I will go to Ghalib’s house, the next time I’m in Delhi
Pay him homage with one of those urchin flowers
That lie fallen – on the sidewalk of the street
I must visit the old poet
One of these moonlit evenings
In the city of lovers, they call it
His spirit still walks along the winding lanes
Or so, some believe.
No one’s asked me how I am doing in a while
In Bengali, we usually say, “Cholche”
Meaning – And so it goes
I have never really felt at home in my house
Accommodated, but not welcome,
Truth be told, I felt quite alone
The Krishnachura by my
window was felled in the storm
A dump of sand now – where it used to be
I hunt for signs around this house now
I know there are
places, where I hid bits and pieces, of me.
drunken mishaps are a souvenir from the past
I can’t seem to let go of
you didn’t want our demons to meet
so you left with yours
leaving me with mine
This morning I woke up
with a mouthful of regret
I stayed in bed, for most of the day,
and thought how a restraining order
was probably invented for the likes of me
failing at goodbyes so hard
we make a fool of ourselves
I wanted to leave you wildflowers
and a Kazuo Ishiguro paperback
with the gateman downstairs
Write you a note that said
“This is farewell – if you want it to be”
I won’t anymore
So I’m leaving you this poem instead
Here’s hoping I don’t end up still,
leaving you those flowers at the gate.
Writing poetry to find the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can and wisdom to know the difference. Actually, negate that last bit. I never know the difference.
Forgetfulness is magic
we live & die a little each day
I used to think it tragic
now I wouldn’t have it any other way
It’s the remembering
that makes life tedious
Who said what – did what – to who(m)
Hoarding these memories thinking they’re precious
Isn’t the moment just as precious too?
I’d never thought of forgetting this way before
I see it now, for the gift that it is
What are cliches, but oft repeated truths?
Ignorance yields the highest bliss.