Senses

​​Only

a ray of light

was quicker

than the glance

which she gave me

in the library;

the thousands of books

inside 

had no record of 

the moment.

The chapati
bakes

on the black tava

gets dark patches;

puffs up

like my heart when she coils

the end of her hair

on her finger.

The thick blue smoke

from the cheap cigarettes

fill the air

of my room;
forms her image

which I see.

Only opium to cure my senses.

The Reducing Number of Women

Stray cats

Walking,

Haunting the naked streets with

Their dark grey eyes.
It’s past midnight

And the street lamp –

Bright yellow –

Flickers.
The black bins,

Punctured,

Tumble in the alleys.
Half-bitten, 

Rotting apples,

Roll out in the shadows.
The stench of rotting garbage

Kisses the still, hot air

Of the night.
Women in glittery, golden dresses

Roam the street;

Car’s stop;

Car’s start;

The women reduce in number,

Only to arrive again.

Convincingly Real Dreams

At home –
drowning in the fire,
burning in the ocean,
I have a dream of this woman
with whom I have talked,
but only once
or twice.

One time when I showed her a passage
from a book
and the second time
when she asked me:
whom do you write your poems for?

and I answered rhetorically.

She stands tall;
has the cold gaze of the freezing winter,
and if she bites her lips,
the entire Roman army at its prime
would bleed.

In the dream
I played with her hair
while she rested her head on my lap
and my head went nearer and nearer to hers
with every passing moment.

And this was a dream
convincingly real like all the dreams
from which I woke up
to a life
where we never speak,
or walk together,
or groom cats,
or talk of absurd art,
or be silent together,
or kiss,
or make love.

Your Kiss, Your Touch, Your Walk, Your Gaze

You kissed the sunshine
and the flowers bloomed –
spring arrived.

You touched the fallen seeds
and they grew into magnificent trees.

You walked across the barren fields;
a season later:
the farmers had never seen such a yielding harvest.

You gazed at the sky
and the rain fell down –
flooding the river in which
my little boat sailed.

Of You

The last I saw of you
was amid the shadows
where you carried the darkness
under the petals
that are your eyelids.

The last I heard of you
was in whispers
from the wind that grazed
around your body –
stealing your fragrance.

The last I spoke of you
was to the birds
that flutter restlessly around the windows
of your home, imitating the melody
that is your voice.

The last I thought of you
was in my bathroom;
my hands holding the toilet seat;
3 quarters of whisky down – neat;
nausea.

At the Arrival of Spring

I had never known
a person
with so much kinetic energy
as to uplift me
from the sinking mass
of fragmented debris,
but this woman
who
laughs heartily at common jokes
and gets drunk on
one shot of vodka – 30 ml.

She has got my senses blooming –
painted like lilacs in spring.