Knew life’too short
to cry for Emma
Shine like Samoan
psychedelic candles
fire engines and the glares
sweet flowers on the cold stone
a name. a Pitch Black.
history
lights on shadows seen unseen
took unexplained pictures
white something
a baby’s face?
Mr. Hobson?
a criminal:
shadow on the tree?
I went to the graveyard last night
And all I met was me
For the love of all women and good of no man!
Now, what kind of a person would have an email address that reads hopelessromantic@sexmagnet.com or popcornpoet@netscape.net or intensewords@yahoo.com? I do. No, no, no… I really do! My CV records my interests as beautiful women, poetry, cartooning, writing other stuff, cooking, walking on the beach on a low-lit moon, trekking, photography, creating all kinds of email IDs (my favourite pastime activity) and learning.
We will be tackling only women and poetry in this piece. There is no room for anything else. According to me a poet must have a few qualities. I would list them as passion, romance, love for nature and a certain amount of irresponsibility towards practicality. And then there’s the big one. You don’t find poetry. Poetry finds you.
It must have been one of those warm, winter mornings of my early adolescent days in school; under the tree with yellow flowers, besides the yellow, hayish, cricket-football fields. That is where poetry came to me. Nothing dramatic happened; no flashes or angels or even a spark of a match stick. Poetry fell on me through one of the yellow flower petals that gently came to kiss the earth, lost their address and landed on my head like a feather in my cap. I wrote my first nature poem and it is lost in the sands of time. It was nothing spectacular and the emotion has been reported in my latter pieces. So I’m not upset.
Everyday we learn something new, a thought that was later made into a proverb-like greeting by me: Life goes on and we learn to live. I have always believed in true love, nature’s superiority over human beings and the fact that you should not add too much salt to your soup. I have always believed that poetry exists and there is a possibility that people may write poems. That helped.
My second poem was a limerickish extravaganza on our science teacher and how
“when angered;
he was a tiger wounded,
for example, when a fly on him landed,
just when he was on the boil,
the fly made his mood go further spoil.
And this Mr. Raghunathan, who wouldn’t hurt a fly,
hit it so ha-a-a-rd that it had to die” etc.
The poem was lost in the sands of time but like in Maori history, it was repeated so often to so many students and other people as my first poem (officially speaking of course) that I remember it.
Love poems started with Dimple not Natalie. Natalie was my first crush and her brother Murali did not like me Bill-boarding the fact. But, wait! Now that I think of it, I did write poems for my Natalie. But: Lost in Sands of Time! All the early Dimple poems are gone except The Storm. It was about our fist kiss.
The blood red evening skies
still brings memories to my mind
brings voices to my ears
To my eyes it brings tears
And when
your hand I held
Then
my love you felt
How did it start?
The storm!
The Storm stopped outside
The fire grew inside
Closer and closer
still I came
Who would take the blame?
Your hair
blew on my face
as I held you
one hand on
your waist
another on your
face
I held you tight
with all your grace
You lied!
You lied?
You lied.
You said you loved me
And I was a fool to believe
You lied.
As I stroked your hair
In the dream that wasn’t there
I know you don’t
but I care
I care.
I care.
The thunder in the skies
The fear in your eyes
Closer still I came
My passion set aflame
We couldn’t stop!
The Storm
You melted in my arms
Your beauty and my charms
Our lips softly touched
Your cheeks slightly blushed
Our lips fully met
And the wild fire it set
Our senses
on a ignite
On a wild, thoughtless
stormy night
The shock
from the vibrant touch
The breathless heart beat
made you insecure
and nervous
As you turned to retreat
I caught you in your flight
And held you tight
in the still of the night
Your eyes sparkled
and lips trembled
Where did it come from?
The Storm.
I whispered in your ears
before you disappeared
Leaving behind doubts
distrust and fears
The storm
went on and on
The love
was dead and gone
My life torn apart
Crash!
Down went my heart
However, when I met her again after six years on a rebound from a steamy, passionate, emotional affair with an Aries married woman, I wrote poems like:
One Afternoon
The crazy
March afternoon
heat.
The fan’s not
fast enough
The soft breeze
is blowing-
the leaves,
The earth’s
scorched.
A mosquito
bites me on
my leg
and I’m
devastated
I stand
in the balcony
gazing at the
empty road
which leads us
nowhere
I’m thinking
of you (imagining)
you
seated in
that fashion designer
class of yours,
talking to Reema
Sheetal,
Drawing among
the girlie – chatter
awaiting your teacher
thinking of me.
May be.
Reading Cheiro
and then your own palm.
getting out of
the college
awaiting a 84 ltd
Alas its 25 mins late
That’s fate
As Reema
invites you to her house
No you are not in the mood.
You want to go to
a quiet place
and think of me.
Call Dina and talk
about me.
Hope for me.
Pray for me.
Write to me
(You can’t)
You don’t have
the address.
Oh! my God
what a mess.
At last you’re home
and the phone
refuses to ring
You are too tired
to eat the food
that Pinky brings
The evening brings
a soft breeze
as you stand
against the well.
Still hoping
for the telephone bell.
imagining me in
my long strided
walk.
entering your life
your heart
wants to sing.
An illusion.
Bored you return
home to your
empty bed
to spend another
sleepless night
I wish I was there
to hold you tight.
And kiss you gently
In the night
I am missing you.
But I was not writing these poems. Someone else was. I was just feeling the emotions. I was being used; As, I’m being used right now.
I needed time to get over my loves, crushes and infatuations. Often three to four years but that did not dampen my enthusiasm. Neha was the love that struck with greatest force, with the ferocity that a Sagittarius feels for a Leo; like a kick in the groin. I wanted to cry but I wrote poems, hopelessly. Tiger poems and the legendary Savage and the Princess, that was more of a premonition (something I suffer from) than anything else. The first poem was called the
The wound that healed not
The tiger was wounded
his heart was hit
& torn apart
The pain extreme
It felt so real
Though roar he did not
his heart bled
he should have fled
he should’ve at least
fought
A thousand arrows
poisoned
hit him straight through
the heart
She lived in the wild
west
He ranged from eastern
dark
The tiger loved a lioness
a breed apart
a class apart
Travel, nature and women were my first loves as I indiscriminately and promiscuously mixed and matched. Poetry relented especially, on nights. I sat struck by sudden gush of words that filled pages in matter of minutes, even seconds.
The Savage and the Princess was written in the rhythm of Lord Tennyson’s ‘Charge of the Light Brigade’
Sparks rode as hell had no fury’s name
Out aside with sword and shame
Pulled out his silver lancet sharp
Hunting gave his glory fame
And down the woods the Lion came
Sharp the eyes mammoth the frame
And quick before the sound through harp
Savage down from his horses came
And eyes across eyes did meet
And two animals none could tame
As though the silence could much speak
Their grey eyes a single burning flame
Sparks – Savage was not just in name
One strike left the lion lame
One must the other eat
Both animals were on their feet!
A roar the wounded lion gave
Amidst the rising passion – a scratch
The blood: Sparks could not save
And silence then became discreet
The pride and arrogance left insane
A smile reached the wounded Savage eye
His arm bleeding like it rains
His lancet one and a half metres long
Swished across the air like a song
The lion was faster than most
The lion played the jungle host
His claws penetrated Savage guts
And deep, deeper the bloody cuts
While seeing blood – his own
Made Sparks smile
A battle A battle A battle
A mile
Sparks adored the lion’s style
And speed he had to catch up in a while
The golden mane he came close
And as the scarlet blood flows
Swish, went the Savage eyes
The lancet moved faster
Hard and high
The sabre cut the lion’s throat
A smile
The hunter gave a gloat
And Savage killed with poetic rhythm
Killing on slander; the Savage anthem
Night after night, day after day
It was the same, the savage and his bloody games
As evil Sparks gained Savage name
And hoofs thundered
And earth shuddered
As Savage came
And Savage came
And thus my journey of romance and poetry continues; sometimes stuttered, sometimes ignored. Not as passionate as the married Aries women, not as heart-felt as Emma, my Taurean, Pakeha girl, not as eternal as the Leo affair: But small and pleasant. Sometimes in the form of a small note left behind for a Malaysian girl in the library or a Korean girl in the Sushi shop. Sometimes in my mind: a poem that may never be written. Sometimes to a girl in the window in India; a girl who loves me but cannot say it.
