St.Teresa’s and Ispahani

By evening seven, we are sitting opposite each other, at Café Coffee Day,

in the less crowded Ispahani Centre by St.Teresa’s Church,

on the Thousand Lights Road of Nungambakkam bearing witness to our meeting.

St.Teresa’s Church, where you said the choir was always lively - not a word on the sermon.

And Ispahani, a fading landmark, in the maps of closely-packed constellations of other malls.

Like us, opposite each other, they have always stood, cut open by a busy highway;

St.Teresa’s for the lop-sided altar boy and Ispahani for the socially-awkward-writer-girl;

One by faith went and the other for the memory, the view of the barbaric yawp came.

It’s quiet there -

like in the library, like in the chapel of St.Teresa’s and in the elevated grounds of Isphahani,

a divine quietness shrouding, as we take those sips of cappuccino.



While I try remembering the color of your eyes today,

all I could recall is the roasted beans in the showcase;

with a tint darker than that – incandescent - hanging above us.

The warm cup of cappuccino between us and the busy road.

Your voice three months later on phone, telling me, how desperately you need the road,

a two way road, barricaded in between, so that St.Teresa’s and Ispahani

could stand opposite to each other, never meeting, in no universe,

confiding an entire cosmos between.



Coffee tastes great there in Ispahani, red velvets too

It’s an old mall in the great city of Chennai and she carries memories of love all kind.

She stands there, withstanding the great floods, hurricanes and earthquakes

like the best antique property of the city, priced, incomparable.

And I write this poem,

not because you asked me to.

I can’t contain the ‘you’ in me, anymore -

https://www.peachstreetmagazine.com/home/two-poems

Almond trees on 4th street

The red ripe leaves of the stone fruit tree garnishing these streets

falls raining on the empty road, tarred black.

It’s Autumn again;

the leaves are falling down in hope of rising.

To a dormant sleep of vim, they tumble

like bright orange embers, waiting for the winds of harvest.

An endless forest fire, he would initiate in them, on his visit,

They know, so do I.
https://www.peachstreetmagazine.com/home/two-poems

The Dust Storms

image credit DUST STORM BY STEPHANIE FROSTAD

The dust storms have clouded my lungs
Dunes of solitary ruminations.
Brewing heaps of scorched drab dirt
In my burrows of some unresolved sorrow.
They clog my pores of respiration
Choking me, on my phlegm of paranoia
In this exotic land of doldrums untold
Enthroned by fear, I live my peasant life
Trying to rise a feet above the soil!
Oppressed by the rulers of my own democratic ink.







http://www.museindia.com/Home/ViewContentData?arttype=feature&issid=85&menuid=8335a

The Mystery

                                         

image credit etsy.com

Doors that seldom open, despite frequent banging
Fastening away from the monsters, or enclosing within the devils?
Muzzling the demonic wails, maybe
Or warning the restrains, could it be?
Buying time maybe,
Killing time… can it also be?
Shrinking in silence sometimes,
At times sinking to a hush.
But always locked inside,
From the broad roadways, few subsist.
A mystery to this world
That claims The God’s eye

http://www.museindia.com/Home/ViewContentData?arttype=feature&issid=85&menuid=8335

The Roller Coaster Ride

Two heart patients on a roller coaster ride, 

and their hearts tied at the end of a string,
the frail string of a matrimonial sacrament of the faith.
Like a balloon held high above their heads, tailing them
they held to it so strongly, so firmly
their hearts at the edge of that string,
ready to take flight any moment
ready to do that ultimate jump of fear, at any moment of a slight blink, and cry,
when the string might slip like water, like sand,
through the slight gaps of the fingers,
drifting their hearts away, in the path of the blowing winds.
Yet, in the course of the ride, it flutters…
trembling in the fleeting wind changing its path
the hearts, the balloons, much above their heads
fluttering, trembling, trying to break free from that hold
from that firm hold of fear, it sways in the ocean ranges of a cyclone.
And maybe when they get down, they will notice the fleeting balloon,
how from their huge palms, it ruptured free unnoticed.
how the bruises were made, by holding that string too long
and how two heart patients went on a roller coaster ride and called it a marriage.

https://issuu.com/theparagonjournal/docs/volume_eight___september_2017-merged

Romancing this International Boy

From across the globe, you embrace me,

in a dream.

And for a moment,

I feel your presence tearing my skin,

oozing shattered colors of bangle shards.

Decorating the marble floor, devoid of a spot.

there, you become the questions to all my answers;

just like mentalists performing,

who knows well ahead, what I might ask.

And I fear, given time, I might write you a love poem

Travel the moon, across the seas to reach your sands,

and bend my knee, “Be it a moment or more,

Let me know the alchemy of belonging,

as these cultures from across the worlds, blend together,

like the perfect ocean floor crust, withstanding every eruptions of volcano,

and yet cradling an entire ocean to its breast.

Let me discover that paradise of joy existing within you,

while shining through that cracks and breaks of your tectonic pasts.

Let me love a poet like you, with a kiss of the pen!”

Ten thousand miles away from you, my fingertips ache,

To touch the poetry you weave, from your solid mind.

uprooting my rational seeds of thought,

I keep romancing this international boy.

https://issuu.com/theparagonjournal/docs/volume_eight___september_2017-merged

The Mosquito

As days pass by flushing like a gutter,

I get used to these empty mail boxes, empty purses,
And your lies filling my thighs, spilling over in perfect roundness.

And like nothing more than a perturbed buzz of a mosquito,
You linger a permanent echo in the air; empty of your scent.
Sucking blood from my limbs, I saw your tubular stomach fill red,
What did I even think? That I would suffice your eternal thirst? I wonder!

That you turned to yet another body
That lay unblanketed for you, all along!
Nearby me, nearby me.
Why did I even panic in worry!
Was it not a mistake of mine,

To think that I would serve adequate for your pangs of hunger.
When, your perennial buzz of discontent was gone unnoticed by me.
Was it not a mistake of mine,

To watch you drink like a vampire to life,
While I suffered the sting of your poisoned fangs.
The zit you left for me, to heal;
In the place of a mistaken kiss.

As days pass by flushing like a gutter, stagnant in its flow,
I get used to the aftermath of this huge mistake in the name of love.

http://www.activemuse.org/2020_Open_Poems/Twinkle_George.html