The Cart and the Bull

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We linger, in that evolving stage
Where you have gone past the first comfort zone
And you are as comfortable as 
A koala on a eucalyptus tree.
Marriage was the cart, the bull came a little afterwards,
Unlike the more celebrated type in the 21st century.
Our solemn pledge to stay celibate
Making us immovable from a stance
That was both sponsoring love,
And refreshing a catholic tradition.
And the bull came true, the day we became man and woman
And oh boy, the bull could pull
The cart more than we had ever anticipated.
We were in Pamplona,
On most days, of our first year of marriage.
Flesh-relations were just letting the bull loose
And the cart stood as pledge, stamping love.
Letting the cart usher in the bull,
Was just our way of acknowledging
That we knew each other implicitly
Before making the explicit count.
And the beast of beasts,
Used love – the raging type – to preserve the cart,
As the beauty of all modern beauties.

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Life and Death

Moon 2

There is a small water fern
Called Azolla, which I do scientific
Experiments with. This water fern
As a symbiotic partner, which has co-habited
The plant, through 140 million years.
A symbiosis like no other.
The symbiont, a life form called Cyanobacteria
Lives inside a cavity in the Azolla leaf.
So what makes this co-existence special?
It’s the complete dependency of the endosymbiont in Azolla
Similar to what marriage does to you.
I now cannot live in independence
Of my wife, deprived of the small things,
Like, heating the food in the microwave,
Making me shake from time to time, like a vibrating
Mobile phone, joking on small
Things that we take for granted
Like our toes and the way they angle.
We are like the Azolla plant,
An eternity beckoning, yet knowing
The almighty truth that we are
Limited by a lifespan, that indefinite
Period of finding our way through
A maze, that riddle always on the tip of one’s nose,
But can never be coughed out as words,
Tipped out from tongues.

Wedding Anniversary 2

Margarita Pizza

The faceoff between history and time
In that tradeoff of love; leaning like the tower of Pisa
On fate and making that perfect circle,
With comes with a few greasy cheesy toppings,
Into a margarita. Looking at the Pizza box
After two years, knowing that the dough
Is still sound, and yet acquiescing to that feeling
That the toppings have diminished over time.
The jagged circle is still imperfect
Just like my wife and me, who have never-ever cried
Over spilled toppings. The cheesy – the flowers
The lingerie, the gifts – are scanty pickings
And still how beautiful is a simple pizza
That never lets you go beneath the covers
On an empty tummy. We are only as Italian
As the love we make from time to time,
And yet how beautiful is the ripple
Of the Gondola, to the slow drown of Venice.

Two Wedding Poems

Daniela & Frank's Gorgeous Cambridge Mill Wedding, Anne Edgar Photography
Daniela & Frank’s Gorgeous Cambridge Mill Wedding, Anne Edgar Photography

In Sickness and Health

In the rain-fed landslides 
Of stockpiled chemistries
Promenade down a nave
To a whitened shrine
Where one syndrome pledges
To muster a lifetime of grit
To bloom a beautiful water lily
Over mud-spoilt earth

The Father of the Bride

The two feet
That you buckled on a cot
The two eyes that stared
At you like you were the full moon.
The two palms that wrapped around
Your fingers demanding
A little grip.

Now two party heels
On top of which she dances,
Her two arms knowing another.

Too soon, how time opened a water lily,
To be the cynosure of a little pond,
Where the pickers are many,
But keepers are few.

Marriage

love-making

Every Nicholas Sparks
Novel has a twist to the plot.
And there’s nothing more heartbreaking
Than the loss of a larger-than-life character.

And I, two years into my marriage
Is hopelessly scared that I might not be worthy
Of a woman, who looks through a kaleidoscope
And is married to a man who looks
Through the porthole of a leaking trawler.

And glee and gloom they do mix very well though
On an abstract painting that slips
Unnoticed to the future, taking us along.
The vanilla skies beautifully afloat
Until the gale blows

And we jaywalk like the monsoons
Until we crash into each other
When accidents leave behind casualties
Of our own securities, that prolong the beauty
Of moan-powered engines
Of those mounds of flesh on a marriage bed

By itself, a bedrock.

Marriage is Sexy

Daniela & Frank's Gorgeous Cambridge Mill Wedding, Anne Edgar Photography

Do you know that marriage is darn sexy.

Have you seen your wife’s buttocks
Grow bigger by the year, like brown gunny sacs
Filled to the brim with husked grains.
The breasts are still sprightly perky like
They could hang an old pair of tea cups
Her hips spread out like Siberia
And the g-string she still wears
Grows on you, just like the vast unmapped areas
That have no chance of being covered.

She will let you spank her
Until the moon becomes two blood oranges
She will fall to your lap, dancing like a sultry tornado
And she will make her lips do wonders
She will pop the wine bottle
And pour the lemonade

And still what is most sexy about her
Is, she will now be bloated around the edges
Age creasing her skin, rocking her muffin top
Loosening her chin and still
She will leave you simply speechless,
How she keeps her secrets and pours them out
All at once. Like when she will buy
A baby doll or a corset on your birthday
Or suddenly drop her garments and go skinny dipping
Or wear a mini skirt with no panties on
Or flaunt her G-string above her hipsters
Like a 20 something.

And there are no inventories to marriage
That’s the best part about it.
Its how you push the boundaries
Waking up to new traditions while keeping
The old ones and still remembering to climb
On each others bodies as often as possible.
Some monkeying around never really hurt anybody.

And my wife will always be my first and only love.
And I look forward to growing old with her
Knowing we will reinvent life at every milestone
Living larger than society dictates.
And life is about reinvention. Of how two people
That know everything about each other,
Invent newer arrangements to let
Newer feelings prosper. The G-string will never
Grow old on my wife and nor will I.
And that thought by itself, is simply beautiful,
Knowing that fat man will never be a pod of vanilla
Nor will missionary sex be.

And in love isn’t it all about the little things.

The apron, the baby doll,
The leopard skin g-string, the glowing condom,
The happy tears, the gait, the skip of a heartbeat
The scrappy notes and post-it notes
The blue pill on my tongue and the clit that becomes my tongue
The little rooms we dust out on Sunday mornings.

And the little words we commit and omit
In pledge and in silence

In love and in love.

Hen House

 

smiling-woman

My wife and her friends are about to throw
A hen’s party to the bridesmaid at our wedding.
When my wife will go to breadtalk
And buy some short-eats and finger food
For a night of frolic and merry-making.

And in Sri Lanka
There are no male strippers yet they still
Find ways to find petticoats or night shorts
With all the sex-positions printed on them.
When you get a glimpse of how the brain
Of a woman works. It seems
They love diversity. [Hold on; so do Men]

And in spite of all the racy talk
Getting gifts of baby dolls and lacy g-strings,
They will be celebrating the sisterhood, of the long heart miles
Journeyed, since a lower-grade class room
At a nun-run school. Karan
And Kaushie are battle-hardened hens
Who are raising little chickens.
And Jaime will soon be holding on to her man
On a lifted stage – the cynosure wife.

And perhaps there is something
About the sisterhood, we boys can learn from.
How an Absolut Vodka bottle
Or a Morgan’s spiced Rum, will never perhaps
Be equal to what they hold. We get drunk to a degree
When we cannot even feel the bond of shared histories.
And all the while the girls will joke
And banter, trade bedroom secrets
And make a little party
A celebration of the X chromosome.

And the last hen will go down the aisle
And a band of friends who are thick as thieves will now be
Only a Mrs, some man’s wife. And I will be
One of them – one man who looked
At a woman, only to see a keeper.
And Jaime will drift to her own destiny.
Imran’s wife. To love, cherish and be there
In sickness and in health.

And the hens will cluck away
Until their lungs are weary, telling stories
They once shared. Perhaps Shane, Sam, Imran and I
Were meant to be the anchors, the roosters, the other-halves.
And it seems the hens will always
Hold a little pact between egg-bearers.
Of how destiny is just a common road
Paved by a bond, that can never be broken
By time, space or fate.

Jaime will laugh away tomorrow
A hen’s cluck that will turn soon to a script of the heart.
Of love in the first degree. One man’s wife.
No longer a bridesmaid, an escort, the veil carrier.
The hen that outgrew the hen house.
To become a domesticated fowl
On the marriage bed.