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}

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}

Fire + Paper

i still remember
the way your tongue
mapped my mouth

and searched the contours
of my body
filling crevices
of my broken self

trying
to make me whole again.

i remember
how we so easily
fell into each other
entangling ourselves
weaving our present

to make a past

like a photograph.

and i remember
how you told me:
we were too alike
too volatile
too much--
in ourselves

so when we were together
i was fire
and you, paper

and we burned--
both of us,
consuming each other
hungrily.
uninhibitedly.

and now i lie
in the ashes of your memory
in the catastrophe we created
in the masterpiece we created
like two artists full of soul

on a rampage

the funny thing about memory is
it’s not ephemeral

like the ashes that crumble in my fingers
darkening the tips of my fingers
that try to trace the contours of my body

like you once did. 

{love, heartache, poem, writing, remembering, memory}

For Women Who Are Difficult To Love

By Warsan Shire:

you are a horse running aloneand he tries to tame you
compares you to an impossible highway
to a burning house
says you are blinding him
that he could never leave you
forget you
want anything but you
you dizzy him, you are unbearable
every woman before or after you
is doused in your name
you fill his mouth
his teeth ache with memory of taste
his body just a long shadow seeking yours
but you are always too intense
frightening in the way you want him
unashamed and sacrificial 
he tells you that no man can live up to the one who 
lives in your head
and you tried to change didn’t you?
closed your mouth more
tried to be softer
prettier
less volatile, less awake
but even when sleeping you could feel 
him travelling away from you in his dreams
so what did you want to do love
split his head open?
you can’t make homes out of human beings
someone should have already told you that
and if he wants to leave
then let him leave
you are terrifying
and strange and beautiful
something not everyone knows how to love.

{poetry, writing, beauty, women, inspiration, love, longing}

Happy 101, Al

Illustration: Wendy MacNaughton
Courtesy: Brain Pickings

{Camus, love, heartaches, happiness, realizations}

Remembering

Every Sunday morning, Yoginder visits this particular restaurant and sits by himself. His thoughts sweep him to another time. Fifty years ago, he met Zaira for the first time here. She had come with her family for breakfast, and he had instantly been smitten by her eyes: pale blue, curious but intense. She had caught his gaze and dipped behind her father's shoulder, watching him suspiciously through the crescent cut of her burqa. He smiled unknowingly, holding her for a few moments with his eyes; the staff occasionally disturbed his view with the haphazard scurry of early morning. She looked away, of course, but her eyes kept returning to him, like a person curious to know the end of a spinning top.

Distracted by her presence, he took a sip from his chai and accidentally burnt his lip. There was a momentary scuffle with the saucer; the tea leaped from the cup, broke against the glass table and made thin lines of dirty brown. Zaira giggled noiselessly, bowing her head. Embarrassed, Yoginder struggled to wipe the table clean with the corner of his sleeve, smearing it further. A waiter with bushy brows and dark eyes rushed to his rescue. As grunted he cleared the remnants of the chai. Zaira had not looked in Yoginder's direction after that, behaving like strangers ought to, ignorant of the other's presence. Yoginder began to wonder whether there was something between them or if he had unnecessarily made up stories in his head. 

A few moments later, the family finished breakfast; the father licked the final crumbs and lifted himself from the chair. His wife and daughters followed suit. With bowed heads, they formed a line behind him and discreetly disappeared behind a door. Yoginder remained in his chair, speechless, watching the wiped tea stains vaporise like ghosts on the glass table.

{Fiction, Scribbles, Notes, Stories, Tiny Visual Tales, Love, Memory}

Birds on a Wire

As a kid, while I was still grappling with my ability to write and artfully sculpt letters, I remember the daunting feeling of flipping through the school notebook which came streaked with dotted lines. I remember how I would try to precariously balance my wavy, uncertain letters on them. And I still remember my mother holding my hands, waltzing the tip of my pencil from the dotted line into the white space of endless possibilities above it, weaving a loop to make the perfect 'l' and gliding it back to the line to end the performance with a celebratory sweep. Back then, I recognized my love for the theatrics of writing letters--of assembling them to make words, and putting the stories that I mad up in my head, onto paper.

I made this picture while driving the other day. {Don't worry, I parked the car on the side}. The birds on the wire somehow took me back to my kindergarten days and reminded me of the letters and the dotted lines. I don't know why I made this picture, but perhaps something is telling me to rewrite the story I set out to write for myself, or alter the plot a bit. It's funny how some things you come across in life, bring back some of the most unintentionally related memories. Thankfully, this was a happy one.

{longing, memories, love, photography, writing, happy incidents, notes to self}

Unmade

In unmade beds we lie unmade
naked, sweaty palmed
wet eyed with wet insides
lying across the wrinkled sheets

moments ago
you had dug your fingernails
altering the lines my palm contained
becoming the cartographer of my world

outside
the owls hooted and spied wide-eyed
inside
I feel into your arms and you slipped
into mine

I gave you my world in kisses and rhyme
and you gave me
memories--

memories
that lie on my bed
like torn out pages

crumpled, abandoned, silent,
unfinished

{love, stories, heartaches, scribbles, remembering}