TWO SHADES TOO BLUE
I watch the empty window-side table closely
For this used to be your favourite place.
Here you would sip your half cup tea
And pout and look out of the window longingly
You will point to people going about their everyday lives
And like a little princess,
You will weave stories, and chuckle and laugh
Your presence had a way of making my little house
It was as if you filled my walls with shades
That made then come to life.
As if suddenly,
Being a dining table was an important achievement,
And that wall hanging
Would acquire a personality, and indulgently
Glare at me; as if this were its house, not mine.
I now look at the empty space besides my window.
Baby, it was your favourite spot.
And watching you
My favourite moment.
THE PAINTINGS I NEVER DREW
I am not a painter, have never touched a canvas,
Never splashed colors on to white space awaiting life.
But if I could paint, I would have drawn you
Crossing the street, catching light, long burgundy hairs catching flight.
I would have painted your smiling face
Looking up to the skies, your jingling laughter
Floating around the floors, while you chat
On a telephone.
I would have painted you in your thoughtful moments,
Deep black silent eyes poignant, your entire frame
Frozen, thoughtful,and waiting
For a moment of clarity, and then the sun would shine again.
I would have painted you riding your bike,
Your face covered with a shawl, a terrorist on trawl.
And I would have painted you looking at me all confused,
Not knowing what to make out of all the stupid things
I say, giving up, and letting be, but never
I am not a painter, you see
And in you lies an Ocean
And my dear, try as much as I may
My words could barely present
SULKING SHADES OF BLUE
It's not that you don't love me.
You love me in fragments
In small bits, from little corners
In short moments of time
When out of time
Some wanton memory
Reminds you of me.
It is then that you love me.
And I love you with my being.
All my broken parts stringed together
Into a complex whole.
I love you to the extent of my un-being
Until there is no more of me
In me. Nor a memory
Of me, outside of you.
PICKING YOUR HAIRS FROM A WHITE MARBLE FLOOR
My fingers tremble
I am not used to this.
I wish I could use my lips
To pick them all.
Every bit of you
Smells so much like you.
Even this little lock of hair
As it frolics on this floor
Smells of your Shampoo
And is so full of you.
And as I try to hold them
A small draught of your wild wilderness catches a wind
And they go sliding through my fingers
On to the floor, again
To be courted and loved and longed
Until finally coiled and entwined
Off they come with me
Into my forever times.
IT IS NOT ABOUT THE MIRROR
I have a picture of you
Looking into a one of those funny mirrors.
It is from the time you and I were together
It is a reflection of you in the mirror
And you have a huge smile on your face.
I have visited that place many times later.
I have stood before that mirror and made faces.
I have even asked those who have accompanied me
To stand before the mirror and smile.
That mirror has never again reflected
A smile a beautiful as yours.
For the years my blood
Through these pens for you
For the one hundred poems
Through which my words
Have called out to you.
For the dreams you invade
And the days you color
And my being
That you so pervade.
For all that is soft in me
And all that is white.
For what I remember
And for what I wish to forget
For the last time we spoke
And for all these years
Of satin stained silent nights
For the stars that still shine
And for the ones falling
Yet burning bright
You have me
And my dry Eyes.