Blind Woman's Bluff

Desire born out of the sight

Of a mass of sleeping curves.

A wishful touch born out of the desire.

A half uttered moan, lost in translation.

A ripple in the lake of placid calm.

Layers shed. Urgent messages dispatched.

Her experiments of playing blind.

His pleas, begs and thrusts.

The tug of war of sensual principles,

While the world around rocked gently,

Bursting in a million colors.

Till the moment of death in which

Her eyelids finally fluttered open.

One look into the depths and he died too.

The lake regained its still

And the world its monochromatic hue.

When Art Misrepresents

Faulty prophecies of misguided diagnoses
Froze her fluid essence,
Caught her in one of those moments
You and I pass over -
Every day. Silently.
Shifty. Embarrassed.

Now, after two eternities and a half
When they put that frozen statue under scrutiny,
They mark the broad expanse of a battle-worn forehead.
The pool of black
Crystallized into a glittering scorn.
Two balls of fiery ice -
Medusa's paralyzing gaze.

They wrote her off -
No work of art, this sculpture.

She had mothered her ice age.
Her ice age had mothered her.
It was just one of her protean shapes
In which she got stuck.

Now - brushed clean, gilt-framed and hung up
Before the yellow eyes of critical aesthetes,
She belies her origins -
Of faulty prophecies and misguided diagnoses
In her own ice age.

An Angel That Wasn’t

If you look closely enough
The angelic smile cracks once in a while-
A temporal tear in the flawless gossamer.

The glowing halo hovers awkwardly over the heavenly locks-
Like forcibly thrust into an inhospitable aura.

Human colors hidden behind a manufactured fairy fairness.
It longs to tear off its wings and ooze red.
If heaven were grace, it would gladly fall from it.

It just was not cut out
To be a beacon of hope
Processed out of god's own factory.

The Mirror

Light and reflection

High cheekbones unadorned by the love blush

Shadows on the proud forehead, tracing arrows of past wars

Eyes that open no doors to the seven seas

One tear journeying to

Silent lips, virgin pink

A face that launched no thousand ships

A face pregnant with a hundred tales

Boxes of Love

She sits there
making boxes of love.
Measuring the width
of wooden promises.
Checking the length
of varnished vows.

Perseus flies by
on his winged steed.
And Daedalus too,
on waxen wings.

Troubling her perspective,
Lifting her gaze,
As she sits there
making boxes of love.

Someone beside hugs a tree.
Another poetises it.
Yet another replicates it on their easel,
There's one who philosophically untrees the tree.
Then again, another wonders what to do with the tree anyway,
While she sits there making boxes of love.

Two semi circles side by side,
and a right angle joining them below.
A perfectly symmetrical heart shape she devises
To put on the boxes as they grow.

Beautiful miniature boxes,
each hatching in it one lovely dream.

The goblins pass by with pots of gold.
Fairies reveling in the firefly dusk,
And she sits there,
making boxes of love.

She asks Sisyphus,
"What is the time?"
But he has no time to answer back.
She just smiles, shaking her head.

And everyday,
She makes boxes of love.

The Ceramic Jar

She was the black ocean
he wanted to drown in
The shower of ephemeral scents
he wanted to bathe in.

The ebb and flow of her lips
melted his concrete
Her gentle rhythms
diluted his core.

"Let's meet in Donne's little rooms," she said.
But he wanted every drop of her.
How do you contain infinity in a ceramic jar
you bought from the convenience store on sale?

The moon had nothing to do
with the high tides and the raging storm.

The weatherman never anticipated it.
The weatherman always expected it.

When dawn caressed her the next day,
The sun saw -

Broken pieces of a ceramic jar,
scattered on the virgin shore.

The Dream of an Insomniac

Soft colors of an artificial night

Burning in my eyes

Keeping watch for my soul

Lest those lurking demons come claim it

I know they hide behind the shadows

And they wait for a moment of inattention

And whoosh!

Bells clang – clang – clang –clang!

Winds whoosh – whoosh – whoosh – whoosh!

My night, my beloved solitude is raped!

I hate, I hate, I hate the light!

Penetrating gaze of a heartless judge …

I don’t have the witnesses and the proofs to prove my case

They cut out my tongue, I can’t speak.

So scared, so worried, so paranoid –

Let me hold myself tight and protect myself from me

Let me sing me a lullaby, let me rock myself to sleep

And while I sleep, I’ll stay awake and guard my precious myself

From the lurking demons, hiding behind the shadows –

So that I can have a sweet dream …

And dream of the soft colors of the artificial night.

The Hole

The hole is inside me,
I am inside the whole.

This iris shaped hole is black.
This black hole is the eye, that sees no more-
The difference, the opposites, the distinction.

But the oil floats on water.
And i float on the reveries.
And i drown in the reveries,
For the reveries are surreal.

And i am lost in the hole.
I close my eyes, and the hole is whole.

Beautiful chaos.