Aurora granted


The porcelain beauty, the celestial muse for a thousand lovers of verse- The Silvery Moon, was always the most reverred sight for me, until today, when the sky finally granted me a show of colours. I ran out on the street at 3 in the morning following a flimsy trail of green until the bright discharge of colours disappeared beyond my periphery. Watching the Northern lights for the first time is like re-living that moment of your past when you were 5 and you got to choose your favourite crayon to colour your sky in a dancing trail of a neon blaze. 

Floating in space

I watch him on the reflection on my screen. On days he goes mad. Those days he breaks up things after a bout of binge drinking.I sit unperturbed, on my side of the bed watching the ISS capture the orb, fleeing. Yet, the blackness of space, largely reflects, the ugliness of his being. 

It has been therapeutic for me watching myself from space. I do it not often, but mostly on such days. Usually nothing happens as I stare into space. The discs rotate, the earth revolves in the same grand old pace. Amazingly, today, an astronaut showed up. I couldn’t believe what I’d just seen. His large gloved fingers right there on my screen. He adjusted his gear, took a while, then he looked down at the lens and adjusted his smile. He believes someone’s watching the live feed, from the blue planet, behind his countenace, below his feet. It’s almost been an hour, I’ve been trying to catch another glance of the him. The man in a spacesuit. Sober and astute. I wait for another chance to screenshoot. 

While all this happens at my corner on the bed, on the otherside of the room, I hear songs of regret. 

You know, it’s good, sometimes, not to throw things just because they’ve been flung at you. Anger may be misplaced, love, however, finds a way through. Remorseful songs play on his playlist. Old songs burn his memories. His reflection now looks so pale and lean against the brightness of my mummified screen. These songs are killing him, he, who is already dead. I hear him gruntle as he retires, on his coveted side of the bed. 

The man in a white suit reappears and I finally chance a second glance. A few screenshots then I turn off my tab. It’s been a long night for all three of us. 

All of us floating, in spaces we make. 

Wondering 

who’s more lonely today? 

Is it the astronaut, is it me or is it him?

1607- the day I missed the show


The park looks empty,

The children have gone.

To watch the rodeo

Downtown 

At Saddledome.

He was to play

At Calgary tomorrow,

Which meant,

Waking up on the morrow.

But like a Cinderella sans fairy,

I chose to stay.

Now I sit fumbling

With jarring speakers

Noise getting away.

Down the hallway,

He sings

Of the girl from the North country.

Parked up in Worsley,

that could well be me.

Wooed by his poetry,

Charmed by the singing,

I so want to tell him,

That I haven't forgotten.

No,

Not in the darkness of my night

Nor in the brightness of my day.

I still have him

On my playlist, wooing away.

It is 4 now, 

The birds have not returned from flight,

Today will be a long way into the night.

The sun is still shining

Filtering in

Through holes on my window,

Shadows drawing innuendo.

A place with so much daylight

could either do something august,

or devise a mechanism 

preposterous

To kill a mockingbird.

Yet the old man who stays across 

The backyard of my kitchen,

Picks up an old mower and tends his lawn.

So much so for great things to be done.

His mower blaring against the raspiness 

Of my fading Bob Dylan.

Of women poets

The poet is so said and done.

Unlike the patron,

In love with her verse.

The poet is a sad mess.

A deer in trauma,

Hiding behind an Oxford comma,

and, her oversized pyjama.

To set all priorities 

In order,

Gentrify beyond border,

Of what’s right and what not.

Terrified of a wrong word,

Which may kill her.

Because as long as you don’t see her,

She ain’t born.

And now that she is,

She will choose to stay.

Hidden behind a blank verse.

Writing with words 

borrowed from an email,

selling life insurance.

Never exciting.

Over-apologising.

Still hiding.

Wishing

to be a patron

Rather than a woman

with words that were too many,

But lovers , none.

Of arrogant poets

I refuse

A like for a like,

And to follow

Because I am followed.

It's not that if you don't love,  I die,

It isn't the little heart you click,

That keeps me alive.

Don't take me wrong

I am just not giving in

To this blind regime

Who, calling themselves social,

Creep in

Unsuspecting lives.

Adjudged by snobs like me

Who refuse 

To being obligatory

Or comment to crush,

A soul with a word.

But, please also consider

How insignificant my words would be

If they were to praise every being

For lesser things

Just because they loved me.

'Read me with a song' -Partita No.3 in E major, Bach

Of mediocre poets


“I guess all is right with the world

It’s just us, who are wronged.

For how can so much beauty

Be lost in a quest for triviality?

Saplings of eggplants,

Sitting out in the sun

On my favourite window sill

With

So much poise

Sparkling

With droplets of water

That I just sprayed on them.

What beauty!”

Well, so was said

By a poet

With mediocre poetry.

Who finds beauty in small things,

Because she is too afraid of the great.

Inside Mary’s room


Looking at Canada

All through the window

of a speeding car.

Stopping at gas stations,

The only place I have looked in.

Waiting for a pack of pall mall,

I miss civilisation.

Even the lightning

Always looks at bay.

I hold my breath and count,

The thunder reaches late.

10 seconds, 2 miles away

The storm is

Not so far

From the window 

Of my little room.

The endlessness of a time loop.

Where it keeps raining outside

Or if at all, the sun comes,

It burns.

That may be the reason why,

I wait,

Inside the room

And I rush

Through supermarts.

Taking circles, holding a cart.

Oh but, I have looked closely

At the dandelion

The one outside the kitchen,

The day that I arrived.

I have also slept on a swing

Of a children’s park

Under the bluest sky.

Again, at nights,

When the elks called,

I have slipped outside

Under the edge less sky

Shivering,

Looking for Orion.

I met a dog too.

An old retriever I took in,

Till the storm moved away.

She was called Asha,

The bringer of hope.

Hope is a good thing.

I also stay wake

Till 6 everyday. Hoping 

for the sky to light

In streaks of red and green.

No Aurora 

And maybe none.

But yet, it was warm,

During the equinox sun

That I woke up to,

On a lackadaisical afternoon,

As children played

Outside

And I watched them through my window.

It is like living in a box,

Watching through holes.

The ecstasy of which,

Only a voyeur will know.

And maybe so 

the window 

From inside a little white room 

Or from inside a silver car

Will still be 

My best place to sit.

It, forever, 

stirs the soul

To see colour

More so when,you watch it

through a hole.