Rain-Drenched Autocracy

​In the recess between rains,

when there is dew,

the ones that lack the 

honesty of the droplets 

who unabashedly drench us,

and drown us in

their version of love.

Hard love,

slippery love;

and, over the course of

a torrential exuberance,

some cold love...

Frozen,

like the railings

of my balcony door,

the metallic reality in it
I tasted this day,

using its truth to

numb the index finger,

the one I use to point

at life, at others,

at misgivings and notions;

at my fallacies,

at those dusty books even...

Hardbound,

words flood their pages,

like how Delhi was this evening:

In shallow water,

but largely out of its depth,

it reeled... 

When it should've scripted songs,

and then harvested

the fruits of poetry,

the vague, distant yield, 

an honest free will

amidst autocracy.

-- Leslie

Ode to the Monday Rain

Today, if I were to rush,

it would only be till

the window...

To strain for berries, 

and then to catch 

the tones I missed

in the song that's on loop

since morning.

After all, it is Monday, 

a Sabbath for poets.

Monday rains are shy,

selfless creatures of creation;

they talk in whispers,

sing in sighs; 

leave us with introverts two,

a background score 

that loses to the blues

in our playlists;

the mist, gentle and subdued, 

who stays backstage. Always.

If the cold drops were smokers,

or had warm breath like

the kids of Democracy,

they could leave

symbols on my pane.

Footnotes on the music,

their sense, the belonging,

and who bears the bill

for their concert;

I see an empty hall.

-- Leslie Xavier

Poetic Freedom

​I would retire,

with ease, grace and peace

to the farthest ​nook,

if they serve, every day,

slices of plum cake,

and play Christmas vibes all night.

I would move my world,

if they let me write poems

on church walls, pavements,

and on the ​remaining 

one and a half​ ​pillars of Democracy;

red letters strung together

for all to behold, tread on​...​

​Onward​ toward destiny, 

to the shop window​, any window,

for​ ​a ​taste of ​that ​plum cake​... Freedom!​

​-- Leslie​

Picture Courtesy: Sreetama Bagchi, Goa (2017)

Delhi and a Democratic Irony

I seek the obvious,

the irony of a 

monsoon morning,

as I leave the lawns

down south,

to the loan sharks

high up on a steep

pecking order.

I seek salvation

among humid, smiling faces,

even as a storm brews, 

in and around

Lutyens' reminders of slavery,

a few signage bright and yellow,

which herald sunrise, sunset,

and democratic bonded labour.​

THE UNCORRUPT

Hope in!

The missing links maketh your day,
filling your hours with hope.
And hope drives the universe.

Father figure
The going was tough, but,
the tough was falling around him,
and they Baptized him Father!

Vain blood
An old man at the frontier;
where are the young n brave?
Oh, they bled Blue to death in vain!

Armful Cancer!
Armed rebellion against cancer!
We can't let you amputate
our mother, ye modern sage...

Hold on
Intriguing, the air is still;
for the whole nation holds its breath,
Democracy is in labour tonight.

A nation built on hope, blood and sweat. The fluttering tri-colour -- a dream of the Father of the Nation and the thousands who laid down their lives and the millions who made sacrifices -- is in danger of becoming a nightmare.
A man from that long-lost “age of national pride” has come forward though, to keep the Indian dream alive. But the young are lost in their own little world of self importance, while the nation bleeds and rots. And another “Saviour” tries to cut our Mother to pieces – Armed rebellion!
I see my brothers and sister doubting Democracy and doubting our constitution, the backbone of our nation. These are dangerous times. It’s time we acted and acted boldly.
JAI HIND!