life lessons on evening walks

i miss those simple days when

every evening we’d go for a walk

and duly you’d warn me against

monocled cobras and banded kraits

watching you i learnt

where to walk and where not

not on the newly built paddy-field border

but to go right through the just leveled paddy field

though it remembers your steps that sink ankle deep

unless it’s flooded with water

and that it’s ok to swim in the pond

as long as you don’t crumble and erode

the edges; and to watch out for leeches

and to not fear the humble toad

moments of clarity

my heart in the mountains

my head in the clouds

you by my side

and no rooms for doubts

some more bland poetry, dear reader

it’s nearly midnight

there’s rubbish blown against the pavement

just beyond the little shrine by the streetlight

whose glow is dimmed by hundreds of dead

moths collected in the glass casing that’s cracked

the cracked pavement is dusty

there’s fine dirt heaped in the drain along the road

i feel the dust between my foot and my slipper worn

and between the slipper and the cracked pavement underneath

even the air feels gritty under my eyelids

and tastes crusty on my teeth

i’m having a last smoke before i go up to my dingy room

- yes, i know, too many dingy rooms of late

go on then, gimme a better word, if you so hate

repetition - so like i was saying

i’m having a last smoke before i go up to my dingy room

- there, another repetition. why not, eh? why? -

i’m having a last smoke before i go up to my dingy room

and i see him walking by

he’s well dressed, even a belt on his jeans that seem mostly clean

even the shirt is mostly right

just slightly pulled out at the back; but his walk gives him away

he’s piss drunk, full tight

and then around the corner comes

his friend / brother / boyfriend?

on the bike following him slowly

trying to comprehend

- excuse me, i meant convince -

tryin to convince him to come home

- guess i’ve myself had a bit too much -

trying to convince him to come home, patiently

tolerating, ignoring, even accepting as such

all his self-indulgent ramblings

his furious invective, his allegations of malice

his abuses, wild, lewd and vile

his threats of hurting him and himself

his tirade against love and life

and something about this interaction

presented to me, on a dusty pavement thus

reminds me, even in my drunken simple-mindedness

it reminds me, now lemme get this right, of us

no, not us, of course, not you and me

but maybe you, and bukowski 

yes, even in my dreams

they tell me you like poetry

here

i offer you my humble verses

it’s easy to be a reader, isn’t it?

an audience by default

now that you’ve read them

tell me

am i a poet at all?

it means the world to me

it’s what i do all day and all night

in all my waking hours

and when i’m half-asleep

and ever so often, even in my dreams

tête-à-tête 101

when they ask

so where are you these days? or

what do you do these days?

they don’t mean, how do you live?

far less, what do you live for?

what they’re asking is

what do you do for a living?

just smile and say, this and that

if you don’t have an answer for the giving

‘coz, poetry, is not an answer

they’ll understand

honey

they don’t mean

what do you do with your time?

they mean, what do you do about the money?

unbeknownst to her, tacky dress gets a poem

as an afterthought, to pass the time

i read the names next to mine

posted on the list outside

one was an anil forty-two, the other a gayatri thirty-nine

and exulting at the possibility

of them – for once – putting a woman next to me

i waited for this perfect stranger to arrive

i watched the eyes of all the women

between twenty and forty-five

as they looked up at the seat numbers

walking anxiously down the aisle

the expectation in their eyes

then a flicker of recognition

a slight easing of tension

as they stopped short or passed me by

she turned out to be

a tacky dress who’s dad said

ok, so i’ll leave then, even as he

swung the bag up onto the overhead rack

and she waved goodbye even as she sat

down in a mass of glittering pink

and he was off in a blink

she had her coffee and then soundly slept

but to be fair, we did have a little chat

at the end of the journey when she wanted her bag

brought down form the overhead rack

and then off she went

with the uncle who’d come to fetch her

he dragging the bag, she clutching her purse

unaware that she’d been

the subject of my humble verse

considerate excuses

that it was your time of the month

was a wonderful excuse

kind, and considerate

i don’t set great store

by intercourse

anyway

goodbye

[1]

goodbye, dear mountains

my wise mentors of so long

i’ll always remember you

in my dreams and in my songs

oh how i’ve grown up in your very lap

how much i have learned from you

patience and strength, and wisdom

agelessly ancient, yet eternally new

and though i must leave now, and never again return

no matter where i go, no matter where i roam

my soul will always soar over your peaks

that will forever be my home

your meadows will always be my bed

wherever i may lie asleep

and it’s your streams that i shall walk along

in all my yearnful dreams

goodbye, mighty mountains

watch over my home for me

i’ll keep you always in my mind

and my heart is yours to keep

[2]

goodbye, dear valley

my green haven of so long

i’ll always remember you

in my dreams and in my songs

where in one sweeping gaze i’ve seen

rolling white mist, thunderous

clouds and skies clear blue

where every evening

the setting sun kisses the peaks

bidding the valley in the shadows adieu

and though i must now go

against my will, take your leave

my soul is tied to you, dear valley

and to your denizens, wild and free

give them my regards, low and high

mighty and small, wish them all

goodbye

the thars with their manes blowing in the wind

the griffons soaring on outstretched wings

the bold gorals staring from the grassy cliffs

the bush warblers with their impossible riffs

the tits rummaging in the oaks like sly thieves

the flying squirrels that know the sweetest part of the leaves

the bush robins and their plaintive songs

the musk deer disappearing into the rhododendron

the martens that go bounding over grass and rock

the rosefinches that dive into the wind by the flock

look, here they return

and off they fly

goodbye, dear friends

one and all, goodbye

[3]

my verdant valley of sparkling streams

i shall return to you when the day is done

when i have made songs of all my dreams

and all my songs have been sung

it is here, to you, that i shall return then

when eventually i die

until then, dear mountains

goodbye

an excuse to die

we all need, so they say

an excuse to die

is that why you keep that lump in your breast?

and will you - once you have an excuse to live - get it checked?

is that why you think i smoke? or cycle without a helmet?

and is that why when you ask me if i love you

i will lie?

for we all need, so they say

an excuse to die