Maritime Scenes

Flotsam

(goods that float on the surface of the water as the result of a wreck or accident)

Like oil spill,

my crude Love

affecting the marine life

of your indifference.

Jetsam

(goods thrown overboard to lighten the load of the ship if it is in danger of sinking)

Like this material body,

discarded

to tide along

your moonlit face.

Lagan

(goods cast overboard and heavy enough to sink to the ocean floor, but linked to a floating marker so that they can be found again)

Like soulmates,

struggling separately to float

over the sea of people,

but One, deep inside.

Derelict

(goods that have sunk to the ocean floor, relinquished willingly or forcefully)

Like Truth,

drooling fom the pile 

of dead bodies

under well-planned institutions.

21st Century

(I)

Truth is weak sartorially and lost in thought.

 

Lies multiply,

argue with precision

and steal the thunder.

 

(II)

In this tiny

Matchbox of History,

 

Living in the

matchsticks of nationalities,

 

we wait to be burned

and burn –

 

the polluted air is on our side. 

The Game

 When I was a child,

my grandmother owned

a brace of ducks.

I used to make the tiny creatures run

as fast as I wanted them to and

at times

turn them into birds,

coerce them into flying,

if only momentarily,

as high as they could.

 

Meanwhile,

I laughed, screamed, giggled

until tired of the game.

 

Now,

paddling in the watery

world of ambition

struggling even to walk

exhausted, beaten

injured –

cornered in the high walls of deceit and trickery –

witness the world’s boisterous laugh

at the run-over puppy of my being.

Gaggle

(for Mary Oliver)

Caught in a gridlock

beside the highway –

like Venn diagrams

overlying each other

in a passenger car

rationing our breaths and

then suddenly a gaggle,

in all their obliviousness,

emerge from the dirty water

waddling across the road

honking, probably, in exultation

thinking themselves to be unsoiled.

 

Meanwhile,

we smirk –

                together

in a cage.

What is Grief?

Of what age is grief?

Does it have parents and siblings?

Does it celebrate its birthdays?

Or is it a bore?

Can it be found lying

between a therapist and a patient?

Or between a voter and a politician?

Does it ramble to God?

Is it religious, dogmatic or follows a cult?

Does it cry along with the fragile?

Or go looking for another client?

Does it shred

Or completely annihilates one?

Is it satisfied with its achievements?

Does it reside in eyes, dark circles

Or the whole body?

 

Or,

Is it also,

Like us,

Looking for answers

Everywhere?

Origami

That’s why,

probably,

the poet declared

the world to be full of paper.

 

He understood to well

how origami(esque)

we all are.

 

How,

for example,

at each moment

we are shaped, moulded

Even writ upon.

Running gag

There are days

and nights

so lonely

that something

as weird as coughing

seems like laughing.

A sort

of some stand-up comedy

of the organs

with certain internal jokes

doing rounds.

Jokes one can’t resist

but guffaw – or retch

at times.

 

Rest of the days,

one feels lost, dazed

in the maze

of offices, people, things –

waiting for people . . .

No …

 

One wishes for the jokes to continue.