since
ann's here
it rains
r
a
i
n
s
a
n
d
r
a
i
n
s
and the cows are wet
and the crows are wet and
the gulls are wet
don't forget the girls…they too
and the lovers are wet
and the political creatures are wet
and polite pc personnel are wet
immigrants are wet
and shivering
having arrived from warmer climes
dark crimes hide in bright corners
in book shelves and classics
in toast and jam and world war poets
in tibetan alaska and tintin's tiffin box
sylvia is right look closely at any bright object
and you can see no light
no sound muffled by no sound
jane has destroyed the little pieces of chalk on queen street
construction begins
destruction eminent
I am shy
not a part of glitteratti nor glamouratti
my poems did not see the light of the eve for many years
i write to release and blueskyfox has gone too far
and google with 39 finds
i am already too stretched
bad boy in school
that's him…
i will just sit in a corner like silas
and write
destress
distress
one ebery roof top and millions struggle
as kites fill the skies in winter
jan 14 and chikkis come out with glass beaded
strings to cut off the patangs
pink blue maroon and red squirrels jump
tiles and monkeys attack but that is ahmedabad
the drums will play and loud music loud loud loud music feels
the air
and animals run and humans run.
The grey cement terraces of gwalior above the dark storage of wheat granary
as last afternoon pikkoo cried for oh-so-sweet porridge and we left for Lashkar
where the lassi glass was a litre tall and tempos three wheeler rickshaws
black and yellow that pappu road died of drinking too much on gwalior fort
with southern architecture on temples. yes mung dal in a small store aesbestos
sheet and blue wall was my pocket money for the day and I was five. it bought
peppermints and grams and bhel and sev puris and a host of things that we had
on green forms that belonged to my mom. shankar is now a truck driver and knows
how to show us a good time. he worked in his teenage years and is quite a man
that pikkoo wasn't.
new delhi
as the capital and the red fort and the jantar mantar
and the gandhi's loin clothed khadi hats and folded hands
to akbar's makbara and the distant taj dirty with pollution
and jamuna where moon bounced and lovers wanted to go beyond
the universe like the pacifika guided by the stars
new delhi
polite and the muslim joints on the street the paratha galli
and the spicy mutton and the chick pea kari and the smoke from oil
and ghee the clarified butter.
new delhi
the uinion jack is down and india awakens at midnight and sleeps
and glass bulletproofed against pakistan and planes circle like
the jain temple planes that throw coins lucky holy coins
and yellow flowere – no not daffodils – actually may be daffodils
new delhi
PC and believes in its own propoganda with punjabi women with mammoth boons
as insurgency and rape on the rise. nepalis pakistanis bangladeshis but indians
new delhi believes in its own propoganda believes in its own shit
believes in its own glory while bombay toils taxes like tigers on a warpath
Delhi is the capoital and everyone's uncle knows Indira Gandhi
and everyone's uncle is a war hero. Everyone's uncle hates bollywood in bombay
the natives were studied by the anthropologists
blood read from their tattoos
but grace cannot stand the witty albert and with a four friend
at sun and sand the empire sunk and sun set
Ways of Knowing
a leaf
falls
somewhere
before trees
go and desert's rise
like shampoo in a bangkok whorehouse
how did i know?
at a 1993 tea shop that did not accept
the new silver rupee to call her dad` after a few dozen kisses
on my dark mezanine floor and the brown train in a brown country
with brown sands rising.
I waited outside her singing lessons in Karnatik music
outside the Shreenathjee temple
under the yellow orange mercury lamp
outside the Bollywood God's apartment
she did not come as sages chased me
next night before she flew to California
death chased me as i sweated on the cotton duvet
and the polyester comforter and floral bedsheet
ran to Jelly's hid behind her skirt but death caught up as i
opened Uncle's drawers and showed Mr. Death her picture with a baby boy
"that is not you. that is someone else." she married two years later
but i knew as every dream i analysed told me a story
Satan is summoned and wordworth waves at wellingtonians
I am afraid
there are slight hisses
giggles
as I speak. i sip a happy coffee
hold on to language
language is not bad
as tongan waters rise indirectly
native flowers sing daffodil in an imperial accent
hibiscus washes ashore with cocoil
who are we
inclusive or exclusive
avia's glossary is picture perfect
four took a canoe to break the brittanica waves
as lucy poems cry for irene
words words words worth million pesos
in chile
a colony of friends
we need people
as a dawn humid
flows over a yellow grasslands
with cows but no women with tumblers
and man with lotas
zbtalk yak prejudice
hit us with Winston five times
who will pay the dole
the board
the studylink
the 5th fees
Winston you shot your whanau
in kiwi foot
fortress arabic sands
hair whispering breeze
indian pot colour cracks
million shades ebony ivory
slights sensitive laser blades
smile haunted wounded souls a hotel
that revolves Alaska's warm winter seal
trapped in your beautiful pictures famous
mathematician with a soul searching eye that
sees volcanoes buried inside and damages a man
grieves you smile you shine fishing for a lampshade
a mermaid. a revolving post card that sings a northcote
song light on two lonesome beds…mirror on an afternoon sun
nemo in a trawler with a cotton ice khakhi at helms solving crink
-les I like saying sorries and thanyous for tenminute song breaks
moving ice and water and pics orange melbourne new carolina's sun
empty hotel rooms afternoon suns…red italian mailbox kumsumnidas your
hair glares at the evening sun and red buildings shiver in comparision
dark is feel a delphi yeah! green is the trapped grass outside hotel california
she has a dream this girl arithmatic alteration allures the green fish
you are ready you tell me but it has been a tiresome life and the NSW miners
dance in rains like aztecs and incas and farmers from gujurat after 40c resigns
I walk cold rains and watch saffron kiss shortland street and fructus shine like
a northern wave on shakespeare beach.
ymca yawns at maia…scotia shines under a greeny palm
dig drag dunking orange splashed on muddy holes
red bus red bus red bus fills the asb streets jumping into
a midnight hue…dark over art and war memories black cries
an anthem emotion head bangers cock n skull
you ran from this very street on to whang's waterfalls
as summer rains beat bombay streets and storms strot samoan souls
winter rim zim sim sham cries stray travellers and naked streets
those dark evenings
as I run
from my house
on to the midnight street
at seven pm and
I run to a world
that I do not know
an empty shell
auckland has become
i hold back my tears
since I heard your voice
and you smiled
that hollow crabshell smile
Rangatito
is darker tonight
waves rise and tears subside
sands are cold at warkworth
do you cry as the lamp dies
and the word enlarges and loses focus
as you try to read from a wet book
do you cry…emma do you cry
the black soot rises and i may be in love
but I am not a fool
it's four years
you are a big girl.
Choir choir rainy nights
white church at Pitt st
niether manurewa mormon nor otara christian
sprung to sing a 1567 tune to perfection
as if ancient England had just arrived out of dark ages
the culture is there. the culture was always there
so why despair?
the aaa eee aaa keeps my thoughts away from the sa girl
and the maori girl singing tenors
i am lost in music and can hardly read the small print in the bible
but the door said all welcome and rob 's genuine smile
made up for the cold that heaters could not counter strike
the chandeliers dance like a hawaaiin girl shake shake shake
a dancing PI…four clover chandelier and the small brown bibles
that I can't read…
must surrender to specs
7 minutes and storms rains and stars
so i can see the specks and trifles and atoms and ants
the wood is 100 years old and the chinese sing hymns on the ground floor
the music still rings true as does the warmth in the white hearts
in the ancient brown cream yellow building in a small lane with cobble stones
the hoofs of the horse-carriages with an oil lamp in Victorias as night darks
the temples and the graveyards and movie theatre of an artist that made fish
without water and thunder without dance…ayurvedic shops and cows doing cow
things on the streets before three wheeler autorickshaw came when 10p would
buy roasted lentils and boiled chickpeas with green chillies and salt and lime
in the ancient house joint families stay and through a small window I can see
a lady having her bath on the terrace. it was not lust but a sense of forbidden
joy of accessible kept me in that sunny room that had dust since not in use
a three story erect house with dark stairs as in an ancient castle's library
as i felt a tug at my my collar was I reading a ghost comic book another a tug
i sweat. i freeze. i dare not look. my little cousing is biting my collar
took me a few hours to realise this.
see you at six at an anglican church that nelson bled her heart in parnell
and i cried as she laughed and the moon was winking at big bright rock
It's Pitt that needs a tenor a slant from Mayers and fountain where black haired
clipped eyebrows and pinched steel ears gather to plan a suicide are they goths
or gorks
as green slants like bhulabhai desai road and scotia place sun shines in justin
mckelvie mode
where painters draw under a tree and poets eat hot chicken curries
See you at six brother Rob
as the chorus sings and whores walk the streets and life goes on and sun has
gone
and dark rains lash us into a sweet smile that emma gave
where did i get an axe from
why would someone sell me an axe
i owned a steel nan chaku
and it was a craze of the 36 chambers of shaolin
but did I buy it from a woodcutter i do not know
but the 14 year olds intoxicated by Hardy boys
and after facing a thorough interogation from Mrs iyer left
early morning for a hike
the pond was once a lake a brook a raging monsoon river
in the biggest jungle that Bombay has National Park
filled to the brim with foxes and panthers
early blue morning saw the ancient tribe of encroachers washing their clothes
in the summer pond
Those were bloody days for me as kidney stone kept urine red
but i had planned this adventure and we returned safe
after the train ride and teasing monkeys in the cage
and stealing dum aloo that mohan had created
it was a work of art and the iyers were big readers
but the railroad track was
burning the winds
was once the children rail road in waitakere kind train
and bollywood made most of it and tickets were always sold and we always there
on monday
when it was closed and i denounced it and wanted to keep the the picnic a hike
wild but some others jumped into the train
the iron tracks that we had walked and burned our skins
and summer had just begun
and cicadas made their sounds
grasshoppers and snake trails and caves that the train went through
but it was hot
and the tracks were red Iron turned red
and the dum aloo robbery that we indulged in
was not forgiven for three years
it's afternoon at Vasai fort with an old old cathedral that has portuguese
and fish eaten with chillie and garlic chutney and bombay aloo
potatoes in tumeric and mustard and oil with our Indian naan's
first cousin and ants on ant's hill and fisherfolks with salt in their
history and hair and smile and andrew and mathias asking us is a woman
eating a bright yellow flavoured curry fish with rice says "Jevaylaa yaa!"
Come into eat…
The afternoon sun on the outskirts of the protected black stone church smiles
but the heat is too hard saved by promises of a rain that lashes bombay every
now and then…
the ice candy for 10p now costs 2 rupees but cools our brown skin
Gretchan was there….a million miles into Sachin's heart and reshma
in talks to Karla caves in Lonavala
I told you in blue sky fox. I told you
in travel click clock
that fisherfolks the world over have an uncanny similiarity
as the well has women who bathe and iyer sees a black triangle
and Gretch is angree but boys will be boys…indian summers
keep us burning deep brown red
there is an absolute sunlight pervading the st andrews church as an old man with
a pipe basks in the sunlight to read a book. can i chance sleeping on the grass
to read Km in the seaming yellow day day topped with a light blue without a hair
of white.
can i chance
i return to tubelight
lifewriting exercises are a pain
let me aquaint with km again
a brown label and a sparkling aura
sensitive words and bruises in a tongan hibiscus filled
field that smiles to an open sea opening itself to the air
of the pirates
as sunshine bleeds and i reed the first poem under the tubelight
of HSBC. It's raining outside. It's shining inside
a book that starts thanking Selina (an original copy in ink) for her
inspiration. Selina is a healing energy and recognises energies in other
people. But then let's get to KM> This woman has guts. her first line from the
first poem says ORAL SEX. Can you believe that. 'For Sia Figel' has sexual
language that seems puritan. Flower that opens to beautiful sentences.
It has islands and conch shells
and broken promises and simple
women weaving baskets and singing songs
and palm trees and skies and earth and moon
75 onwards mind you
and then the pacifika words come in
and curling up
1975 – 1999 got denser and greener
as the sdun rolled off the islands
The islands are sinking as the Bush
loads a new texan gun
Round and round the stairs go behind the stairs million Dimples
Kirad is still jealous is he? Loy pursuing music and soul and heart
There's a well that gives borewell water and lights go away in Bombay
I jump the wall. Madhav plays great guitar. I do care what women think of me
what a fucking loser…and many croak king my Elvis renditions. UoA Lib word
a white fluffy dog on terrace lift thrown to the floor. Like suicides of Seema's
mom and dad. Punjabis and Moslems Filmi to the core. One jumped over 8th floor
and
then another and another and another. The terrace was Napolean's platform
informing
us of our dreams. As I threw the dog and wiped the fingerprints and change bed
covers
around and around
Father Dilip Kumarish actor is dead and it's been 22 years since we jogged and
we kissed behind the lifts. It was love – we called her DDT and her awesome
sister PPT.
Table Tennis and catch and cook and life that lived a million lies and love
and Miss Universe Priya Pradhan
when you change names you change vibrations
add to that bombing iraq
and burning oil fields
the water has to rise
Rekha Varma always said the day
sea leaves its boundaries
hell will break loose
as trees uproot and walls collapse
5000 corruption years coming back to bite
it's raining in the city of gold
where everyone found a job and food
on a sleepy footpath
The scouts are marching and the red house is marching and the birds thirsty in
the summer trees
marching
the smiles are matching
hen's chicks roosters
through baskets in a small walkie lane
between the ghettos of borivali
mom polishes my brown shoe black
cherry blossom and the cobbler
on the street…the freedom fighter
in a torn cold tent charges 5 bucks
as I run to Ic Colony's bright black stone tar road
St francis on top of a hill
Sir raghu asks us not to cut cakes
He's the headmaster now
He walked faster than we the litter
through huts and ponds and onion garlic smells
dominic walked our clean floored building like a God
he came from the huts of Grant Road
Vitamin K for sunshine
and the school band goes
as we march. blue house changed my luck
Red was great. susu in the Bed
hid Tom Brown's School Days that I never read
and Alistair Mclean. Never read
just read heathcliff the cat comedy
and the reading room jokes. what makes the road broad
and silly jokes and songs of Ms Cynthia era. She was nice
as we marched and ran as punishment. Ms paul was a stunner
and moral science with bad thoughts for the days and punishment on
the yellow hay that went green when the rains came and frogs sang
peacock danced and odd story of a snake that was caught in the green tall grass
in July. we tried rugby and fought and punched and catch and cook and football
wild
the hay and on trees we perched. Santanu's prediction for Natalie was true
and guy talks and guy talks and guy talks about girls.
Jagjeet's ghazal as it is heard on radio just before the light go off
It's running and my niece and brother are dancing in knee deep water
take this wealth…take this fame…and if you want take this youth
but return to me my childhood monsoon the paper boat and the rain water.
water has cooled mom and she sleeps better as she ages and prozac smiles
Wonder if Emma is fine. As I drenched in a million green droplets in domain
dark as Kerala but no snakes as muddy grim dances with drops & ducks & gulls
I take off my wet woolen jacket as hot air pumps into my veins slip slopes
Rains are rains everywhere. The whole planet is under water. Petrol rises
The whites after a lifetime of feeling cold welcome the warm even in dubai
and me after starving for rains: it's an indian thing welcome winter woos
To each is own.
I saw the Tom Sawyer book after ages
and not the dead rat nor the white fence
nor the the dark cave stayed with me
but what stayed was becky's kiss
Becky Thatcher and I had read the kiss
again and again and again
and love was kiss and kiss was love
sex was a necessity like skit but love was kiss
and huckleberry thanks to an australian duplicate
walked deserts to find gospel singing whores
and sanfrancisco prostitutes with new lip sticks
and old kisses and a railroad that had survived the californian
gold rush as I remembered
a waste paper mart in Vile Parle where i let Nejha Go
i bought a brown organic authentic looking Tom Sawyer
and read the kiss and the trapezes act to impress the girl
and the sharing of gum on the Mississipi
and the sharing of cake in a cave and running after ghosts
and opening graves
