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

​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 

Rain of Protests

​It rains for hours

in Delhi​!

​

The drops,​ young scholars​​,

​enlighten all with free will;

​they join forces, 

might above ​’em old men

hurling soggy, blood-stained

papers balls, 

The officers call it Section 144​.

​Sound familiar?​​

It rains, relentless,

down on anarchy,

carrying​ vigour from the sea,

​​free will from the plains

and vision from the hills​;

the unified front,

a weather to break​ barriers

and inhuman statutes.​​

The storm ​wash​es​ dirt and grime

from the winter leaves,

​cleanses the leathered

conscience of existence​.​

​It ​washes off masks,

reveals the hidden mob

and their savage tone,​

but let​s​ the blood stains remain​;​

​to ​glow in the glare

​of those ​billion flames

​lit ​for a cause beyond

amendments, acts and atrocity.

It rains for hours

in Delhi!​​​​

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.​