- #poemaday ananth aranya Atyachar beauty Bombay City Could be verse epiphany forest Gothamisation hasi to fasi hmmm hypocrisy I Quote It is written I want to ride my bicycle kaha gaye woh din Lou middle class mithya Music nasha nature night nostalgia One Bad Day poetry Prosepoetry the apocalyptic real traffic Uncategorized vignettes why?
tagsanger aranya auteur beauty birdsong black Bombay bombay streets cars chauvanism circle city cityscream creation crows cycling death detergent development dhrupad Eco ecstasy evening eyes fear fight flight forest forests frustration Ghalib grass guilt insomnia kachra Kanti uncle Krishnaa liberated life lost lou Love madmast marine drive masculinity metaphors minisha lamba mirrors music nasha night nirma nostalgia observer phallic symbol PoMo Rain rant relationships safedi ki jhankaar silence sleep soar solitude space spirit the sea three traffic Ustad voyeur water white wild worm
Category Archives: kaha gaye woh din
melancholy is a colour. it sings through the cracks opening in the river of your broken baritone. like light high on dreams the cliffs are empty, the sea froths like an angry dog, the window is open, and the lipstick-smeared … Continue reading
and dawn looks through the French windows, ruffles my hair and slips in between the sheets knocks on the door of my breath and listens to me with an ear to my chest listens to the tangerine ring of sleep … Continue reading
the hook beside the fan runs incarnadine like your eyes turning red with the green smoke of memories masquerading as dance in our paranoid conversations in our soot black minds our black tongues magnified on walls with kites that hold … Continue reading
she wriggles like a worm in slush and washes her face in my secrets she laughs in the hollow of a kernelled blade of grass and then wades slowly through my awkwardness sometimes she chars the distance between you and … Continue reading
This tumult of newspapered violence ravages me an incessant fist a thronging orchestra of despair Tired, I turn away and drink the evening swathed in birdsong aah! a believer salvaged.
The breeze came first- a drunken messenger lurching past the towering coconut leaves, leaving in his wake a conference of angry crickets Falling down breathless at the doorstep, he whispered, between tired intoxicated sighs, ‘The rains are here’