One-night stand

Now:

1 AM - A deserted beach

Him: Why is it so hard to just have another hand to hold, someone to walk barefoot with on the beach, with the moon shining down on us? Why does life have to be so complicated?

Me: Maybe, some things in life are worth the wait. And some of us are made of stronger stock, I tell myself. We have been given this life, for we are capable of living it.

Him: And who does the giving? God?

Me: If you choose to label it so, yeah! Or, if you want me to feel grateful for the mighty grand scheme of things that happened across time and space, in a precise sequence, to give birth to this moment, this 'coincidence', if we may call it, of the palm of your left hand, just a little bit sweaty, fitting perfectly within the palm of my right hand. as if they were meant to belong; I most certainly am. I am perfectly satisfied to exist, and experience this moment.

Him: That's the first time I've felt thankful for having sweaty palms.


Yesterday:

6 PM: An online chat room:

Sweatypalms: And, did it make all the difference? :D

Theroadnottaken: Ha ha! Well played! Yes, to me it has; made all the difference. :)

Sweatypalms: Frost seems a bit depressing, doesn't he? Or rather, he seems to have been depressed, most of the time.

Theroadnottaken: Probably why his writing is so achingly beautiful.

Sweatypalms: So, a happy, content human being can't write good prose or poetry? Most of the literary-endowed seem to have been a sad lot!

Theroadnottaken: Anybody can write, I guess. But the words born out of loss, of misery, of hurt, of defeat, they seem to resonate with the rest of us mankind, who spend the better part of our lives learning to deal with the very same emotions. Maybe it's like an unknown hand from the past reaching out to you, and saying, "I understand."

...................................................................

Sweatypalms: That's quite the conversation for an online chat room with naked people banners blinking on both sides. ;) People surprise you when you least expect them to, eh!

Theroadnottaken: I never had a problem with surprises; or with naked. :P


Two hours from now:

On his bike

Him: You sure about this? I might turn out to be a serial rapist killer who freezes your body parts and has them for breakfast.

Me: That would make for an entertaining newspaper article. Turn right at the next junction.

Him: I wish I could freeze this one fleeting moment; this rush of adrenaline  and other such things I am feeling just by the proximity of your body to mine; the nip in the night air, the reassuring warmth of your soft head of hair that moves ever so slightly to meet mine, every time I tilt my head back. I'm scared to blink; I might wake up and find it's all a dream.

Me: There, there, Mr. Eloquent. The moment can last as long as you and I want it to. It can lead to other moments, just as beautiful. Or more. We're just getting started!  Now, turn your attention to the road, will you?

The head tilts again, and the other moves, ever so lightly, to meet it.


6 hours from now:

On my bed

As the first slivers of sunlight escape the thick curtains, and sleep grudgingly withdraws, a long, slender hand extends to the right side of the bed, and as realization slowly dawns, there's nothing there except the faint, yet still intoxicating smell, the only proof of having lain right next to him, right on that bed.

The mobile phone's notification light blinks:

"I happened to take the road that everyone else takes. I am sorry. "

A wife and a child with a toothless smile contently from the profile picture.

Catharsis

"Hey L, I'm going home now. I've forwarded the weekly report; thanks for sending it in time, as usual. It's a friday! You should head home early, too!" said the manager.

"That's fine, M. I have no plans, none at all.".

Or did he?  L, right now, was a bleeding vortex of conflicting emotions. There was somewhere; somewhere he really wanted to go; someone; someone he wanted to be near to; to scream out those unheard words, express those pent up emotions, make it all right;  one last time; before it was too late.

But that was not all. A part of him wanted to leave it firmly in the past. It was done; over with. It had no future. He was a different person now. He had a life of his own. He had moved far away.

The clock struck 9. The last of the weary office workers were sleepily shuffling out to the bus. He moved his leaden, unwilling legs, and boarded the bus home. He closed his eyes in the dark interiors of the bus, and as others slept around him, four years of memories relentlessly beat against his chest.

There was a light drizzle as he alighted the bus, and as others scurried for cover, he started to walk hypnotically, as if being drawn in by his destination. There was an uncomfortable mass somewhere between his chest and his throat. It was suffocating him. He wanted to scream out loud; he wanted to cry till his eyes hurt; but all he did was, walk.

As he rang the bell, a familiar, welcoming voice invited him in. "I knew you would come. He is in his room, packing." said Light's mum. He felt the mass growing uncomfortably bigger. His expressionless face did not betray the seething emotions, lurking just below. He smiled quietly, and walked towards his room. He was not alone. It wouldn't have mattered if he was, for he hardly acknowledged his presence. Most of the extended family was in the house. The first child from their family going all the way to the US of A to study, was a huge affair, one that warranted everyone's presence, and the passing on of words of wisdom to the boy that would make their family flag fly high in a distant land.

Though everyone had something to say to him, Light had nothing to say, except a polite nod, and a muttered "thanks". He still didn't meet L's eyes.

L had never met most of the group, but, everyone seemed to know him. He was the brilliant "best friend", who was as good in the kitchen as he was in mathematics. Their eyes scanned him with approval - the perfect male companion to their star son. And in the midst of the two-way human traffic that filled the room, L sat quietly, on his bed. Folding his clothes, wanting to say a billion things, seeking one single gaze of companionship. Yet, it felt good, this. Feeling the warmth of his clothes as he folded them; taking in the familiar smells of his room; of him, for one last time. And when an inquisitive cousin inquired, "Have you two fought? Why aren't you talking to each other?", neither responded.

But there was a gleam in Light's eyes, a tremble in his hands, a frantic need to stay in control. He left the room for a while, and came back, having succeeded in pushing back the feelings that he was terrified of revealing.But that was all that L needed. The tiniest gesture, a minuscule tear drop, some meaningless damn thing - that told him, that he mattered. That they mattered.

All packing done, not a word exchanged, and everyone was in the large van bounding to the airport. They sat facing each other, eyes never meeting, mouths never uttering a sound. Light kept himself busy listening to endless chants of last minute advice from mum. And then suddenly, the driver braked violently, making them all jump.

As L almost fell off his seat, a firm, steadying hand grasped his. A hand that never let go till they reached their destination. The sweaty palm of that hand against his, told him everything. Everything that the owner of the sweaty palmed hand would never muster the courage to tell him. Now, they could cry. Cry for all that was, and all that could have been, and all that would never be. As the rain pummeled against the windows of the van rushing them towards their moment of separation, two grown young men held hands tight, and wept like little kids, unmindful of an audience of an extended family.

As the hand left his, and they walked together as a group, L felt lighter. He felt happy that he had come. That he was there to experience this moment. As the farewells began, and each member of the family bid a fond goodbye, he patiently waited his turn. Those eyes looked into his, if only for a moment. It didn't matter. He already knew.

"Will you forget me, after you go there?" it was hardly more than a whisper.

"You aren't someone I can ever forget. That question needs no answering." came the reply.

As Light took hold of his baggage and walked away, never looking back, someone he had never spoken to before came and stood next to L. "It is difficult, isn't it? When such an important member of our life goes away?"

He couldn't reply. The tears fell. Hard. Fast. They took an eternity to stop.

But when they did, he knew he was fine; just fine. The mass was gone. He could breathe free.





This story is inspired by a moving real life moment that I heard from one of my closest friends. The protagonists are named L and Light, to honour my favourite characters from the Japanese anime, Death Note.

感謝 － Gratitude

君を目的地として流れている人生のお陰：

人間として、今までもらわなかった喜びは構わない。
痛すぎて複雑な人生のことにも文句は言わない。
孤独な生活を自分の手を自分で握って歩く自信が出て来ます。
普通の人々の生活からよく離れて生きているのも我慢できる。

君に向かって歩いているこの人間は、
もらわないというものは見えない。。
いないという人は構わない。。
君からもらうこの意義さえあれば、
何も要らない。

感謝、日本。

Bake.

Flour, butter, and lots of sugar,
castor, demerera, and icing,
the reassuring dependability,
that cakes will be sweet,
breads will rise,
and cookies will brown.

Adorned with beads of sweat,
battling an over-sized glass bowl,
ladle held tight, in that kitchen,
the luscious semblance of control,
fleeting, yet firm.

Non-surgical syringes with myriad fittings,
performing plastic surgery on imperfections,
pumping out icing, make-believe moment,
that lines of worry, however many,
smooth them out, one at a time.

When all the stirring and mixing is done,
the number game, celsius and minute.
till it's just done, an aromatic reminder, maybe,
to do what you can, and wait with time,
for life, to happen, to just get done.

Insignificant

Of satsuma flavored skin,
unruly strands of hair, aroma
of bananas, and lavish spray,
of tea tree mist.

Of soft mounds of fat,
over once-emaciated flesh,
time's victory over metabolism,
hard-gained normalcy.

Of a stranger in the mirror,
one step short of lunacy; eyes,
roving for a familiar line or mark,
for a sign of life.

Of the puppet-master's prop,
nonchalant at best, unmindful
of the distance,
or the direction.

Of the desire to willingly submit,
and be carried away, into
nothingness.

Almost Alive

Unbutton my unforgiving straitjacket,
let my flesh sense momentary release.

Knife a neat vertical slash,
on my sunless, smooth bosom.

Ballooned up rivers of red might burst, flow,
free at last, free from me, vital again.

Grapple with the mask strapped to my soul,
rip it away, or let me die, knowing, I was alive.


This is Poem 8 for Robert Lee Brewer's April Poem-A-Day Challenge 2012.

The prompt is to write a poem using these five words in any order: slash button mask strap balloon

However hard I try, the dark side does take over sometimes. And the gory words flow unbridled.

Cynic Season

Face,
is war's aftermath, scars and lines galore.
Oh one half's fine, stood the test of time,
the other,
always turned just so, an illusion of sharpness,
a smile,
that's halfway a laugh, still needs getting used to.
eyes,
feigned light for the shutterbug, smile, not convincing.


Eyes, that call out to him, words unnecessary,
a face,
that warms his nether places at night,
cyber titillation is passe, or so he says.
lips,
taunt him, make him ache to seal with his,
pre-pubescent stubble notwithstanding.


Sexy, he said.
True?


This is Poem 7 for Robert Lee Brewer's April Poem-A-Day Challenge 2012. 

The prompt for this poem is a "Season" poem

This one's self-explanatory. 

That Kitchen Cupboard

A black and white image,
three quaint shelves,
stacked bottles, plastic and glass.
Masalas, condiments, and chewing gum.
Jars labelled cloves, pepper and cinnamon.
Two turned heads, eyes staring, hearts pondering,
supermarket visits, hand in hand,
a house lived in, by man, and man;
arguments over a favorite brand,
noodles and flour, bought for two.
one hand and spoon, yet fed mouths, two.
A single bed, that still fits two.

Three quaint kitchen shelves, in black and white;
The promise of an irreverent romance,
but, with who?
If only I knew.

This is Poem 6 for Robert Lee Brewer's April Poem-A-Day Challenge 2012. 

The prompt for this poem is : Two or more people interacting without speaking.

This is a poem born out of the aching melancholy that took hold on gazing at the afore-described image. 

100% Brilliant

He's the patriarch of this tale,
he, of the ex-neurotic wife,
and the current Latina bombshell,
whose love is never at strife;
and the wise little butterball.

She, of the Colombian upbringing,
of the big bosom, and bigger heart,
God-fearing mass rat murderer,
mistress of many mispronunciations.
the wind in our back, not the spit on our faces.

He, the ornithophobic attorney at large,
the one of the sharp wit, and flaming red hair,
Do it yourself disaster, gay, out, and proud,
on an Asian paediatric adventure, of sorts,
with that bumbling sleep-clown-er, looming large.

He, the flaming gay stereotype, or so you thought,
Of the singing voice and the clowning face,
the throwing arm and the too joyful tops;
with a tendency to laugh at baby curses,
and the real live example of a real man who cries.

He, cool dad is his thang, he's ridiculicious,
the comedic foil, to his hyper better half.
Gadget freak, real estate whiz, he'll fix that step;
The kind of dad, everyone would want.
And oh yeah, he is not a pervert.

She, I kept for last, for in her I see me,

hears everything, quadrennially spontaneous,

perfectionism overload, hard taskmaster,

suspect past, auto-tuned orgasmic wonder,

A solid wall of dependability, for the rest to lean on.

She, the fashionista school girl with her heart just right,

She, the intellectual wonder, just found joy in dolls,

He, the "special" one, yet on occasions many, of sharp insight,

He, the romantic, the poet, the man far ahead of his cherubic face,

And she, hopefully not the only underachieving Asian we'll ever know.

This is Poem 5 for Robert Lee Brewer's April Poem-A-Day Challenge 2012. 

The prompt for this poem is : A 100% Poem

This one's a tribute to that most brilliant of TV shows, Modern Family.

Just YOU.

Long before you were wife, mother, breadwinner,
you must have been just YOU.
Days, when you too dreamed in technicolor.
When you were allowed to be just, YOU.

And then came he.
Through him, me.

This is Poem 4 for Robert Lee Brewer's April Poem-A-Day Challenge 2012. 

The prompt for this poem is : Something before my time.

This one's for my mom.

In Retrospect

The apology isn't for:

having imagined that generous subcutaneous fat,
could merge with slight bone and sinew,
and form a being, substantial at last,
that hole could now be, whole.

the asinine belief in the instant ever after,
two minds tethered in brilliant askew,
the reflected image of want, too vivid,
the original impalpable, mired by the mirage.

the indulgence that encouraged the craving,
for a father figure, comrade of intellect,
just stopping short of a carnal lover; a bright speck
of protest on a solitary self-sufficient kismet.

The apology is only for:

the singular shortness of sight,
of the heavy burden that was wantonly imposed,
on a man-child, unsure, battling the brutes within,
needy, yet, unlearned in the art of giving back.

This is Poem 3 for Robert Lee Brewer's April Poem-A-Day Challenge 2012. 

The prompt for this poem is : An Apologetic/Unapologetic Poem

This one looks back on a failed friendship with nothing but calm objectivity.

Form and Rhyme: Free Verse (though there are some unplanned rhymes, here and there..)

A miracle that might not be.

There is an inexplicable sweet agony,

the uncertainty of dreams that may manifest;

of the unrelenting trickery of time,

and the impotency of bureaucracy.

Of a miracle that might not be,

of caramel brown hands holding yellowish white,

of eager ears ingesting sounds familiar, yet foreign,

the tantalizing prospect of rising with the sun.

Bursting red strolley, favorable exchange rate,

international debit card, indigenous keepsake,

fat pussy cats, fishless meals, an almost family,

point and shoot, practiced phrases, all in the head.

Months give way to weeks, to days of pregnant moments,

mind that apparates away from the mundane, to rise,

along with that rising sun, a thousand times over,

rehearsing a miracle, that might not be.

That's done, an agony-filled write-up, as I sit in fervent prayer for the aforesaid miracle. This is Poem 2 for Robert Lee Brewer's April Poem-A-Day Challenge 2012. 

The prompt for this poem is : A visitor poem

The poem captures my inner turmoil at the moment, of a miracle that might not be.

Form and Rhyme: Free Verse

- FYI -

I don't regret to bring to your kind attention,
that you, gullible lady and sir, worthy of mention,
are the fortuitous victims of a guile April day prank.
No. I haven't yet walked the proverbial marital plank.

It is my pleasure to inform that, of you, I made a fool,
and all through the day, as you fell, I kept my cool.
As I revel in the fruition of my false marital communique,
I regret to inform, I will be apathetic to any adverse critique.

Yes, it is another case of the unwed boy who cried out "wolf",
with lies, treachery and masquerade, did he, you, engulf.
But, let it be known, that I seek not the fruit of marital bliss,
Singledom suits me just fine, nothing at all, seems amiss.

It is only for the blissful purpose of comedic poetry, did I mock,
on my binary mending wall, this business of pretend wedlock.
I shall kiss and make up, and seek atonement in poetic verse,
with that in mind, you have my kind permission now, to disperse.


April PAD 2012 Ahoy!!!!

 This is Poem 1 for Robert Lee Brewer's April Poem-A-Day Challenge 2012, my second PAD., which is conducted to celebrate National Poetry Writing Month, April. I will be writing a poem every day for the rest of this month, based on prompts that I receive from Robert, and you can follow my progress here on my blog, or in my Facebook notes, if you are in my friend list.


The prompt for this poem is : Communication Poem

The background: When the clock struck 12 midnight on March 31, 2012, I updated my relationship status to "engaged" on Facebook. Throughout the day April 1, "likes", comments and congratulatory messages poured in. Finally, at night, this was my "communication" to those that I pulled a prank on.

Form : Quatrain 

Rhyme Scheme: AABB 

Here's wishing a wonderful PAD to everyone who is taking part! See you on the other side! And please sign Oprah's No Phone Zone pledge, the link to which is there on your right. "That text can wait!!!"

Chasing Pavements

In a street full of faces unknown,
I look for one,
to call my own.

Lest I miss that fleeting chance,
to receive, return,
that lingering glance.

Time's tricks reveal more gray,
than all the blacks 'n' whites,
in the fray.

The road looms ahead, unsure,
if there's a hand,
to hold, to assure.

Others around me seem so certain,
in such matters, I
struggle to appertain.

A random, permanently perplexed man-child,
an untrimmed creeper,
that ran wild.

Afraid to pass through life in limbo,
and then it's all done,
a lifeless bimbo.

I wish I knew my place,
to get through,
with a straight face.

In sharp moments it all seems a farce,
in the survival game,
living seems sparse.

Even if it might be never,
I can't help looking,
with a fever.

I can not help but ponder,
melancholy aplenty,
and wonder....

Should I give up,
Or should I just keep chasing pavements,
even if it leads nowhere?

The poem's title, and the last stanza are copied from, "Chasing Pavements" by Adele.

What won't wait.

My skin's collagen reserves will deplete,
it will sag,
it will wrinkle.

My hair will start to run out of melanin,
it will gray,
it will fall.

My brace-corrected teeth won't always be,
they will fall out of place,
they will fall.

And in matters of libido, needless to say,
the bigger they are,
the harder they fall.

And that famous metabolism will fail one day,
I'll bloat with each morsel,
just like everyone else.

No matter how long it takes you to find me,
I can wait, but,
time won't.

This is poem 4 for Robert Lee Brewer's November PAD Chapbook Challenge 2011. The prompt: "A what won't wait" poem.

Not in the least, Normal.

Normal:
Being the same hue, in a mass of blue.

Paranormal:
Resplendent in pink, as sleek as a mink.

Normal:
Crowd please-r, creative miser.

Paranormal:
Hopeless eccentric, a clever trick.

Normal:
Toes the line, pays the fine.

Paranormal:
Breaks the rules, calls them fools.

Normal:
Lost in the crowd's swell, identity hard to tell.

Paranormal:
A stickler for sticking out, paranoia never in doubt.

Normal:
All that is easy, everything else is termed sleazy.

Parnormal:
Life is in those little moments, for the rest is torment.

This is poem number 3 for Robert Lee Brewer's November PAD Chapbook Challenge 2011. The prompt is a "Normal/Abnormal" poem.

This is my signature poetic form. (should get it copyrighted!) This is my statement against the labels this world finds so easy to throw at you and me. Normal is something, I never want to be.

Singularity

"Journeys end in lovers' meeting,
every wise man's son doth know."
- William Shakespeare

They started to arrive years two or three ago,postbox-ed,
and inbox-ed, first in a trickle, and then in showers steady,
some in casings of embellished hard paper, some in Google bits;
bearers of news, that the next one, had taken the plunge.

Marital communiques signaled progression and joyous union, once,
of kith and kin, a day of forgotten vices, and innocent fun.
Oft now, these days of late, what but a stark reminder,
of moments too fleeting to hold, and a tyrannical ticking clock.

Endless nights unspent in an un-embrace with oneself,
Uncertainty festers best on a cold, rainy monsoon night,
in a room with no soul but one,and a singular wish to have someone;
a fervent prayer, to walk past quo of status, to that one.

However, the gregarious solar being, marches back to the horizon,
promiscuities of the night before with his dark, buxom damsels, leading to
endless ejaculations that caused the said festering, and the resultant
emotion, or lack thereof; he brings along his friend, hope.


This is poem number 2 for Robert Lee Brewer's November PAD Chapbook Challenge 2011. The prompt is "Poem inspired by an Epigraph/Quotation".

When the time is just right.

I know his name and the streets he will walk on;
the city he will be born in, and the one he'll call home;
the mother he will adore, the father he will look up to.
the sister he will love, the friend he'll count on.

I can see him dance to his silent tune in the monsoon rain,
See him hold a heavy secret, that would soon exact its price.
I can see him savour a stolen kiss, cherish a forbidden love.
See him cry when all he ever knew, vanished in a moment.

He'll embrace an alien world, and make it his home.
He'll find validation in the eyes of the one who knows.
He'll carry wounds too deep to heal, too raw to hide.
Yet hope will stay afloat, in those eyes, in that smile.

I can see him run, oh, I can see him run,
Hell, I even know the song that plays as he runs,
I know where he's going and why he's in a rush,
And best of all, I know how it all ends.

He awaits the pressing of each key, of each letter,
that would fill his sinew with blood, of the literary type.
The words that would form, and together tell his story,
when my fingers finally think the time is just right.

November PAD, ahoy! This is poem number 1 for Robert Lee Brewer's November PAD Chapbook Challenge 2011. The prompt is "Procrastination Poem".

There's a month's time to explore the meters and the rhyming schemes. To start with, I just typed, as the words flowed.

Hello November PAD!

I might have a trying date with an Asian jin,
that wily one from the land of the rising sun,
That might justify the need to rest my verse.

Words and I, are however, thick as kith and kin,
It's impossible to deny myself all this fun.
There will be poeming, even if it's terse.

To stay away from you would be a literary sin,
Time to dive in, and start this breathless run.
November PAD, it's time for us, to converse.


This one's for Robert Lee Brewer's November PAD Challenge that starts tomorrow. This is my first November PAD. Stay with me through this month, reader! I can sure use the support and appreciation.

Here's to 30 days of poeming!

A Picture Speaks A Thousand Words

I hope it was a calm, balmy night,
one drenched with that yellow light.
There's you two, close enough to bite;
to sore eyes like mine, what a sight!

Perched daintily atop one shiny metal beam,
your invisible eyes, reflect his gleam.
A scene so perfect, straight out of a dream,
oblivious to the world around, you two seem.

Arms resting on the beam, legs in a stationary dance,
a back bent towards him, eyes drinking him in with a glance.
Two shiny heads of darkest brown, yellow-gold halo, in a trance,
in the streets of of bang and bucks, an irreverent romance.

The green traffic signal in the background, says GO.
The palpable fire red passion, bounds does it know?
A signboard "WEAR HELMET", warns you of the foe;
And the all encompassing yellow, frames you, just so.

Felt like a not so gentle reminder, from up above,
that no matter what, men like me, can still love.


A picture can truly speak a thousand words, and sometimes, inspire a poem. This poem was born out of a facebook profile picture of my friend, Laishram Romal Michael Singh. And so, it is dedicated to him. The rhyme scheme here is AAAA-BBBB-CCCC-DDDD-EE.