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