Friday 7 August 2015

A Song for Eliot

So this is an old poem of mine that I discovered recently while revisiting a now defunct blog of mine. When I wrote this, I was going through a "O, i love T.S. Eliot" phase, and I had written this in absolute awe of the man. Cut to present, I've tweaked the original a bit. Hope it reads better, for it is now in my eyes, more complete. 

*

Winter mornings:
The stale smell of cigarette
and sky bruised purple.
I muffle, biting into your skin.

The morning groans
stretching its arms
across the sleepy city
Its breath pressing against filthy windows
and empty streets—
waking up in its own waking
to a handful of illicit love affairs

Promises crawl against one’s bare back
scratching against the skin like broken porcelain
searching for answers.

Time comes undone
like paint peeling off the walls
fragmenting from a whole
slipping into dark, nameless corners
and beautiful misery.

Outside,
the streets linger on
walking, swerving, smoking, mulling
running, hiding, halting, waiting.

They whisper tales
of sinful nights
that walked
dressed in handsome winter coats
and big black hats
knocking on doors
waiting for someone
to welcome them in

When they leave
Emptiness slithers inside bedrooms
through filthy windows
left half-open

She reeks of pity
and stale cigarettes.

She moves
across crumpled bed sheets
and coils around my neck

I muffle, biting into her skin
waiting to come undone.

***

{poem, eliot, dreams, emptiness, love, note from a forgotten diary, heartaches, memory}

Wednesday 5 August 2015

That Girl


There's something about a book and a girl reading it in a cafe. She appears to be distant; a mirage of the unattainable. She's smart at instinctively tucking herself in a corner, next to a beautiful French window, allowing the sunlight to fall on her face--not too much, just enough. Behind those reedy-framed spectacles {that'd probably leave behind a dimple on her nose} she hides, poring over her book. Her body is folded into a slouch and her head is tipped as she thumbs her way through the book with the grace of a hummingbird. You try to catch a glimpse of her bright, almond-shaped eyes that are set beautifully apart beneath a fringe that curtains her forehead. But she's far too occupied to respond to your telepathic advances.

She looks up only to order a mug of hot chocolate and requests the colour of the mug to be yellow. You wonder if someone is joining her. She looks at her watch, shrugs and returns to burying her nose into the book. Below the table, her toe dangles a misty-grey leather chappal with practiced precision. You wonder what she's reading--Science fiction? Epic wars? A self-help book? Biography on Lennon? 1984? The Shadow Lines? Chetan Bhagat? {You promptly erase the last option; she doesn't seem the half-girlfriend sort--you have far greater expectations from her, figuratively and literally}.

There is something about a girl reading a book, you tell yourself. But there is something else particularly about her. She seems to compose an air of remarkable self-assurance. The kinesics are there. Surely, she's charming and witty too. At cue, your mind drifts off to another world: you wonder what life would be like if the two of you were married. Would your mother get along? Would she get along with your dog, named Cat? You're almost down to considering the names of your kids--S and R {the alphabets would be determined by you, she could choose the names}.

With the sound of a door opening, the day-dream seems to be thrashed with a loud thud. A woman rushes in with the flame of golden sunlight behind her. "Kavita!" The woman shrieks. And the love of your life looks up, throws the book aside and leaps across to kiss her. They hold each other for considerable time and then kiss again.

You shrug and return to your lemonade. 

{stories, love, scribbles, books, literature, hot chocolate, tiny visual tales}