Exsanguination

Stay,

Just a little longer

Until the candle burns out

Until my heartbeats slow

To a whisper 

Sit on the couch by my window

Let me watch you watch me

Until all else blurs but you

Until the scent of your skin takes over

As last week's lilies fade

Stay until I see the love

Shatter in your eyes

And flow away with my tears

No, watch me

Don't look away

Don't go yet

Not until the blood dries on the sheets

Don't go

Not until my body grows cold

Like the frozen bullet on my side.

You held me

When I breathed first

So hold me, Maa

As I breathe my last.

(Composed 06 September 2015)

When I wrote this piece, the Sheena Bora case was on my mind. This piece, although influenced by the case, is not a representation of it. 
I do believe that exsanguination does not have to be physical. It can also be an emotional draining (bleeding) of the spirit; over time, it takes its toll. 

Us

Let me take from you until you have no more to give

Let me give to you until I’m barren

So that when we’re done

There is no you

There is no me

But just us. . .

So that when you breathe me in

I know the scent of my skin,

And when I touch you

You understand the fascination I hold

For the ups and downs and planes of you;

So that when I speak

It’s your words I hear

And when you see

You see through my eyes

How I see you.

Let our heartbeats mingle, mash,

So that when your heart beats

Mine echoes,

And when you smile,

It flows into my lips.

When I close my eyes

Let me dream your dreams,

When you shiver

Through a nightmare

Let me calm you;

Let me meet your demons,

Let me bury them

As you slay mine. . .

Let me be your anchor

As you are my ground;

Hold me firm

And I’ll steady you

So that through life's hurricane

You stay grounded in me

And I in you.

Hiraeth

You skirt the rim

Of yet another dusk;

You watch the russet heavens bleed, swirl

In a riot of red and orange,

And embrace your universe.

A moment, an hour, until time turns indigo,

And the sky bursts into a million pieces

Of shimmering shards.

The wind quivers,

With the false promise

Of absent showers -

The kind that brings

Drum rolls

That echo in your chest,

In imitation of a long forgotten song

Whose words are lost,

Yet the hum remains

On your lips;

Like the sound of his laughter

Just the sound, that’s all,

As you begin to lose the little lines

Around his mouth:

They disappear

Every time you close your eyes,

Fade a little

As you draw your next breath...

Open the fist around your heart,

Your fingers won’t keep it together;

Let it break,

Let it breathe,

Let it heal.

If he is your hiraeth,

You’ll never find home.

National Poetry Month, Day #1. 

Possibilities

I dream of a warm Summer afternoon;

I dream of a rocking chair,

Under the Peepal tree in my grandmother's backyard;

Of little ghost stories,

Born on moonless nights

With dry hay whispering in the wind;

I dream of wrinkled fingers,

Rubbing warm coconut oil in my hair;

And the scent of the last orchids,

As the cuckoo sings its farewell to Spring;

I dream of

The sound of crumpling candy wrappers,

And the aftertaste of tamarind candy,

On my tongue:

Sweet,

Tangy - 

Like the taste of possibilities...


On the occasion of 'World Poetry Day', I reminisce and, at the same time, anticipate.

Silent Soliloquy

To sing, or not to sing - that is the question:

Whether 'tis nobler to perch and abide

The slings and arrows of mankind

Or to sing to the high heavens in dissent

And, by demurring, hope. To be heard, to be understood -

To be given a chance to live; and not disappear in the shadows,

The heartache, and the pain of loss

That the soul is heir to. 'Tis my acquiescence;

And opportunistic is man to glean – selfishly.

I spread my wings - perchance to fly: ay, were that I could soar,

High enough that return was irrelevant

Soar to some other world that shuns mortal abode.

Pause - take a rest; look what you have done -

How much you give, and how much more you take

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time?

You take more land, you take the mountains

What gives you notion, that they are yours alone?

The pangs of destroyed homes, are mine,

The insolence of dominance, yours alone

Tell me though, do you suffer occasional pangs

Of disgrace, of remorse,

When you take a battering ram, decimate what was never yours

To supplant it with sand and stone?

'Tis with little grace, that you accept your blessings

And twist them to befit your intemperance - 

What merits your need? Or is it your greed?

When you bleed the rivers?  You are no beaver,

Yet you build walls and wave your wand; 

You become the master, as the river bows and flows.

You make me bear the ills as you laugh in mirth

Heed me though - 'tis not for long,

Be not quick to dismiss this credence - 

The tides will turn and soon

But, mayhap, conscience will addle your cowardice

And the certitude of doom give you pause.     

You imprudent man! – who reigns earth, water and sky,

Let not your sins displace us all!

Written for the challenge 'Kerry Says ~ If Only They Could Talk' @ "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads". The base piece is 'Hamlet's Soliloquy'. The narrator is a wordless bird perched on a tree, a witness to the heedless deeds of man.

Gypsy Heart

A camp chair,

Your words and a guitar;

That smile,

That says you don’t care.

Wild hair,

And your fingers on the strings;

A bonfire,

And the memories it brings...

Your feet,

Tapping with your song;

I’d sigh,

Though I’d know it’s wrong

To lose my wild heart

To the songs you sing,

To look at you

And, knowing what you bring,

Still sing along with you,

Still string along with you;

Once more until you leave,

Cause that’s all you have to give –

Borrowed hours with your gypsy heart.


Written for the challenge - Donna the Buffalo's 'I See How You Are' @ "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads".

The Mark

How I hate that shade of pink!

I tell myself to stop thinking about her sartorial taste as I sit on the edge of the bed and tie my shoelaces.

Stop it. Her sense of dressing should be the least of your worries right now. Besides, you didn't marry her because you admire what she drapes her body in.

So I pull myself up, turn to her, and help her with her zipper. She smells good. It's the Burberry perfume I had picked up for her the last time I went to Dubai. I turn her around to face me. She has beautiful doe eyes. Lined in black and sprinkled with just the right amount of sparkly grey, she looks up at me and smiles. She does have a beautiful smile. It lights up her face. My attention is momentarily diverted by the swipe of her tongue over her lips, reminding me of long, sweaty nights. She smiles again, knowingly this time. 

No, baby, I don't think you can read my mind right now. It's better this way. And easier.

She whispers something suggestive in my ear. I wink and smack her behind in a show of obvious appreciation. That'll hold her until my job is done.

We walk out of our apartment and close the self-locking door behind us. She holds up her keys, raises her eyebrows in question. In the 18 months that we've been together, she has come to know how particular I am about always carrying my own set of keys. I had left them behind, but I nod in affirmation. I won't need those keys after tonight.

The black SUV parked in the basement had cost me a pretty penny. They pay me well for the kind of work I do. Besides, the cost of the car was covered in the expense account. My personal bank account in the Cayman Islands has already been credited with the fees I command...all in advance. They know that when I'm hired, I finish the job.  

I put the gearstick on drive and pull the vehicle out of the parking lot onto the busy road. I had already driven on that route enough times in the past month to know that we'll reach the hotel in 24 minutes or less after starting at 6:50 in the evening. She turns on the stereo and I smile and pretend to enjoy 'Kings of Leon' as she bobs her head to the music. Her earrings, with tiny bells on them, tinkle with every shake of her head. This is so annoying. Personally, I prefer the classics. Give me Mozart or Bach any day. I like how they soothe your nerves and help you think more clearly, plan more clearly.

We reach in under 22 minutes. The place is already thronging with the who's who of politics and media. Security is very tight. Nothing I didn't expect. Roshan, the head of security, is doing his job well. Right now, he's at the entrance. I hand over my mobile phone and the small bag with my camera equipment. The officer at the entrance picks it up and puts it through the X-ray machine for a thorough check. Smooth sailing. Wait! Not yet. Roshan comes forward and picks up my bag, as if with half a mind to open and check its contents. That is when he sees her, pink suit, tinkling earrings and all, and his face splits into a friendly smile. They had met each other in passing on a few previous gatherings. She explains that I am her plus one. He lets us pass after a few minutes of friendly chatter and a wave of his big hand. 18 months just paid off. 

The huge banquet hall in the hotel is alive with conversation and the clink of wineglasses. Everyone who is here is a public figure. This massive gathering is a conglomeration of some very influential people who have the collective power of making or breaking an entire nation. If not for the plus one, I would have easily needed another six months to get here on my own.

Like a pro, she maneuvers her way through the bevy of waiters carrying trays of hors d'oeuvres and makes a beeline for the group of fellow editors. I follow her and exchange the expected pleasantries with the few people that I know and get introduced to a few that I don't. Time is of essence. And my time is precious. I excuse myself.

According to plan, I take the ornate corridor leading to the staff restrooms on the ground floor. I walk by some security personnel with impassive faces holding some very impressive firearms. Thanks to the tag around my neck with ‘PRESS’ written in huge red letters, I get access without raising any eyebrows. I reach the restroom and push the door open. As expected, there is no one inside. Every member of the staff is busy catering to the crowd outside. I put the camera bag on the counter that holds a line of three white sinks in Italian marble. What a waste! The thought of decimating such fine pieces of art is a shame. My dinner jacket is a bit snug; I don't like working in the confines of restrictive clothing. I take it off. Now the camera bag. I unzip the bag carefully, so as not to disturb any of the multicolored wires attached to the beautiful piece of work inside. Here it is! Straight from the land of the communists. Roshan has done his job well. He was quick enough that no one saw him replace the camera bag with an identical one. With the cumulative four million dollars sitting in his six bank accounts, he can easily disappear into Neverland until the authorities close the file on him. 

What is inside the bag is a brilliant, compact piece of work; no bigger than a camera. Yet, its effect, I know from experience, is a hundredfold. They will not forget this easily. The last time I saw something this beautiful was in Afghanistan seven years ago. 

I put my hands inside gently, as though reaching for a lover's body. Click! There is a small, almost dismissible, sound from the other side of the door. My fingers pause. My ears strain. I quickly take the Glock out from the small compartment in the camera bag and cover the bag with my dinner jacket. I turn around to face the door with my hand on my gun. Too late! A sharp, piercing pain to the left of my chest. My breathing stops. The last thing I see is a flurry of pink and the glitter of gold earrings that make a tinkling sound - like bells.

............................................................................................................

She looks down at the spreading circle of red on his white shirt. Egyptian cotton that almost feels like silk. She had bought that shirt for him and admired how he looked in it this evening. He had always been a looker. She picks up the dinner jacket and the camera bag. There was only one person other than him who had touched that camera bag from the time it left the X-ray machine till he entered the restroom. It won't be difficult to connect Roshan to the crime and seal the security breach. You just have to follow the money trail. 

Someone will clean up the mess in the restroom. She doesn't have to worry about that.

She looks back at him one last time. There's a tiny speck of moisture in the corner of her eye. Damn! She had done this before. He was no different. The rule is to never get attached to the mark. 18 months just paid off. She will miss the long, sweaty nights though.

The speakers in the hall break into a Mozart just as she plasters a smile on her face and walks out.