Wednesday, February 25, 2015

Now people see me as grown-up;

at university, they ask me questions and
put me into ‘committees’, my land-lady
asks me to give tuitions to her sons, and
now, when I see those kids, I think of them
as ‘kids’. Now people see me as grown-up
and they steal half my sky; when they talk,
they have that suspicion or matter-of-factness
reserved for adults, and it eats into me that
I still think of people my own age as always
somehow older. Even my anger is now so
grown-up, it's edge does not wash away
easily as it used to, and regret vinegars
many evenings. But all this is so odd, it is
so insane, ‘coz in my head I am still 19,
flying for the first time & fumbling with my
seat-belt on the plane, and, in my head, I
still don't know love & there’re yellow stripes
on my sweater, and I don’t know any better.

Thursday, February 19, 2015

Not everyone's going to love you

if you raise your voice, there'll
be those who will hate your guts,
who'll want to shut you up, there'll
be those who'll think you too rigid,
who'll ask you to "not over-react"
despite the fact that you might be
mourning murder, shouting fair,
such people will always be there,
not everyone's going to shake your
hands, or hold them, or even meet
your eye, not everyone's going to
love you when you do right by the
world, and thank god for that, for
it leaves those worth your eyes, it
leaves wheat in the world, it leaves
those worth your trembling fingers,
it leaves gold, it leaves those who'll
hold you, who're worth your fight,
who'll sit with you and stand by you,
& whose love, when it comes, will be
moonlight, whose love, when it comes,
will be moonlight.

Monday, February 16, 2015

Crossing over Yamuna into Delhi

The river is black. The Delhi
smog, dark grey, except, just
that moment, as the sunset bled,

the sky over Batla House was red.

Tuesday, February 10, 2015

अरे ये देखो एक कंकड़ ने

हाथी को गिराया है
चलो रे भारत, दिल्ली ने 
रास्ता दिखाया है 

Sunday, February 1, 2015

Though my memory might be dim,

but I remember, the bar, the
walk back, him. I remember his
middle name spelled in gin, &
the evening moving on a whim.
And where the Caledonian Road
turned like a river, where the
lights of King's Cross limned
his black jacket, his short hair,
and his eyes as brown as sin.