Girl with the pearl earings

There are historical paintings,
That are priceless, like the girl
With the pearl earring, the Mona Lisa
Of the northern renaissance.
So what is it about earrings,
That draws our attention….?????
They are pricked into yellow cartilage
To embellish two ear lobes,
Which is, more a tradition of the girl child,
Than it is anatomical bling-bling.
And here you find a custom,
Just like the girl with the pearl earing,
That is inconspicuous to the child
Who will only learn the art of the mirror-gaze
And personal worth, much much later,
When she discovers that the prized rubies are not
What hangs from the ends of ears,
Only a giant ruby housed inside a chamber
Called a pericardium, that lives
Bigger than just being a piece of anatomy,
Worthy only of one pining feeling,
That aches even without a wound.

Painting a Female Nude


There is the Mona Lisa,
Who looks flat chested at best.
You have multiple opuses of Renoir
And the impressionists
That flirt with the female form,
The rounded breasts in particular.
And Gaughin gives it more fire power
More variety, painting the French
Polynesian culture. Still a female
Portrait, in particular a nude, is not just a glimpse
At what overruns her, it is a stitch
That forms an illusion, that when curved
Around hip-basin, and sparsely vegetated
Makes even the sharpest eye
Prone to exaggeration, when muse
Becomes the collective ensemble
Of little cameos of gaze, the embroidery of bristles
On hemp, that unveils a vision
Of one man, a visual to the beholder,
And an alibi to the reclining subject.
Human fabric, can only be an
Anatomical universe, with black holes
Constellations and orbiting satellites,
All of which makes the human eye
A telescopic lens, that collapses
Everything to one defining plane,
To accentuate and hide in serial strokes,
Perfection adjacent to imperfection,
A rib that became the apple.
And the apple peel that stole the eye.

Mozart and my Mother in Vienna


The oldest memory I have
Goes back to when I was three years old.
I remember waiting for my mother
To land at the airport, coming back
From Vienna. Now 40 years afterwards,
I look at fondly, how the human mind,
Records even the paltry ways,
That the heart misses someone,
To the extent of pining, like a brown grass blade
Searches for water. The heart
It knows her droughts, it knows
The breast that made her full,
And held you when you first walked,
Two steps away from her reach.
And that day, is still as fresh as
The morning dew or the mist that forewarns you
That it is coming close to Christmas.
Now I know that Mozart lived
Where my mother was, and her absence
Was as blue as the Danube
And the evening sun at the airport
Dipped just as the moon emerged,
As I gazed at both faces all at once,
My parents together, after 3 weeks.
She brought me Viennese chocolates, which
Were as tasty as Mozart’s music
Is to any ear. I would later know,
Who Mozart was, and how he
Died at 35. That’s was near my mother’s age
When she went to Austria.
Now I hang that memory on my
Eternal wall, knowing it will never
Subside to time, like Mozart is
To millions. A legacy so close
To the heart, it lives in that film of cells
Called the endocardium, which
Holds the blood inside. My father, mother
And me, a tripartite perfection. One
Year later my sister was born and
I could see my mother breast feed
Her like a shewolf. We were more closer
To Mozart now, we were just
Like him, a wolf gang.

After Death

Long Exposure Starry Sky Star Startrails Night

Invariably we are ashes
And then dust, which when sprinkled
In the ocean, become bioluminescent
Dinoflagellates and blown in the air
Becomes starry constellations
And when kept in an urn on a fireplace,
Becomes a purgatory of sorts
Reminding why we were in love
The first place, and why that ineffaceable
Smudge, torments us, like
A windcatcher that filters memories
To ventilate an outreaching heart
Asphyxiated of saudade.

The Story of the French Fries

french fries

A little potato man,
The blight of innocence,
And the plight of Mchappiness,
Squeezing out the succulence
Of oil and flavor.

While Omaha,
Stretches from Nebraska to Normandy,
So does a Freedom Fry,
Selling the democracy,
Of what goes inside the mouth
– Just like a kiss –
Is a ballot, of a freedom,
Spanning the whole United Nations.

The right of every mouth
From New York to Soweto,
To crush with her
Molars and premolars
Paramount choice.

Suicide Watch

Isaac's Apple

You dance
The waltz of living
Circling around the same perimeter,
Work and back,
The same Chinese restaurant,
Hoping to god, that you’re don’t
Have a lengthy span in this
Forsaken world.
You search for a panacea
In a poem breathing out life,
In some weed stoning you,
In some Scotch Whiskey,
That gives you amnesia,
And with my wife
When the dance becomes,
As colorful as a Matisse painting.
You do everything to feel alive,
While at the other end of town,
Near the giant waste dump,
You hear of the dengue
Epidemic killing young children
Too young to realize
That life is a curse.
And death is just as abrasive
As sandpaper, it makes
You irrelevant as the bible
In the hands of an atheist.
You’re just a pothead
Scraping out a living,
Like a coconut endosperm,
And you wonder,
Whether the kid with dengue,
Knows the meaning
Of how little we have control
Over this precious life.
We are just a pendulum
That goes to and fro,
As lost as a drunk in a bar,
Making sense of it all,
Like why in this blue dot
There evolved life,
And why in a full stop
It all goes away. We are
Just mercenaries at best,
Soldiers of fortune
Caught in quotidian rhythm
Of being slaves of day and night
Blinded by our own darkness
Our flirtation with
The nothingness of being.
The existentialist fool
Whose Achilles heal
Is a groping heart
Searching for that blitz
Of light, which like a fire cracker
Or a supernova,
Flares up in a flash.
We are always on suicide watch
On a high tower,
Remembering Newton’s apple,
How it falls to prove,
That gravity is omnipresent,
It’s all around us.
Just like death is, fogging
Our eyes, of life.


Dengue Fever

This Saturday we are having a day
Of clearing the surroundings at the workplace.
To clear the front and backyards
To make the zone dengue-free.
Still dengue is everywhere you look,
On a sickly face in the hospital,
The obituary in the newspaper,
And even the dengue awareness posters
Glued on every corner in town.
In this twilight zone, you don’t choose to die
Death chooses you, that warm blooded bough
Where the mosquito deposits some saliva,
Drool of the salivary glands,
Trickled out as death spit