, All your promises, (that weren’t meant to be kept even then), These I can reprise again but I won’t. Just return my things.

…

Oh yes, what should I do with your letters? If you will permit me, I will burn them, And go to sleep, as they burn And go to sleep, as they burn.

Translations

Someone, engorged enters,

This room where I sit, Knocking the doors down. Bolts shoot from their hinges. And since I lay myself, crosswise like a log To hold the gate, I was broken in the middle.

You. Sweat flows into more sweat.

I reach out to touch and touch only that smell.

Skin slowly flushes with blood.

Fevered disbelief chars my flesh, This must be the secret recipe I had long begged God for!

Then firmly in place, he begins to swing

So firmly that I can’t miss or avoid!

a hammer, steel cold steel on these walls.

Half the time, my voice was like a hammer too With which I tried to nail love into place, I must have misread the directions of use, For I have knocked out my teeth instead. Ivory, precious ivory, dribbles from my lips, As I smile, my mouth full of red bone!

Flesh clings to flesh.

Its flesh that is weak, not love. Forgive us Father; we don’t know what we do.

Joining and cleaving, like Velcro, ripping out screams. Pleasure. Bursting pleasure!

My clothes unable to bear this, In imitation, rip themselves at their seams, and roll back Into bolts of cloth, so many bolts, Leaving behind so much, new and uncovered!

My Poems

Spring moves grandly through these days, a sequence of days all shedding different flowers, First it was huge camellias followed by star magnolias. Now cherry trees seem to have brought with them an inch of pink snow. Why complain of tears then?

And then today breaking sprigs of mauve from Red Buds lining the avenues, I could not but wonder How those black twisted branches held such deep color Or how well they keep their strength hidden and didn’t let Judas down till he swung dead. Why complain of betrayal then?

The earth hurtles towards heat. Someplace now It is descending from the skies, falling as bombs on the ziggurats. Here we moth ball our woolens, switch on the air conditioning and prepare to wait this siege out, after the winters. Why complain of burning then?

My Poems