For You

Since every one of my 6 readers was very kind and encouraging after the last post and urged me to write more, here is another one. It was written on the spur of the moment in about 10 minutes and because it was rather spontaneous and inspired by something I'd read, I didn't want to meddle around with it too much. So I have no clue if it's any good or sounds totally cliche. I'm better at angry poems, I think.

Inspired by Carol Ann Duffy and written for someone.

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Tonight, sleep is restless, like an unwell child
I whine and toss over again.
I say your name softly and mutter curses under my breath
But you aren't here, so I say it aloud:
'Damn you!'.

You are walking, somewhere.

And I, being used to you, in sleep
feel the absence,
of your leg draped over my hip.
Which many nights
you used as leverage,
to pull even closer in some morning hour.
Sometimes, just to breathe nearer.
Or half-asleep, to bury your face in my hair,
(happily kept long just for you.)
Or if you didn't whisper it earlier,
awaken me into a surreal cocoon of love and night
with your soft, tender, moist kisses
left delicately on my spine.

In this cold room of mine,
too far away from you,
I wait,
And dream such warm dreams of us.

A Poem (And A Disclaimer)

This is one of the few things I've managed to write in recent times (nearly a year). And apparently I seem to have lost some of my confidence in the meanwhile because I am terribly unsure of whether this is worthy for anyone else's eyes. But, I will take a chance and post it anyway. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, they say.

I couldn't decide what to call it, yet. So for now, it remains untitled.

P.S : If it's awful, do be kind.

Here goes :


My beloved is brown.
Not a weak cafe-au-lait brown.
Brown-er.
Like the ripe, gooey tamarind flesh
that spills out of heavy, fallen pods
in the summertime.
A manly brown.

She is fairer, they said of me charitably.
(Just as it ought to be), by more than a shade or two.
Yet, I suspect, only barely enough for them to approve.
For mine is a warm shade.
Like the strong, south-indian, filter coffee
that swirled silkily in silver tumblers
on that morning we were married.

But it was only last night, in a loving moment,
when he held my hands tenderly in his,
and then later our fingers intertwined,
in a crisscrossing of light and shade,
that We first noticed this.
And laughed.

Now, he amuses himself by saying
I am the exact hue of his favourite brew.