What use is love for those whose hands stink of death?
What meaning does humanity hold for
those laughing through tears?

Where were the answers printed in gold?
Where were the guardians of hope on a day
when blood splattered faces spoke of a
madness that came home to roost?

We will shed two tears, perhaps burn a candle or three.
But who will wash the crimson smears off our common spaces?
Who will awaken our sleeping senses?

Stainless steel plates and plain blue chairs try
to shield a private sadness from prying public eyes.
Are you watching? Go ahead, step over crumpled
bodies, skewered limbs and satisfy your blood lust.

An eye for an eye you want in the vain hope that
you can sleep better then and dream of a world
where only the righteous punish the sinners.

These rivers of dark blood smear our foreheads
and drip from hands clenched in fury.
But who will spare a thought for those whose
stories stopped with a phone call?

On the outskirts of an echoing sob
I found you weeping big fat tears.

It was your legs that were spread
out, your cleavage that called,
I only opened my zip.

My breasts are too small doctor. Can
you fix me up with some silicone? I want
to push these bad boys out.

You were looking at me. I know you wanted it
so bad babe. Don’t blame me. You needed me to
take you in the car, somewhere in the shadows.

More lipstick here. This neckline is too modest. Where
is my lucky bra? I hear this perfume is divine and in
thirty steps you can have your finest fantasy fulfilled.

Take this. Take that. Yes, just like that you bitch.
Make some noise. Move some more. Don’t lie
there like a tub of lard. Don’t bite your lips.

Girlfriend, you need to run them on a string.
The power is between your legs. Uncross
when the shopping season starts.

Twenty three is my magic number. I’ve
been to more ports than Captain Nemo.
They all love my twelve inch tortoise!

On the outskirts of a suppressed sob
I found you breaking beer bottles.

(Here is the final one of the four guest posts. A big thank you to all four of the bloggers who agreed to contribute so readily. It was a privilege to share your work here.

{illyria} is another blogger whose writing I follow. What I love about her writing is her virtuosity with the language. She can write about the most mundane thing and make it seem magical. Reading her I often marvel at the utter ease with which words seem to flow from her fingertips, whether it is writing about sensuality or about the little truths an average day contains. And last but not the least exploring her beautifully designed blog is a virtual treat for the senses. She does not usually post poetry on her blog so it is a pleasure to share this.)

young Peter Pan, he stood by my bed
he said,
“it’s Tuesday and my lost boys are somewhere
under your pillows”

i think i know what he means

my shoulders itch in the place where the wings used to be
and there are white sails on my feet
they are telling me to go out into the ocean
and play make-believe
but i said,
“i can’t swim, you see”

i think he knows what i mean

the lost boys are somewhere under the blankets
(not under the pillows, as children may expect)
he said,
“but i am not a child
only a wingless bird
with white skin for feathers”

young Peter Pan with his white skin
soft, smooth, fresh, freckled
except on his right hand
where he grasps his sword and goes off to war

© {illyria}

(Here is the third in a series of four guest posts. One more to go.

Mermaid is another blogger whose writing I admire. What I love about her writing is the wisdom her words contain. In keeping with the constant references to oceans and seas in her writing there is a palpable depth to her words as well and numerous times something she wrote has opened new windows and offered amazing perspectives on old things.)

curry leaves and spices
flavor the oil
the taste of women
I’ve known

burn the flesh
the brown skin melts
the cream of
an Oreo exposed

this need for space
this American life
heals the heart
the skin still scarred

I love the food
though I can’t make it
meet their expectations
at the door

palms pressed in
namaste
I taste our differences
“Please come in.”

© Mermaid

(On June 1st this blog turned two years old and adding the two years time I wrote on an older blog elsewhere that makes it a total four years of blogging. So instead of the usual anniversary post I decided to ask four of my favorite bloggers to contribute a guest post here. Happily, they all accepted immediately. So here is the first guest post. The rest will follow roughly in the chronological order in which I came to know them. Each guest blogger will directly respond to your comments to their respective posts.

Phantasmagoria was a regular and very popular blogger on Rediffblogs for almost 3 years. She recently stopped writing there but I hope she will soon begin again elsewhere. What I love about her writing is her simplicity and economy of means. Using the simplest language and minimum number of words she manages to evoke the deepest of feelings.)

You’ve left.
But memories of you fall like warm summer rain.
It was just yesterday that you had wrapped your
arms around me, pushed the hair out of my eyes
and kissed one questioning eyebrow and then the other.

This way, I tell myself, I live the day twice over.
It was at this time yesterday that we pulled up
at a mountainside store and asked for directions.
It was now that you drew patterns on my thigh,

Let me sleep, I would plead. Sure sweety, you said
And started to write my name, then yours, and then
suggestive messages. It is a whole day later and if I
close my eyes I can as yet feel your hand around me,

pulling me closer into you, stealing kisses on the
road that leads straight into a sky heavy with rain.
I am dreading tomorrow or the day after. Will we
forget the sulk I was pulling for not getting my way.

I have already forgotten the song we listened to as
we drove through the rain falling in sullen sheets, the
mountain is now littered with discarded words of a song
that filled our silences. And now possibly discarded

memories will flutter out of the grasp of our entwined fingers.
Your body curves into mine as we lie on clean, antiseptic
sheets. The sun outside the window sets without ceremony.
The day draws to an end and even the banter has slowed down.

We look at each other longer, kiss softer, hold tighter.
The streets are bright with the fallen rain and the lights
from passing cars. Yesterday at this time we were saying
goodbye and I was saying, not yet. Let me make a memory.

Yesterday at this time you had already left.

© Phantasmagoria

The clouds hang in the sunless sky like fluffy pink pillows.
The air is still between us. I smell you between the smells
of growing grass and blooming azaleas. You are curled up
holding my hand between yours. You can feel my little finger
move slowly along your stomach. Textures are teased out in
an exploration of tender territory. I lean forward and run my
tongue along the back of your neck, through gleaming hair
and salty skin. The still air between us suffers, squeezed
between shivering bodies. Your leg slowly slides along mine,
miming a language in movement. I let the light of dawn flow
across your freckled forehead and pool in your opening eyes.
I wait for the breathless breeze to surround us and then blow
through your hair. I bend over and touch your lips, soft like sin
and flecked with spots of red teeth marks. I close the gap with
my lips and lazy light struggles to escape their locked confines.
The careless cries of birds wash over our aroused senses. We
sink into seconds and stretch them along our sinuous spines.

Silently, dawn parts from us like a jilted lover. The yellow overseer
is riding in on her familiar coattails. The brittle business of another
day awaits his grim golden gaze. You leave too as morning moves
her mundane face on us. Fie! A perpetual interrupter of intimate
auroral moments is here yet again to erase the early spoils.

I’ll kiss the moonlight falling on your breasts this night.
I’ll wander through your hair in search of lost whispers.
I’ll swim in your eyes to the far shores of fervent love.
I’ll smell your skin and distill that special scent of sunshine.

I’ll bargain with time to arrest your smile for a moment more.
I’ll write sonnets about the silken depths of your belly button.
I’ll travel across seven seas to capture the song of a skylark for you.
I’ll reason with god to transmute your laughter into wine.

I’ll bathe you in the light of dawn every morning.
I’ll force the four winds to dry the sweat on your tired brow at dusk.
I’ll play the lute to let the angel of sleep embrace you every night.
I’ll sweep the sky into my arms and drape you in blue.

And as you sleep in between my arms
I’ll lay awake and watch you smile in your dreams.

The night hung between us
like a forgotten conversation.

Her breasts under my hand.
Her lips against my thigh.
Neatly shaven and pleasantly rough.

She slipped her tongue into my mouth
like a newspaper sliding under the door.

The sheets rustled and
slid. Desire surfed along the
rising curve of our tongues.

The night traveled down
again behind our eye lids.

Held between her hands
I sighed. Under the sheets
fingers explored fertile valleys.

She pushed me under and fell
over me like a familiar song.

Moist and molten we kissed. Lips
exchanged names written by tongues.

She moved over me. I was caught in her song.
She rode the bridge and waited for the chorus.
I joined her as the music peaked and together
we felt the words come crashing down inside her.

The sweat stained night settled
into the folds of our skins as we
fell asleep inside and over each other.

The early morning sunlight
slips past my shadow.

The woods are alive with the sounds of spring,
flowers breathing in the new sun, and
leaves drinking in the dew.

Earthworms are busy chewing soil.
Woodpeckers exult in their exquisite precision.
White rabbits scamper in and out of their burrows.

I walk between the drowsy trees,
shaking sleep out of their branches and
digging deep into the softened earth.

The does romp in the dappled shadows.
A sleepy bear yawns while her cubs snuggle beside.
A cool breeze is breathing down the branches.

How happy the world seems!
Waking up from the frost
of winter past.

So why this tightening of heart?
Why this narrowing of eyes?
Why this halting of hope?

Answers do not follow questions,
neither does past precede present
in this world made by women.

Time walks past me, robbing me of everything
that a surprised winter promised for the coming spring.

i.
हमने देखे है लाख ख्वाब
आपकी निगाहो मे
मगर देखा नहीं कभी उनमे
प्यार की हसीन मुस्कुरहट

ii.
वो जो आवाज़ सुनी थी
हमने कल शाम को
आज पता चला की वो
थी आप की दिल्लगी हमारी बदसूरती पर