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

​​The Immunity ​Lie

If it rains tomorrow,

will there be reopening 

of schools,

and paper boats

to sail across shallow puddles?

But​,​ it is too early​,​ 

the summer burns,

and we are left with mangoes

mangled priorities,

a wee bit of sanity, 

parched rivers brim with tears

and a strange virus.

Let it rain​ though​,

for it washes away the

salt on our wounded pride​.​

​W​e still seek vaccine,

solace, air to breathe,

and a new parliament,

​​​as immunity ​becomes a ​lie...

The school bell too is a myth,

it rings no more​

in this cacophony...​

​And we sway to 

shrill ringtones and eerie sirens.

-- Leslie Xavier

The Winter Morning Rain

The dark ​corridor,

​which connects the ​bed near sunset

and the well​-​lit Christmas tree​ ​at Sunrise,

​is my library.​

​The half-read books ​reek of arrogance,

​today they ​exude the scent of rain,

winter rain,

​whose drops tease​ ​me

at the window,

​urge me ​to play musical chairs...

If only I was my daughter,

​or I were my father,​

I would oblige​.

I am neither old, nor young,

just perfect to be

trapped amongst dusty books,

uncertain at sunset,

jittery about sunrise.

-- Leslie

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)

Indian Identity Strife

I​ forgot my ID once,

it is a tree now back home,

in my backyard.

... My identification marks,

​birth scars, dots and dotcoms,

are under a blanket

where it hides, 

alongside some books, 

a moral compass, an ethnic passport,

and the Indian constitution.

They await judgement,

for free will is not theirs,

not anymore,

not on these streets.

-- Leslie

Pic: Courtesy DNA

Peachy Love

​​​​Fresh flowers, moist,
float down,
​a bit after t​​he morning sun
lit up your eyes..​.
​
The buds reach your lips,
swaying down from their pedestal,
the lone peach tree up the hill​.​
Coerced​ down by the whiff of 
a mint-laced mountain breeze
​- his breath reaches yours​,​
his soul ​touches your lips,
a dance follows,
​serene like a river's flow,
wild like its roar.​​

The solitary Peach tree near The Goat Village Nagtibba (Pic: Sreetama Bagchi)

Brownian Destiny

​She beholds 'em in awe,

the falling leaves of spring,

the Palash bloom who,

in jest,

tapped her left shoulder;

made her turn right,

towards the right hues of life,

bright red, dreamy yellow.​​

We too,

I sigh and smile,

live our Brownian lives,

swaying with the mystical laws...

Of physics, blessings and fate,

our dreams and destiny.

Pic: Sreetama Bagchi

Clair de Lune

​To hear the silent,

lonely song of the moon tonight,

I strained my heart,

climbed up the winding stairs

of my creative will,

each step stained with sweat

of the masons who built them.

Wonder if they are alive,

do they climb stairs too,

to try and hear this song I crave.

Silence...

That's what we all get,

even the living masons,

the dead artistes,

after a futile chase.

For what we possess is 

a bit of noise, quite a lot,

which we clang up

living by some mortal algorithm.

Look up above, I plead,

in Clair de Lune

lie our immortal visions, life's rhythm!