Poetry: A Tendency to Wear Hearts on Sleeves

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I log into the network of my self-esteem,

To see the hearts and the wows and the laughs flooding in.

A simple 'like' wouldn’t cut it anymore

‘Likes’ were so 2010, even 2010 was bored. 

‘Cause that’s the zeitgeist of the age, you see,

A tendency to wear hearts on sleeves.

Loves and kisses are a dime a dozen,

With a million friends and followers double.

National debates and social justice petitions,

Real crises, distorted renditions.

High definition photos of disaster zones

Flash up against cat videos on every smart phone.

Snapchat filters do not lie,

Just tell a story of hours gone by;

Selecting the perfect background, the ideal shade

To express love on the dozen’th date. 

But that’s the zeitgeist of the century,

A tendency to wear hearts on sleeves.

To document in minute detail, with extensive pictorial evidence

Clockwork days of humdrum nonchalance. 

And perhaps the generation that came before

Would call it vanity, vainglory, or something more.

But it ain’t like they were without their sins,

We didn’t invent tabloid columnists. 

And now that we are at the end,

Let me sign off with this request:

Like, comment, and share your love

Let your heart fall out of your shirt cuff.

Poetry: You Cannot Buy Groceries with Potential

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They’ll tell you that you have ‘potential’,

That with the proper degrees and the right resume

You could get it all, make every dream real,

Go up on the stage of life and have your say.

But they’ll only ever whisper in parenthesis,

That this fairy tale had its genesis

In the blackened ashtrays of airless office rooms

Broken bodies lost in the factory fumes.

They’ll say you can be anything you want,

Just so long as your plans don’t interrupt

The 9-hour shift and 3-hour commute

Plus any housekeeping that you can contribute.

They don’t call it a hustle ‘cause it’s easy,

Life ain’t supposed to be breezy

You pay your dues and you bear your cross

And if all else fails, just please the boss.

They’ll say it’s not sleep deprivation,

If at the end of the year you land that promotion.

Creativity is a small price to pay

For petrol, a roof, and a biennial raise.

Cost of living adjustments and dearness allowances

A trade-off for the rose-tinged contact lenses

Of limitless potential and classroom lectures

Beige colored dreams and dead-end conjectures.

It wouldn’t be a ‘job’ if you liked it,

And the rent still needs to be paid.

Power and Wi-Fi aren’t bought with ‘potential’, baby

For those, you need a higher pay grade.

Poetry: Aro/Ace - On the Slightly Awkward Subject of My UnSexuality

Closet? What closet? I'm coming out of an antique mahogany almirah decorated with rainbow butterflies. 

Aro/Ace –

Sounds like the kinda thing you’d say on Tumblr.

Or would have, when you were fifteen,

If you were into that sort of thing.

I wasn’t, personally. I was too busy–

Trying to make friends (with dubious success)

Get passing grades (a huge fucking mess)

And simply exist (without knowing it) as an aro/ace.

What’s that? I couldn’t have told you.

Not then, when it was all confusing and new.

I barely understand it now, and I’m just a year short

Of a quarter of a century to the day I was born.

Well, I guess it’s a distinct lack of butterflies,

In your intestines, where their natural turf supposedly lies.

I s’pose it’s also a few awkward dates, a few epic fails

But that, in my life, is just a reasonably good day.

You prude. So rude. What the fuck, dude?

That was a perfectly good platitude

Of romantic intent, if a bit commonplace

But who said teenage love was about originality anyway?

A shrug. Coffee mug. I’m not against clichés.

I’ll drink it black and wallow in my own uniqueness.

I’m a strong, independent rebel who doesn’t need no man,

Unless he can play guitar, then he’s part of the gang.

‘Tis a bit of a strange identity

To be not who I am, but what I mustn’t be.

The unoppressed minority,

Or just a pretentious wannabe?

And sometimes, it’s just confusing as hell,

Did I break the fucking Kinsey scale?

Truth is, I’m all of the above

Though to get there was a bit of a learning curve.

But hell, I’m a year short of twenty-five,

Too old for this angsty Tumblr jive.

So there, I said it, I’m aro/ace,

And with that I conclude this awkward exposé. 

The Poetry Post #5

Crispy Fried Chicken

A thunderstorm beating against my ribs,
The sun glares into my eyes and screams –
Wordless terror; as claws, a monster’s dibs
Snatch her from the coop. ‘Take me!’ I weep.
‘Tsk tsk – too old. It’s a party!
I’ll need tender meat.’

Stench of sweat, rotting flesh
Or minds, festering in metallic confines,
Crumbling feathers, dying babes
Snatched by demon hands from damnation’s cage.
Wings torn, breast ripped – she was mine!
‘Crispy wings, stuffed breast’, they wink and smile.

Crimson hands feed crimson eyes
From the dinner plate of corpses;
Beat my wings, scratch my feet
As he too is torn and twisted.
That makes two; two gone four to go
Of the little ones I tended.

Their crimson blood must’ve reached the skies,
For it’s bathed in burning red;
The demon’s hand darts in again
Into our cursed little shed.
A wordless cry, twist, rip; the bloody flaps of dying wings
Into the butcher’s knife, I fly; one final remonstrance.

A Shrine to Pointless Things

In my corner of the flat, I’ll build
A shrine to pointless things;
To broken pens and chequered notes,
Old stamps forgotten in the bins.
To rusty screws, empty batteries,
A shrine to battered memories
Of lives lived as in a dream.

Oh let me but a corner, to build my empty shrine,
To a broken bangle, martyred in her prime –
Not to love, nor war: but the pointless drudgeries of life.
We fight for no grand causes; we build for no great men,
Our highest aspirations – food, shelter and a peg;
Our shrines all shorn of glory,
To discarded dreams, a testament.

So in my corner of the flat, I’ll build
A shrine to trivial things;
To plastic flowers, dog-eared journals
A homage to mundanity.
The world glories in grand things –
Great passions of love and war;
My words, hence, are for all trivial things
By obscure smiles and tears marked.

Poetry: The Misguided Romanticization of Everyday Misfortunes

Collided with you on my way to work,

No, it wasn’t a sign, wasn’t destiny’s quirk.

A swollen temple and a bruised nose

Do not herald a date, a wedding, or even a rose.

Dropped my books on my way to class,

Our fingers brushed when you knelt on the grass

Music blasting from the dorm on the second floor

I nodded my thanks and walked through the door.

I know they say it’s divine intervention,

But it’s more just my lack of hand-eye coordination.

I know you believe we were meant to be

But I need spectacles more than a relationship.

Now my scarf’s stuck to your wrist watch,

My hem’s ripped, your buckle’s botched.

I knew I shouldn’t have bought the lace

Oh shit! Did you think this was decreed by fate?

Spilled my coffee on your shirt front

Damn! Was it Ralph Lauren? Peter England?

Here’s a coupon for a dry-cleaning discount

Just tell me you don’t think this counts.

Look, I’m not saying you’re reading too much into this,

Though that might be an accurate analysis.

All I’m saying is our future looks accident prone

So maybe invest in an insurance plan before a wedding loan.

Poetry: A Letter to My Best Friend

Well, there isn't much to say about this one. It's right what it says on the tin. An elaborate proposition for potential cohabitation to my best friend. Featuring five years worth of inside jokes that you may or may not get. 

It isn’t that I never lied

Never spouted facts and figures unverified

To impress you, proselytize you

Opinions too many, confessions too few.

It isn’t that you never cried

Hurled accusations, indictments unjustified

To convert me, evangelize me

Passions so many, compromise an enemy.

But then, we’ve never needed perfection

Kicking and screaming, we agreed to contradictions

Mindmates on a play date

Soulmates are so mid-2000s anyway.

It isn’t just that I want to play house

Without a ken doll, outside a wedding hall

It isn’t that you shouldn’t drink, sing and carouse

Until the vodka spills and the cocktails run out

But I must say, it would be okay

To have a dog or three, and walk ‘em every other day

It wouldn’t be half bad, to have a semi-clean flat

With a sparkling bath and an angry stray cat

It isn’t that the future’s certain, or the past unblemished

It isn’t that I trust you not to leave this fanfic unfinished

But the climax is a spoiler, and completion is overrated anyway

I’d take it as a victory, if all we ever had was today. 

Poetry: An Ode to Durga

So, I had to write a poem for the annual Dussehra (Durga Puja) magazine published at my residential complex every year. Well, I sat down at my laptop for this year's installment, and this is what came out. Enjoy!!

They told us that you’re handsome, that you’re strong

They told us you felled demons, righted ancient wrongs

We were led to believe, we didn’t need a fallen Eve

When we had you – rising, flying, fighting, and free.

You’re feminism in a saree

Rebellion ornamented with filigree

Not the deity we deserve, perhaps

But the Goddess we need.

They told us you’re Kali, who dared to be

Dark when pale was in vogue

They told us you’re Saraswati, who by all accounts,

Was pretty, but preferred paperbacks to the dance floor.

But of course, Lakshmi too is a part of you

She liked being rich, and was gorgeous to boot.

You’re diversity in a bindi, a neglected inheritance

Independence that doesn’t select for an English accent

Ironic, I admit. Guilty as charged.

Using foreign syllables to sing of my own backyard.

You were the original heroine, before Supergirl came along

We thought we could do it too, if you’ve been at it for so long.

You’re the one with the third eye

And in hindsight, I realize

We had you all along – defeating our demons, fighting our fights

Even as we looked to Disney and DC to bring order to our messy lives

Provide us with repackaged role models

Hanging by their tattered capes, from capitalist citadels.

Now wake up, take charge

Come home and show them who’s the star

Of this silly little primetime show called life

The fighter, the scholar, the fashionista, and the wife

You’re the role model we need,

Though perhaps not the God we currently believe

They said you’re strong, righted all the wrongs

Come home then, and teach us again, how to march along to your victory song.