I've been expecting you.

2 Jun 2012

References


I stay up all night, unblinking.
Old conversations rise up before me.
They place their long, cold fingers on my warm throat.

I feel my pulse beat faster as the words swim across my eyes.
A black river of memory.
Then the chill pit in my stomach and the hollow of my heart
Disassociate.
I survive.
They fail to
Asphyxiate
Me.

I blame me.
Then I blame you.
Then I cry.

Every song is drenched in new meaning,
So simple, yet unattainable till now.

All the words that you planted in my brain,
flower in blazing light.
But they smell different, somehow.
An odour of memory and death and longing and love.

We used to talk about selective memory.
I will try not to commit that mistake.

Yes I agreed with Neruda that love was shorter than forgetting.
And you said that I listened like spring and talked like June.
And I knew that one day, one of us would have to be without the other.
but I never imagined it would be me and it would be so soon.

This love is strange, Ron.
It grows stranger each day.
And it grows stronger each day.

I know you felt too much love would kill me,
 If didn't make up my mind
and I know that you wanted to break free.

You are free now.
And I'm alone.
And I'm alive.
Without you.
 But why?
I wish you were here.

I'm tired of writing poetry.
I'm tired of making sense.
I'm tired of asking questions.
I'm tired of looking for answers.
And even finding them, sometimes.

But I'm not tired of loving you.
And I'm not tired of you memory.
And till I love,
And till I remember.
You'll always be here with me.










Love

They told me the world would end in 2012.
And it did.

You told me writing about Love wasn't enough.
Then you killed yourself so I could write about Death instead.

It's not about what I want to say to you now.
It's about what I couldn't tell you then.

That I loved you and I left you so that you would be stronger and find your way and I'd come back someday (obviously) and tell you sorry and tell you how proud I am of you and will you please take me back?

But that won't happen.

You are dead.

You are dead.

You are dead?

Dead.

I can't feel the meaning of this word.

Dead.

I see the letters make a curious shape, but its oblong and smoky and the world must be over because you can't be dead.

They tell me it's not my fault.
Perhaps they are correct.

But I'll never know.

And I told you but you never believed me - and now you'll never know.
Or I'll never know that you know now.

How much I love you.


31.5.2012


27 May 2012

Ennui

Eight days had made a difference.
Eight black days.

Time devolved into time.

I hated mornings.
It crept through the hollow spaces of my dead windows,
Sunny. Bubbling with brightness.
I hated this ...light...
It threw into stark relief things I wanted to keep unseen.

I made tea for myself today.
Too sweet.
I drank it anyway.
There was nothing else to do.

Then I thought-
Let me think.

And I did.

About faraway seas and storms and ocean-liners.
About trains and planes and handsome foreigners.
About how this will make no sense to them at all.
About how I should stop anticipating a call.

By then it was time to feed the dog.
My bones clicked together like knitting needles as I made my way to the greasy kitchen.
I sipped the air, rather than breathed it.

'This is tiresome', I spoke out loud to the masala-stained light-pink tiles.
'Tiresome to write.''
'Tiresome to think.'
'Tiresome to love.'

I waited for the birth of a beautiful, silver, tinkling phrase
To come to me with hesitant, wobbly baby steps.
After all, my brain had been impregnated with pain, right?
This blackness should bring forth light...

No.

I made tea for myself again, today.
Too sweet.
I drank it anyway.
There was nothing else to do.

                  ***

Suddenly it all makes sense!


Do you know the feeling when you read something awesome and tell yourself, 'I just HAVE to share this'?

Well, I felt it when I came across these poems by Alice Walker from her book- '
Revolutionary Petunias and Other Poems'....

I have learned not to worry about love;
but to honor its coming
with all my heart.
To examine the dark mysteries
of the blood
with headless heed and
swirl,
to know the rush of feelings
swift and flowing
as water.
The source appears to be
some inexhaustible
spring
within our twin and triple
selves;
the new face I turn up
to you
no one else on earth
has ever seen.

 ______________________________
While love is unfashionable
let us live
unfashionably.
Seeing the world
a complex ball
in small hands;
love our blackest garment.
Let us be poor
in all but truth, and courage
handed down
by the old spirits.
Let us be intimate with
ancestral ghosts
and music
of the undead.
While love is dangerous
let us walk bareheaded
beside the great River.
Let us gather blossoms
under fire.


_______________________________

When you wan't something really badly, fight for it.
Tooth and nail.
Nothing worth anything in life, ever comes easy.
Ever.

18 May 2012

?.


Has the silence endured long enough?
Are you satisfied now?
Did you get what you want?
Did you get to know what it is you do want?
Do you now believe it’s not in your hands?
Have you realised it never was?
What will you do about it now?
How will you write about it now?
Can you?
You can’t?
What is this then?

The silence has not endured long enough.
You are not satisfied now.
You did not get what you wanted.
You still do not know what it is you do want.
You do not believe it is in your hands.
You realise it can’t be.
You do nothing about it now.
You do not write about it now.
You can’t.
No. Yes.
Another blog entry.