A Short Love Poem

Godiva

To that endless notion,
That we all have spells in time,
Lurking from crawling to walking,
From diaper to khaki pants. And in this pleasant truth,
We are defined not by the clothes we wear,
But when, and with whom, the clothes come off.
We are only a naked art form,
Impressionism becoming minimalism,
A naked science of how to be energy-powered
Confluences of proteins, cells and organs.
And in this beautiful nakedness, we become
Like the Emperor and Lady Godiva;
Royalty of how to be, foolish and courageous,
At the same time, jump-starting,
The polar chemistry, of a racemic coupling,
Cupid transforms in time, to love.

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Eulogy to Hugh Hefner

Playboy

Where to now Hugh?
The centerpiece who masterminded
The centerfold and made a woman’s body
A rightful of a pilgrim’s tabernacle.
A man who had scant respect
For the fig leaf and made rabbit ears
A cynosure. In this Californication
You helped boys to grow up to be men,
Dancing to the spiking hormones.
You made memories in the bedroom,
Over the sink, in La La land, in night dreams
And anywhere seclusion was found. I hope you go
To a better place now, to where
You will be seen as a hero
Who made the feminine body, a language;
Exposure, an exhibit; apples into giant lemons;
And a little leaf of fig, an extinction.
And in this carnage of bodies, I’m just as bemused at how
The prelude could sell more than the fugue
The aperitif more than the meal
And in this skill, of capturing naked beauty
In everyday happenings, you took
Every angle to near and newer places, we hadn’t seen before.
You were always the master of the post-pubescent boy
The thrill of the 20 something,
The secret glance of the married man
And the woman’s guilty pleasure.
How little it took, to make a difference….
How beautiful is it, to know that most boys
Lost their cherry to a centerfold
To those fine curves on center display.
Godspeed, you giant of a man.
Only you and God could have made
The naked woman, a showpiece
In augmented reality, a treasure
You find in a well-lit room,
In that lusted premonition, of how
Some ripened fruits can glow,
Under light, far out of reach of the common
Man’s palms or his lips, and yet be,
Very much in reach of his blooming pupils.
The woman’s body was always a temple.
You made her sacrilege, everything else but a sin.

Courage

Rohingya

There are traces that become trickles.
There are amorous eyes who sculpt innocence
From soul-to-soul interfaces. 
There’s a worthy life-smith in every trapped soul
Life will always be a cancer of the breast,
A beautiful one at it.

There are offshoots of flesh
Near the Irrawaddy, rocks that will
Never gather moss, tumbling along
Conservation corridors, flood gates open,
Learning the strategic art of survival.

While a few hundred miles north,
Massive “white elephants” in heart cages,
Live mightier than bullet-proof gods,
Preserving hate, that cumbersome
Emotion, that lives larger than anticipated,
And is difficult to dispossess.

And through these blankets of mists,
There emerges the true elephantine – courage,
Little bodies that resist the status quo,
Making jungles their own orchards,
And a small clearing, a makeshift camp.

And life is, just a chambered engine, that supports
A journey, one second at a time.
Made to believe, that in this bleak land,
Hope can be real. Resisting nature,
Just like dead poets once did, in their time.

And if you listen close enough
Through the palpitations, you hear
The endless cheer of “carpe diem”,
Murmurs of “seize the hour”
Spurring on weary feet,

To claim the windfalls, of the incumbency,
Of carrying beneath a bony cage,

A mercurial sound box.

Bilingual

(c) Manchester City Galleries; Supplied by The Public Catalogue Foundation

There are days the tongue,
Forgets which way to roll,

When I start speaking in Sinhalese
With an English accent.

I’m like the roti eaten with maple syrup,
Or the waffle blending with kithul honey,

And I look at myself in the mirror,
I don’t see skin bleaching or the brown tan

Spilling out, calling me in Sinhalease.
I remember the days when my father

Used to buy me Sinhalese poetry books,
Which I used to read in lyrical synchrony,

The rhyming words of a Sinhalese poem,
Which gets lost in free style.

Now I look at my father, nearing his 70th b’day
One eye proud of me – on what I have achieved

And the other, wishing I could be
More Sri Lankan in the tales I tell.

Its always a case of bilingualism.
How my Sinhalese has plummeted

While my English keeps on rising.
Would I be a white Tagore, perhaps not,

More like a brown Shakespeare
Who forgot the rhyme and lyricism.

And just like snowfall and heatwaves,
I’m asunder in language.

No hell freezing over, no native lyrics to show,
Only a gastropod plodding out

Searching for Stratford-upon-Kelani
To master my outlandishness

On a stage, where all men and women lie,
Acting out, a borrowed language.

My dad and I, look over the Sanskrit bridge
Two peas in a pod, two marbles in a pocket

Two languages, both offshoots of Sanskrit,
Only one beckoning me, to write.

I’m a traitor who looks sheepishly guilty
And yet wishes otherwise.

I glance through a book “Sudo Sudu” my father bought
Me when I was in 5th grade, that translates

To whitish white, as if my father knew
What was to come. My descent to the alien,

To become, like a piece of white chalk,
That forgot the limestone hills.

Bleached-white words like Shakespeare,
And yet a filled heart like Romeo.

Totally In love, with an English rose.

Evolution

Love Portugese

In your long absence – 4 days in total,
One half of my bed looks like a temple
Waiting for you, its pilgrim,

While the calcium strappings
I call my bones, become restless
On this rust-colored September night

Longing like the Arabian sirocco
Combs the sandy dunes,
The tummy-tires of a fat man,

While the body whispers lustful truths
As the mind entertains fantasies
And the mouth, like a dried up well,

Looks for the bucket to draw something
From the bottom, even a green pellicle of moss.
I’m just as frightening, as the loneliness

That makes your cracks open
Like lips of a gold fish, in a tank room,
Wondering why everyone calls me “gold”.

When I’m orange all over, waiting to start
An adventure; with a woman that you can forensically
Proof read with your lip-prints

You have by now learnt her song
That sounds different each day. When you realize, a woman is
Nothing like a moss-covered stone

Always moving from here to there
Evolution toying with everything,
Like how her lips can on somedays

Make the milkman come to the doorstep,
Like a Venus Fly trap engulfing all of you,
And yet, somedays she is like the moon

A satellite too far away, when she will get
Cross at you, for the simplest deed, when her
Systems are in full-flow, stuck inside her own period.

And yet the best day, is when
She will let her tongue educate you
On how her day has been, at work,

When you’re just as rich as the lexicon.
When you don’t need love poems in flesh,
Just the apple of your eye fast becoming,

The euphony of your ear. When
Mouths are recuperating from covalent chemistries,
When you make an art form, stay,

Like when you talk about how her skin
Looks less-than flawless today, or what scientific
Adventure my students had on that day,

And this to and fro science of throwing serial words
Into meaningful pacts, has become
An enriching experience

And who in the right mind would
Adulterate this, with love making, when the flow of words
Sinks in deeper than any anatomical device can

Wasn’t sex invented before language in the evolutionary
Scheme of things? …..As I look at my wife, my parrot,
Whose vocabulary means more to me,

Than any exotic snack – or vise-versa -,
I’m more apple than an asparagus stick, and what else
But dialogue can make me gaze at her

Like I’m the luckiest man in the world.
As I look at two people, cuddled into one. I can’t stop pondering
How beautiful it is, to be able to juggle words mouth to mouth

Than entertaining them, on mattresses made of memory foam.
How endearing to be afloat in conversation, learning that,
Time too, in essence, can be as beautifully innocuous, as love.

Humanizing Beauty

Tyra

There are standards of beauty
De-facto mannequins that to the bygone eye,
Makes a carefully crafted memory,

Which in time, becomes a careless nostalgia,
When you look out of a window-pane
To a world of unspooling collages.

There exists, jawbones, a tad like Mandy Moore’s
Thighs and hips, all generously Tyra Banks
And a heart of wonder woman, perfectly Gal Gadot.

And still we record another’s beauty
Into to the opposite polarity, even though we know,
Beauty can sometimes be synonymous and non-consequential.

The humanization of beauty,
Begins with an always-endearing smile.
In the pidgin of reflexes. How soon you are,

Able to stretch your cheeks, Orientalize your eyes,
And to open the mouth of a cave,
To mine the human ore.

Fairytale

Bruegel,_Pieter_de_Oude_-_De_val_van_icarus_-_hi_res

In life, the prince chases the princess
Or the girl next door or a cinder-fingered Ella.
Who promised a fairytale in return.

And the princess – who’s always beautiful
Jumps on the Prince’s car – a flashy one at most times,
And they drive off to the sunset, like Bonnie and Clyde,

While a string of soup and sardine tins
Makes a clanging noise on the rear buffer.
A racket that soon become a ruckus.

And love making, is just a brimmed-pact that tells us,
That you get to make noises with your wife
Like those bandicoots make in the ceiling.

You and her, are just silhouettes in dimmed light
Amorphous in the dark, familiarities when the lights are on,
And only a gossamer nothingness in slumber.

And always, a multi-faceted study on how many angles,
You would have to try out, to make the silhouettes disappear
And the amorphous, double its original size.

At the end, your center of gravity, turns to
A weightlessness, spanning hummingbirds to eagles.
Until you fall down, like an albatross to the ocean

With a glint of fire blazing on the edge of the wing,
Almost like Icarus lit by wrath of the sun, diving down to water,
And in that moment you are extinguished,

You become someone’s older Brueghel