singing soprano

crumbs of bread on that table
wedge of a mango falling out 
of that pickled jar
I evade the chaos
unbuckle my gloves
and sit down to make a list
leaky tap reminds me of Mozart song
that list  I make goes like this..
I need a few sopranos
some notes to go with it
maybe that opera singer too
Bach will not do,
Beethoven is not what I wish for
I only need music
loud, noisy, nonsensical
that will clear the chaos you see here

patching up...last line first line

patches in snatches

patches of sunlight

I try to gather

in my palm locking all in my fingers

I also gather beads

thread them with wires of sunlight

enclosing the warmth

those snatches of wind

(fancy those!)

I collect in my hand towel

in the upcoming days of drought

I will take all of these out

and fill my emptiness

"can anyone hold transient nostalgia?"

I look the last line of the poem above, patches in snatches, and made that the first line in the poem below and let it go wherever it wanted to, all by itself.

patching up

can anyone hold transient nostalgia?
Is it not an absurd concept
dancing inside one's head

if forks toppled over
spoons held their head high
bowl of dough mixed so well

but why talk of mundane
in the midst of all this?
dancing thoughts can have a pattern

"let it sit for a while, I will find a way 
out of nostalgia, absurd or not"

solemnity marred by hilarity

I stood there outside, in that cold
but feeling the warm of happy people
I don't know what I was waiting for
but definitely not him
did you see that?
the white-bearded fat man rolled through- 
the church doors broke apart from his weight
the solemn occasion was marred by hilarity
when the fat man groaned
I ran towards him
I couldn't believe what I heard?
he wanted a comb to groom his hair
the reindeer laughed while he fumbled
they were busy checking his manifesto
"was his fall in the agenda of that day?"

dead woman and her wants

dead woman wants a clock, one that records her space in a time of her choosing
a space that can't be defined by demarcations, but by her aura
dead woman can't emit an aura, and that makes her sad and she sits down to cry
her tears can't be seen, or felt by her but they flow heedlessly
a mirror, dead woman wishes to see herself in that, all her glory revealed to herself
if only glory could be changed into an object, she would be glad to do that
silence of the dead woman is so deadening, that it scares her too
she strings in the silence, wears it on her neck, wishing someone to buy it from her
dead that she is, yet she wishes to educate us about her ghostly appearance
shadow of herself is so interesting, we can see myriads of colours reflected on sky
swift movements of the ropes topples over her, she is so dead, yet she lives

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I am hooked to the dead man's poetry. I find that it gives me the freedom to pursue my thoughts in ways, I can't explain or understand. But I like the outcome. I feel so liberated after writing these pieces. And for the last two days, I was thinking maybe my muse is going to die. Dead man's poetry WILL get me out of it.

plastering

writing dead man's poetry
I think of the alive too
when spirits dance-

ghosts bridge it
I see those shadows
so Santa, help me plaster myself 
on a wall forever

dead woman and her stillness on a cold december morning

dead woman waits for a word, a word that comes from him

it can be any anything but it will make her alive

being dead is so liberating, she can go anywhere

but she stops short of going to him, waiting for a sign, a signal

stillness of her dead circumstances shows her new heights

certain heights she can climb by herself, but for some she needs him

in the corner of death, she turns around, walks in circles

circles don't really take her back to the same place, she finds the tangents too

on a cold december morning, with a hot cup of tea, dead woman waits patiently

she jingles her bangles, loves the sound, but prefers him tangling with her

dead, she can't see her feet, she can see his, and thinks of those as her own

"if only she could embrace what he possesses, and knows he is aware of that"

dead man and his bottle of wine

dead man gets out a bottle of wine, one he had given up when he was alive
when he was alive he was more dead, shunning wine and fine dine
dead man takes a swig, grimaces and spits it out at his own feet
his feet feel so heavy, he had walked miles and miles before his final sleep
dead man is thinking, what is he thinking? OMG, elves are sooo 2009!
that was the year he died, elves carried his body, buried him in a hole
dead man throws away the empty bottle, picks another to drink all night
he doesn't wish to remember how his mind triumphed over his desires,
dead man plans to drink as long as he wants, no one can stop him
death was a welcome diversion, and where have the elves gone?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Also check out dead man and his shoe painting

a picture

a picture
nothing more
blue lifts my mood
I wish to hug that child
his father is lost to him
crown is a burden for the baby too
he is unaware of it as yet
he wants his father to love him, 

"king holds his child, 
but his heart is as dead as his queen"

dead man and his shoe painting

when the dead man wants to dabble in painting, he arranges his brushes

he brushes away the dirt from those shoes, applies a base coat, leaves them to dry

the dead man takes out a charcoal, that piece he pilfered from a pyre,

he sketches on the shoes, a design so chaotic, but orderly for him

on a palette, the dead man mixes paints, and first fills the cracks

(but why paint on a shoe, he utters loudly, he has misgivings too)

the dead man knows, shoes denote freedom, that journey which goes on and on

one shoe can fall apart,  other one might last longer, as did his twin

thinking of his zygoted part, dead man becomes sad and melancholic

but his brush never stops, it goes over corners, makes lines, curves and dots

the dead man's lean brush tells a story on the uppers of shoes

he makes it as easy for us, as complicated as it was for him

"our dead man knows his story needs to be told but where has he gone?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thanks to Big Tent Poetry, I got to know about Marvin Bell and his Dead Man Poetry. For more Dead Man poems by Marvin Bell, do check out the Poetry.org site.

places

place I used to be

when I was on the threshold of youth

that oak tree

where a three legged dog slept at night

on the edge of the lake

holding hands with a boy

I kissed in the dark nights

the dog is gone

boy is gone

I go there to find palpable emptiness

see you standing in the shadows

your arms reaching out for me

"you bring newness to this place of forgotten era"