Every pill the doctor orders does Not work on you. For example, You cannot take a paracetamol for a viral Infection. You’re a prize idiot If you do so. Apple a day – which comes in the form of my wife – Does not make the melancholy go away. Memory pills, they too exist, especially
The look in your face, worthy of me And the others, scorn Keeping vigil like a lioness. You who took the stone out of their palms And reminded each one, of the splinters In their eyes. And I searched for you Around the skull mountain And found an empty abandoned tomb They said you had
Just the ambivalence of not Having the security of memory Of the time-folded moment. Lapsed, carried on a ferry To a far-away land No recollection, no ribbon-tied Bonanzas of little fables With a message at the end. No fortune cookie endings, no aphorisms To knot, the idiosyncracy of knowing There is something and yet The
I look through the rubble The little mountains I have constructed In a little room called the attic And here I have little ones, big ones. Good and mediocre. I have gold and fool’s gold. Ingots and trinkets. And they are all handpicked for the occasion. Equally weighed for the requiem And the dream.
You look in the mirror And the youth which galloped past As white-water rapids is now idly swimming past Curving bends and meandering elbows When you can taste a whisk of brine From the distant estuary And in this space of ambivalence and fear of the great unknown You have one hermitage – a place
On this valentine’s day I pledge to surrender my all To the glue that binds us To paste every lapsing milestone In my mental scrap book Where in each page of memory Lies the interface Of the past and the present In sublimation and volatalization Of matter into medium
In the imperfection of creation Lies the fallibility of genes The oddness in craftsmanship And the erosion of time and age Nature’s heirloom nurtured to perfection By the synergy of providence Where jigsaw puzzles are filled By the naked eye And all of imperfection unites on a retina To etch the perfect frame – a color
I search for you, your aura, your smile Your flowing tresses, your elbow on the window frame Lost in cascading memories That fall like a waterfall As I surrender to a familiar moistness While water smoke rises like a fuming volcano As I relinquish my all to what I owe to myself Your absence – What
Memory was soaked In monsoons of nostalgia And all that was left behind Was the petrichor Of longing……….