Salvation in a Tea Cup

The game ended prematurely.

Sigh!

The tease from the empty cup

was over in seconds, 

even before I could 

burp out the verses;

it lasted barely two lines...

The first, a dedication,

to the evening,

the second, to the last drops

of the brew,

stuck to the edges 

waiting for salvation,

the kind we all deserve.

The stains remain,

on the evening sky,

and the coaster carrying

baggage from John Lennon!

-- Leslie

Window Seat​ Blues

The ​rolled up glass,
my whimsical barrier

for a shrinking playpen.

Will it keep a childhood immortal?

And keep out the dust 

from an unkempt Indian highway .

We see reality rush,

in haste, a future, 

destiny and her wheat shoots.

The passing fields 

demand to be sowed, reaped

and then burnt to dirt.

It combusts fast though,

the minutes,

and the fuel in our car.

The radio comes alive,

let us run, baby run;

toward nowhere, yet everywhere.

Toward everything

but this trepid window,

for just behind it lurks our future.

-- Leslie

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

The Home

These strands I strum,

six strings from the fabric

woven with notes

that would, some day, make 

the symphony I'm yet to compose, grow;

a poem I am yet to write, sing;

the brew I am yet to drink, read;

yet to... yet to....

It stretches from my seat,

where I rest 

breathing heavily,

perhaps sighing,

with my back to the wall,

no, it's a pillar.

It ends on the ideology

that makes you a teacher now.

Strung and tuned, softly, 

it is ready for music;

the songs are stubborn, still;

and lightning throws a tantrum, again!

Then, in my peripheral vision 

the respite arrives, holds me firm,

the rain-kissed canopy in green,

and a life-drenched heart in red. 

-- Leslie 

Seek n Hide

​In my actual space I, 

carrying a flashlight, virtually,

stumble in darkness,

feel the edge of a work desk

for direction,

cut my hand on its

chiseled existence,

and call it poetry and justice.

It must be the apocalypse,

for it remains hidden,

the desk,

its writing instruments,

and its intent...

But, in time, maybe tomorrow,

when it starts to rain,

I may author the Bible.

I seek a virtue amongst

the long shadows on my desk, 

the sarcastic ink bottle

I hardly use,

and within the pile of

forgotten music notes,

I search for songs and sin

to find light, write the Psalms.

-- Leslie 

Humid Hangover

This humid blanket,

the fever it gifts,

​is all ​I can muse on,

​and scribble on the wet floor.

The rain stopped last night,

the songs this morning,

and the still air offers​ a wry smile​;

it tells me of today,

yet yanks me into timelessness,

where it shows​​

in infinite ways, love​...​​

​A few drops touch me,

others ​kiss ​the leaves 

and ​rusty ​park benches;

soothing them first,

drowning them later.

​-- Leslie

The Wrinkled

On my terrace,
when I sidestep a crater,
and walk to the west edge,
I know I let hypocrisy survive,
run its course,
and feel blissfully immortal.

Who craves the sun more?
So I walk;
they needed a leader,
and you, dear friend,
needed a freemason to pour
grout on the cracked, wrinkled floor.

Floor?
It is the roof,
the one destined to leak,
drip, drop,
and a river cried by
a poet of very little means.​

-- Leslie 

Ire in the Sleeping Hall

In a daze, time leaves me,

always.

it's midnight,

I am yet to shed my skin,

and sprawl without shame,

without the ironies

that define​ me,​​ 

and ​the hour's light blue light!

12, the reminder

comes with youthful vigour,

shake me up;

but I waste another hour

in jest,

mocking myself,

killing the ​words of 

​birds ​who ​tweet​​​​ for salary.

Dazed, bruised, 

yet in unpopular consciousness,

I remain,

till sleep wakes me up,

splashes ire on my face,

​cleanses my ​mouth 

off bad poetry,

and tucks me into bed.

​-- 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

A Lyrical Reality

If I were to fall short

of words today,

and fail,

will there be a second chance

to sing, try once more, 

the song my daughter loves...?

No...

I hear the song

played in a loop,

a random algorithm,

which shows me the futility

in what I desire.

I yearn to memorize lines,

but they are too laden

with leaves ready for the fall,

too heavy...

Instead I store passwords,
mindless, meaningless protection.

If I were to fall short,
that fate walked in because
the lines I should cherish,

were the ones I sold;

to those who are tone deaf,

mute, and mostly arrogant.

Who are they, though?

Why are they playing 

the songs

my daughter loves!

-- Leslie Xavier

A Rainy Day

There,

above those tall, old trees,

and beyond reckoning,

you will find resolution,

answers to those equations 

with aspirations of grandeur.

​The myth sings,

there is a cloud over there, 

born with you, for you.

It keeps your due,

some dew, a poem

and a bit more rain drops.

Those drops you will need,

you would crave,

and chase in uneven spurts,

with ironed out emotions,

for you are seeking solace 

to wash it all off when it matters least.

My cloud hovers there, I see,
and it rains here this morning.

-- Leslie Xavier

Ode to the Dancing Tree

​If it sways

in tune with the wind,
I would call it a tree

with conviction...

Toward the music in the storm,

the rhythm in the dust

it kicks up,

our powdered egos.

Oh, indeed what we need

is conviction, a bit of honesty.

The world craves such follies,

to save itself from radios,

and speeches of bearded supremos,

Sundays, weekdays, every day,

while we seek corners where 

there is music, and also some silence.

The trees have stopped their dance,

the wind is but a tired labourer

trudging home,

after a toil for relevance.

It is monsoon, 

but these seasons hardly matter.

Yet we long for the rush,

some melody, and some stillness.​

-- Leslie Xavier

​​Songs From My Backyard

Some stayed back,

​oh well, they ​remain grounded,

unambitious​,​ ​yet happy

among fallen mango leaves

in my backyard,

circa 1994...

Oh, how the memory fails​,​

rots,

becomes compost for trees

like those long buried leaves.

​The tunes​, though,​ play true​,​ fresh;

sweat in the humid sun, alive;

​and ​make ​my daughter sway

​while leaves fall still in denial.

Am I in denial too,

or is it just the lyrical irony

​in ​poems who forgot they're songs,

and chose ​earth,​

​and an eternal flux defending

ethical dilemmas and carnal absolutes.

-- Leslie Xavier

Isle of Dreams

​Is there anyone here

who could let me in?

I stand as an outsider,

in the rain,

despite years of toil

to get accepted into

the various dreams I weaved,

saving some as songs,

many more as visions of grandeur,

and nightmares to bore my soul.

They let me breathe in my sleep​.​

​The deep sighs

whistle through the stale air

over my bed,

like the breeze at a beach

carrying the salt ​of my existence

to an isle afar​ where

​proud n loud neon billboards​ scream​.

Free entry for all, they say,

but caution: Kids at play!

-- Leslie Xavier

Light Banter With The Bulb

​In between a siesta

and a night slated for grammar,

I find a canyon

to banish the scripted emails, 

as punishment.

Many remain in obscurity there,

others return after sunset,

and remind the dwellers

of Nazareth,

words are immortal.

The subject lines who made it,

and ​the woefully inadequate boy,

dance on a wooden stage,

the rickety scaffolding,

creaking under the 

weight of expectation.

It is night now,

the light bulb says mockingly,

singing ​a ​glowing tribute to normalcy,

but ​a ​long shadow lurks

just beyond his narrow mind,

bolted like my front door.

It keeps the couriers out,

food slips in; 

thoughts and vision hardly do,

the essential commodities, desolately so.

-- Leslie Xavier

​A ​Fever​. The​ Fervour!

The still air,

hot, dry and dejected,

reminds​ ​of the fever last night.

Where​... when,​​​

in a mindless act of restlessness,

the citizen, a protagonist,

took an umbrella,

stood on the terrace,

and sang the rain song,

cried for childhood!

It was windless even then,

but the trees swayed,

a ​dance, ​​a trance,

to the tune of

amendments made in haste,

in hatred,​ ​in ​​apathy​... 

Oh, the fervour​.

Fever it is​,

in ​the many shades​ of skin,​

​in the diverse ​layers of nationhood.

-- Leslie Xavier 

The Fallen Champa Tree

I turned slyly away from 

a fallen friend,

the mellow red comrade 

whose philosophy I watered once.

She pleaded... Not guilty;

it was the storm.

I walked away, and now,

in the night it haunts me,

an eerie song.

I toss and turn.

Sprawled on her side,

helpless, bleeding perhaps,

while I rushed 

toward the unkempt side,

the place where I depart

from empathy,

and opt for a juggle,

a skip across time and space,

balancing the lefts and rights

of breathing a lie, living a truth.

A fairy tale rings the bell,

where a proud man

fell to his knees

and then the author helped

him become a fable

for little kids

to learn from.

Lesson One: Never walk away

when aspiration bites the dust.

But, oh but, I am in a perpetual fall.

The Epilogue

She stands tall again,

an arm missing

but the soul green, 

evergreen...

Have you seen the soul,

I prod my shadow

as he turns away again,

hiding his face,

fading into the anonymity

offered by a setting sun.

-- Leslie Xavier

Stormy Lullaby

I could smell it all,

the dust, ashes and

the ghosts of Mehrauli...

This raging storm 

— the summer kind —

awakened 'em all tonight,

a li'l past midnight.

But all I sensed was the stench

from the rotten, sinful

human spirit yonder.

 

Oh, stop shuddering

my timid window, my heart,

this is but temporary...

Permanence is in the other

tempest, the face of reality;

the one that makes the wind

seem a better man than men.

It exudes love,

allows my wind chime to sing,

and my daughter to sleep.

-- Leslie Xavier

Reader's Block

​If only​ ​I could read endlessly.

Then ponder those tales

and verses​​,

​doodle ​on my tired notebook,

​dragging my pen through

the narrow lanes of

a verbose existence​;​

following the rules of making love,

yet breaking all of them,

for writing is liberty.

But no one reads

what I ​sigh and scribble​,

nor ponder my state,

or my status quo.

Instead​,​ I lock my words

in a​n​ opaque bookshelf​...

​... Then I ​pick​ ​up my axe,

​chop ​it all up,

the wood and the paper,

for ​I need ​firewood​ ​​​

to rekindle the ​spark.

I wish I could read endlessly!

-- Leslie Xavier

Ode to the Lost Rain

​These scents don't tickle,

I miss my sense of smell​,​

​numb to petrichor​,​ 

​I miss its taunt, its poetry.

Spoilt ​by ​​a big city in a slum​,

I hardly hear the Purple Rain.​

I watch the ​shower, still,

gauge the drops,

feel the whiff,

let the mist ​kiss my soul,

and my memoirs remind me

what it meant to ​dance in the rain.

It is but life,

laced in moisture,

from tears, both...

of those who are parched,

and those who are drenched in love.

Behold the duality... 

... In the scent of the rain,

in its scant disregard

of propriety​:​

A lout for many,

west and east coast,

​while I hear a faint, lost song.

-- Leslie Xavier