Worth My Weight in Dust

 

Hey, you, the respectable Dust. 

You are on an errand,

tonight.

The morrow, you shall trudge

for the rays of sunlight.

And day after,

you shall reach 

a place of absolution.

If and only if,

when and only when,

you deserve peace. But no, 

yes you don't.

The if and when

of life

magnifies the truth,

a reality, mine and yours.

The inevitability of

a tanking worth.

— Leslie

Birthday: A Self Portrait

Is it not on a birthday,
a lucid evening,
the struggle bore meaning?
A will to embrace life,
the urge to breathe,
and wail — a tad hard;
the first sigh of many,
we all breathe, don't we?
And there I was,
ready to win,
having only tasted life.
Today, I tasted more...

Now, as I stir
the cauldron 27 times,
anticlockwise, as time flies;
clockwise, to urge time to fly,
at traffic signals,
at modern post offices,
at the bank, facing blank stars,
at unscripted wrestling bouts
and scripted poetry jousts.
27 times it is,
the number, the date,
an obsessive compulsion
— it presents life,
represents living,
and in more ways than known,
reminds me of mortality.

Yet, I seek immortality,
to vindicate
the struggle we are born in,
to substantiate
the ire we live in.
The portrait ends here.
Abrupt.
The final stroke strives
to find completeness
in the incomprehensible.
A painting? No…
A Birthday.

– Leslie

Zooming in on Fireflies

A few minutes past six,

​as light dims on

the Monday chores,

they appear,

on my right,

beyond a pale green

pre-summer canopy.

Six lamps. Or is it more?

Oh, the inadequacy of vision!

They, the fireflies,

hang in the air, a straight string;

dot on the line of sight my

seat provides,

through random banters

and toward specifics in history,

for the politics of posterity.

-- Leslie
​ 

The Dilated Song

Wish I could slow down

the song I play,

buying dilated time.

Its tempo reigned in,

but it's timbre intact,

for I dare not change the tune.

Will it help the dreams 

linger on in a trance,

a tad longer,

a minute or two,

a second or an hour,

a day or eternity.

The song heralds eternity,

and it plays in a loop.

Alas, time, its vagaries,

is linear, is a knife.

It rips open the winter jacket,

but it cuts cakes too...

-- Leslie

Love, A Reflection

In a world without mirrors,

sans judgement,

and harsh glares,

I would spend

the vanity left in me

to cry, then reflect...

I become my mirror.

And, in the images

flashing by,

droplets of cold sweat

provide gloss

as well as the shivers.

Then, three hours past midnight

I touch her,

she kisses me,

and we see

our reflections merge,

within hand-held Amoled frames.

... In a world without mirrors,

three hours past midnight!

-- Leslie 

Winter Longing

Lost for words, are we?

No. It's just that 

no brew could drown longing,

the one in winter...

​It is but a whiff of winter, sure,

yet the longing grows for

the warm rays of a sun

as seasoned as the coffee 

made by the first Italian barista,

or as potent as the sun

outside the smoking room

of an Indian cafe.

But it rained outside too,

and when it did once,

and when the leaves turned

greener with envy,

it indeed was a reminder

winters don't last,

but its longing does,

and it freezes it below nought.

-- Leslie

​Poetic Reality

If it's​ a slap one seeks,

look no further...

Pick a mundane pen,

write poems under the sun,

wrap it in soiled,

oil soaked crumpled newspapers,

preferably with stale news;

take it up a flight of stairs.

​And ​when,​ ​only when it's past midnight,

light it up...

Hold it up longer,

enough to burn the fingers

which held the pen,

and also held meaning

​a ​mere few seconds back.

Leave it there, let it burn.

Morning, read from the ashes​.​

​C​ry... Pry open the poetry chest,

search again,

soul searching, hole searching,

and write:

Some verses for posterity,

some for the next paper

to wrap the day's love and effort​.​

-- Leslie

The Milky Way

The flashes are daily now, 

the forgotten Astrophysics lessons,

-- meant for the stars,

grounded for substance --

visits me in the mornings...

When, earlier,

I would only see chaos

dancing at the traffic lights

next to my window,

the dance for a living.

Now, I deal with bubbles,

brewing in the warmth 

of my words,

thoughts and deeds,

a fine white brew

meant to be gulped down,

but sipped, always, like whiskey.

That's a galaxy, it's the Milky Way,

and it's where science ends,

and my art begins.

​-- Leslie

Flowering Epitaphs​

​If there were a few plaques

placed in random order

next to my flower pots,

would that make them

party to the larger injustice

the blooms ​highlight?

Life, indeed, is a collection

of epitaphs​ in stale air​,

some lost in the attic,

some to the vagaries of

destructive rebuilding,

and many among flowers...

... In random order,

the ​notions gather grime,

​my dog chases squirrels around them.

His present, mine too,

​and the world stays

shrouded in smog.

-- Leslie

The World in a Cupcake

I seek dreams in the embers,

the stragglers which linger on,

after the flame was doused

by the will of the girl.

It is life she

holds aloft tonight

-- a blueberry cupcake,

and our world.

A very different 

winter moon sings too,

shedding arrogance and indifference.

The hymns, no the chimes,

the songs of destiny,

leave me gasping for verses,

to breathe into her poem

that would reignite the flame.

The embers smile,

they know exactly why...

They need her breath 

of fresh air, 

but are yet to fathom her words.

Two winters into her book,

I am yet to metre 

its depth either.

-- Leslie

The Whining River

In ​torrential ​spate 

it realised​ ​​the bunds,

​the boundaries​,​ 

were not ​set by its will.

​They belong to the contractor

who poured the concrete​, 

a quick mix, 

a quicker fix,​

​marked the limits,

killed ​its flow,

and tamed ​its will​,

bounty, reverence notwithstanding.​

Well, I'll be damned,

but aren't we all dam​m​ed!

​And, amidst the cacophony

of an eerily silent night,

we hear ourselves​

​whine like the winding river...

​-- Leslie​

A Sleepy Destination

The sheer thanklessness

of a winter night

gives us the right bearings,

and light,

to embark on a journey, 

any journey,

even the ten paces required 

to reach sleep.

Oh, indeed!

It is but sleep we crave for,

plan in earnest,

and pay for,

with the dreams,

the kind we all see,

and then fail to live,

come winter, or summer.

-- Leslie 

Ode to the Midnight Shadow

​If the shadow,

the one dancing outside

my window,

dares to move yonder,

across the road,

he will get arrested...

For sleepwalking, 

says the cop who snores on duty.

He reminds us of light,

of vision, or the lack of it.

He gyrates,

in and out of reality checks.

While we, hither, sit back,

stretch our egos,

talk with our fingers,

salvage conscience with a retweet.

-- Leslie

How to Age a Poem

​A few lines,

which, in its existence,

is older than the writer,

the bard, 

who scribbled the words

when he was in his 40s.

Now, how will a child

grow older than her father?

If the verses were written

with an half empty rum bottle

kept dangling near 

the pen that is showing its age;

and if it is read over wine,

a young, angry, red bottle,

the cheapest possible blend,

cheaper than the recited words....

Then, it grows old, the poem;

the writer gets younger,

and we all heave in

the brown, polluted,

yet sensuous air... 

So, shall we?​

-- Leslie 

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