Spelling secrets


writerI met her here – on this floor
didn’t see her face
the first time,
only heard her speak – once

Words – just words
waving, floating
into the folds of dress
and shivers misspelled

then I saw her
not eye to eye
but secretly,
spoke of sin
a sweet lust
and her delicate composure

Yes, I met her right here
and spoke to her
one of those days
pushing the
Herculean stone-some
qualms away~

We spoke and
words traveled
through ocean-currents
across lands and mountains
as we painted the moon
some clouds and bliss

Then one day
I admitted love and
realized – I wasn’t the only one
and I fell in love
with her

and again and again
till I got the hang of it

Join me on my Poetics tonight on Dverse Poets Pub – I invite you to write about a poet you have met, interacted with on Dverse or elsewhere. I am not divulging who I am writing about – but there are enough hints for her to pick up.



11816174_10155939794430608_7546630364099130379_oPart of me instills the fear that one day
Ambling on the bank of plush green lake,
In lukewarm and sultry shadows
of banyan and peepal,
Would be my last, and
my footsteps on soft mud
smeared, overstepped.

Well, as much as disillusioned perpetual reality
Eternity may seem like,
Isn’t exactly what I nurture,
Standing in front of a wall
erected two hundred years ago,
Makes me fall in love
with my own wrinkles.

Adorned with jewels of
Dahlia, Bougainvillea or seasonal Marigolds
I float in silence of smell and
the fluttering of wings
Of sparrows, babblers, herons, mynas
Reminds me that one evening
I won’t be returning home with them.

Hooting of owls unnerve me
that my time has come,
which is when it hits me
fear is an important aphrodisiac
and I wake up with the hammering of woodpeckers.

Join me on my Poetics prompt on Dversepoets. Today I invite you to write about what connects you to where you were born and if you want to come back, as a tribute to the great poet – Jibananda.

Oh past, speak out!

CaptureYou can be no stone – neatly carved
Nubile dancer – yes
Dressed only in jewellery
and flower around neck;
Yet so alive, so charming
Unlike no masonry
I’ve ever seen.

Those pliable arms – perfectly bend
Over head, and your legs
Voluptuous – yes
But you lithe gracefully
that pose –
Is a moment of stillness,
As if it’s your show on the court
You’d turn any moment now
and let your anklets sing.

Who created you? Those luscious curves
The phenomenal plasticity
Emotionally driven poise and
Etched out male fantasy
But do I see a drop of tear
trickling down stone cheeks?

Are there marks on your wrists?
Oh lady!
Don’t be a muse of past
Speak out, speak out
Am here to hear your story.

Join me on my poetics prompt tonight on Dversepoets – where we talk about ancient muses. Here I have used an image from Khajuraho. The beauty of the stone statue is appreciated by millions of viewers, but very little is known about who inspired the artists. I have tried to find an answer in my own ways.


Johny ate all the sugar


Today I am a fountain of colors, a bundle of joy
Apple of your eyes
Tomorrow moon, may be
And then stars.

Every day, I grow a millimeter daddy,
A millimeter
That you can’t see
Or measure, like I gain a
Grain of mischief,
You won’t like to believe.

You trick me papa
By hiding
The twinkle stars
Behind cloud,
Or so you say.

When the puppy woofs at me
I don’t feel scared,
I just want to hug you,
You are my Humpty –

And Johny ate all the sugar, papa
Not me
Why can’t you find him
And see his mouth?

Mary has us write beautiful poetry and I chose to write about the greatest joy of my life, my daughter Rupu – who started her kindergarten earlier this month and came back home with her first rhyme.

Join us to read some wonderful poetry.


IMG-20150222-WA0001You thought, you started a fire
That cannot die
I thought ocean was unfathomable

– it isn’t
Incessant rain
May be truth,
At some part of the world,
Perpetual love isn’t

You can rive my forehead
And mark me with
Vermillion *
On my hair parting,
To instigate your libido
I will inscribe my own heart

If needed, every day
As it beats on,
Don’t want to stumble upon someone
And repent, I didn’t have a moment with him

My aeon dwindles to moments,
…..You wouldn’t understand
………………Not today,
……………………….Not ever.

Tonight on Dversepoets Poetics, Anthony has us write confessions – about personal truths that are louder than ever. I had to borrow the narrative of a very good friend, who has not only shared her views with me but her new tattoo as well. I dedicate this poem to her.

* Sindoor (vermilion) is the mark of a married woman in Hinduism. There are two interpretations of it – one it increases libido and secondly it is a tradition by which men used to mark their women, after conquering them. I don not know which is true for this tradition.


Mystique & I

SecretMy secret definitely has a shadow,
An enticing form, lush – yet
A demure persona, only
Answers to sobriquet ‘**’ (can’t say what)

We share a night and many
Beads of rain on her face,
All that scintillation,
that’s her smile~

She ignites a flare in my listless self
Finds a cloak-and-dagger passage
From the grim reality,
To sublime dreams of coitus

Sometimes she leaves in the morning,
Wearing my caress,
Imbued with my sweat, casual whiff
Sometimes she doesn’t leave at all


Aftermath of our clandestine meetings,
Linger as an infidelity charm
Around my ring finger,
So long as I hold the pen

And the secret writes herself

Join me on my own poetics prompt at Dversepoets on 13th January – first time this year, where I invite you to write about secrets. Doors open at 3 PM EST. I think I left enough hints here. Photo Credit: Reetam Banerjee