Saturday, November 29, 2008
they put us in the midst of cities
full with traffic, concrete, crowds;
us, separated from each other,
and shifted from where we live out;
halted outside the corners of our days,
moved away from our daily habits,
moved into the streets and then asked
to look into the lens of the camera,
as if when we walk daily on these streets,
we look for cameras or into them.
The closed circuit t.v. has none we can
see standing immediately behind.
Here, brought amidst the streets,
for our urban habitats had to be shown;
streets are cities par excellence
and asked for a stationary pose,
as if walking some day we suddenly go
and sit on a half-built wall or sashay
with a rose from the road-side bush
wishing there was someone to make
an image of this, we become still
before the photograph makes us so;
it does not capture now but only
vaguely, we think, confesses our
wish to be clicked posturing.
This, then, is to know our presence,
and to show it, for this we stand, for this
photography repeatedly talks of souls.
Monday, November 24, 2008
She who would pore over an unmade picture
and spend hours turning the colours
from one to another so that when he,
the one in her picture, sits down (his hands
forgetting that they were lax a moment ago),
his back stiffens for he has seen him
entering through the door invisible to us;
his eyes have turned darker by a millionth.
She who knew him in this instance was a poet.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
And they left no emotion but jealousy
to come and froth around me when my lover fucks others,
when the fucker loves others than me;
left no one colour to be seen except green
mimicking the eyes of a lesser devil, trying the part
of the one, in a rehearsal always, already done.
It hides the zealous inside it, the jealous.
for the last time we met, I had stolen your thought
and added to it more, more than all you could think,
and left you in that awful state
when someone says the thing you always had in mind
and that someone says it so beautifully, he makes it his;
now all you say sounds vicarious,
now all you do only pushes you closer to a surrender?
Or would I be inviting you to another round,
sitting opposite you this time, not to win or lose;
to call truce, for surely there was something left
from the last time that has passed over to today?
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
The hard crusts of fruits will split, my love,
if you wait for the season. The paint will
become paper, my love, and come apart,
if you wait for the heat of the day.
The word will be moved under 'archaic,'
my love, if you wait for two centuries.
I know, there is a headiness when they talk,
and a rush from the heart, but do not start;
it would be an interruption if you speak too soon.
When every moment seems late, you have to wait,
wait, my love, and then speak for all the years.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
That aunt who talked of Beethoven, she's....
No, of course, the Bangladeshi dal is thicker!
Which is why I want to write the essay: 'The End of Queer'.
There are lesser chances of getting mugged if you're cycling here.
You did not get Spivak twice in a row.
It's better for your boyfriend to know your girlfriends.
No, not only about J.N.U, no!
But you've not seen the summers yet.
I want to write the essay: 'The End of Bourgeois'.
In the room the people come and go
Talking of Ashley Tellis.