Farewell.. Ali.. Farewell My Bro

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

If she were far..

If she were far,
she would be a fragrance.

If she were far,
there would be long-distance call, or a letter,
or sometimes the excuse of holiday greetings,
to know how she is doing.

If she were far, she would be a dream,
   or walking thought,
   or an image which dances before the eyes
   and glitters like words through the night,
   as one turns  the pages of books.

An image for whose sake
   a life-long search through caves and rocks,
   a life-long swirl on waters and sands,
   living with a flute and acacia brambles,
   keeping guard on ramparts all night--
all would be desirable.

If she were far,  for her sake
   a voyage that lasted ten years,
   every murder committed
would be just.

Sometimes a fragrance, sometimes a dream,
or a couplet, a book of lyrics or a fable.
But she is not far,
is neither a dream nor a fragrance.
Just a little warmth  of the body,
in bed, at night.

Two

In the silence of the night

Two hands
Clutched together...
Saunter: gently caressing the wintry sand beneath their feet

Two hearts
Spoke together...
Words: softly echoing the dreams within their shrouds

Two Souls
Merged together...
Warmth: peacefully pausing the moments of their embrace

Oh Night, Joyous Night
Do not descend upon a broken note

Those days..

Vacuous days
burrow themselves a place in my heart
as if it was some empty stretch-
denying me my time
in the cavern of blissful calm
my dreams too.

Me

like a lone tree
for the sake of
embracing yellow autumn to my bosom
one after another
in passion
throw onto the earth
all the garments of my body

Yet

Forever annul is this respite of mine
this charity of dreams.

But

A day will come
that I'll forget all this
the severity of the time even
when my heart was rife with pain.
I'll be the white bench
that remains empty
so I may sit on it
and stare into the expanse
where drops of water
like some formless substance wait
to become the apparel of the wind

I owe you...

In the stillness of the dark night,
she lay alone,
sobbing on her bed,
contemplating,
how much she owed him..

This mournfulness, this restlessness
the inner convulsions, an endless island,
solitude within, body dying —
all this I owe to you.
And they were vast,these plans — ships
great walls of ivory, fine words,promises, promises.
And it would be December,
a jade horse above the water,
doubly transparent, a line in mid-air —
all this undone by the trapdoor of time
in perfect silence.
Some glass mornings
wind, the hollowed soul, a sun I can’t see —
this too I owe to you.

My Lonely Heart...

I have been guilty of clutching endlessly to memories which meekly detonate constant emotional outbursts. I tend to hold back on the enthralling emotions while I pen anything; I failed miserable while writing this:

I’m all alone;
befriend me,
says my lonely heart
and extends its hands
toward you.

You see its hands
and start to fear.
They are burned
to the elbows.

In such condition
who could possibly take
someone’s hand?
How could anyone
become friends?

You turn away
and begin to walk somewhere
far from my heart's abode.

Watching you withdraw
perhaps my heart itself begins to fear.
In haste it starts to follow
and calls out,
Take me with you.

Hiding its hands inside a white cloth
it calls out again.
You see it coming along
and You stop.
So does my heart.

You look at its feet
and close
your eyes.
Its toes
are covered with blisters;
the soles of its feet, its heels
bleed.

You say to my lonely heart,
You can’t come with me
without proper footwear—
canvas shoes, woolen socks.
And
You set out
on your way.

Hearing your words
My lonely heart’s eyes well up with tears.
You don’t see them.
What happens to my lonely heart
when You leave?
You don’t worry about it.
My lonely heart’s grief, how lonely it must be
without you—
leaving it behind, on our way
You have no idea at all.

You are unaware:
whenever ill befalls you
my lonely heart, like true friends,
is troubled.
Wherever You may be
it runs after you
upon its wounded feet
to save you.

Finding you nowhere
it raises
its
hands in supplication
burned to the elbows
and says a prayer
for your well-being.

Let me think..

Let me think a while...

In my life's garden, today more bleak than a wasteland,
Which branch sprang first into blossom?
Which one died first in the withering of passion?
When, in what agony, in what season,
Was it drained of its vital blood?
Who went for the jugular in the throat of the flower?

Let me think.
Give me time to think...