Parting

A baby-word at most,

nothing else,

with its own set of reduplication,

a blabbering sound,

so that the word hangs 

fittingly on the blades of the tongue,

a repetition that evokes 

half yearly, twice, two parts

as if life provides freedom 

to do the same things again.

Still the word oscillates, we befriend it.

Yet when it is time to utter it,

the word suspends itself,

a baby-word it ceases to be.

The tongue entrusts it to the air

as if, conscious of its weight -

the eyes absorb the heat of the moment.

It overburdens us, not letting us be humans.

Bye-bye mother.

Bye-bye father.

Bye-bye friend.

Bye-bye lover.

Bye-bye brother.

Bye-bye sister.

An inane word for the adult world,

to make us feel nothing has changed,

or even if it has,

it will occur again, twice 

yearly.

Bye-bye year.

The class that isn't...

In life,

sometimes, like a 

bored, worn out student,

you raise your hand 

for attendance purposes only.

Otherwise,

familiar with the fact 

that the school is long over

and done with.

Your wife and children

gaze at you, first in amazement,

then take up their mental registers

and mark you present for the day.

Your wife smiles, the kids giggle.

You play along, take notes

and grin in return while 

tinkering with the broken toy.

The school maybe up,

the class isn't -

It never is.

Living on the edge

A mangy dog,

shivering and frail,

sitting in the pallid rays

of winter sun

is actually all of us -

thinking and wishing,

one home chore, another music track,

shopping, a cricket match,

one more reel, a movie, 

going to the supermarket,

applying nail polish,

buying updated gadgets

can cure us of our diseases:

hopeful the impending spring 

there would remain no wounds to lick.

Untitled

A random pebble 

considers itself 

a bit of every sole,

that grazes or tramples it,

even when the wearer disregards

the shoe to be part of the earth.

Intimacy is convoluted.

Knowledge (for Adam Zagajewski)

The poet writes,

while resting his cheek in his palm:

Knowledge grows slowly like a wisdom tooth.

and I can't help but

smile and smirk,

how slyly and obliquely 

he conceals certain things 

that accompany its nurture.

Knowledge grows slowly,

behind all the spectacle

of the incisors,

in agonizing pain,

like a wisdom tooth.

Steeling

Monsters, when granted voice 

within literature, speak just.

They turn out more humane 

than everyone else.

Monsters, when provided space 

within life, spout venom.

They turn out more spiteful

than already thought.

Herein, therefore, lies the difference.

Books showcase spine 

far stronger than humans,

put together.

Anting (is when birds use ants - by rubbing or allowing them to crawl on their feathers for self-maintenance)

Birds perform anting 

without any shame,

in the open.

In different forms,

the same 

relates to humans.

Literature is anting.

Love is anting.

Talking and listening, anting.

Reading, anting.

Like birds,

we wallow in there

to soar high, again.

The thing to remember, however,

is this: every body reeks of ache.