just to say that
this was meant to be,
I had to believe —
in time,
in the foretelling,
in the inevitable,
in distance,
in the algorithm,
in the universe,
in pain,
in karma,
in sin,
in god

just believing in
you and me,
was never

Notes from Warsaw – 3

I dye my words
in night and moon —
dawn always two verses away

Today, The Wire dropped an article featuring Polish poet Tadeusz Rozewicz. This on a morning when I had Notes from Warsaw -3 (now numbered 4) floating somewhere between cursor and central nervous system. This is the way the universe works – you fixate on something for even a brief moment and that thing will begin to appear on walls, seep through the cracks and basically do a war dance in the spaces between the Malabar tiles on your roof. Try it.

Rozewicz was in the Polish resistance during WW II and his poetry is severe and visceral, ripping open your insides with its stark simplicity. But he was just writing about the times he lived in – the pain and despair in his poetry a mirror of the unbearable horrors of war. I wonder if reading my poetry years from now, a reader can discern the zeitgeist of our days.  Maybe my poems should be a dirty yellow, the colour of weakness as earth and humanity crumble to dust without ink breaking over them. Maybe my poems should be a flaccid blue, the colour of cold refusal to rage against the dying of the light. What will that future reader get from the monochrome poems filling these infinite digital (d)reams?

Tomorrow will judge our today using yesterday as its prism. But that can neither dictate nor design our poems. But it does tell us who we are and what we might become. What we were and who we have become. It does tell us the truth.

I added Tadeusz Rozewicz’s books to my wish list. I peered inside the Kindle sample of his book – New Poems. The first poem, ‘The Trains’ had this:

 “I am building
a bridge
to link the past
with the future
The past is today,
But a little further on…”

The article from the Wire is here.

Full moon over Swietokrzyski Bridge, Warsaw

(from Bangalore, India: 29 Sep 2019)

Also in this series:
Notes from Warsaw – 2
Notes from Warsaw –

As a mystery


When everything was still nameless,
desire made secret pacts with the primal
darkness. From the unmanifest antithesis,
love was birthed as mystery – as the changeable
constant . What else can simultaneously
be both cause and consequence?


Writing little poems inspired by the Tao Te Ching (with my own regional/cultural spin), after reading this post by a fellow blogger.
Also posting on instagram @tp_poetry

We are unfinished.

We are unfinished. Somewhere, a part
of us is still being made. A thought, a poem,
a connection. I wonder if it is you or this
surrogate verse or the endless insistence
of the sea. What would completeness feel
like? Why should wholeness require
togetherness? I look up at Orion. Opposite
edges of the same space touch the twin
wounds of our yearning. Yet I am farther
from it, than it is from me. The hollow
in me is shaped like a star. Sometimes a half-
light fills it, seeking its mirrored darkness.
This is a game with many lives. Perhaps, once,
when I knew only salt and thirst and infinite
sky, I knew of an unbroken unity. The universe
watches me search. Rolls a different die. How
much longer before it offers another clue?

Just Math

Even Rumi, who could fit the entire
universe inside his poem, was yearning
for the grace of the Beloved. The universe
is not enough. It cannot love us the way
we want love. Its miracles are just math.
What would language do, or poems, if
the poet did not suffer the anguish of
loving a sunset? The sky just is. The poem
reaches out to touch your cheek. The
words wipe your tears. The poet burns
in the orange light until he becomes the
darkness. The Beloved holds back the
wine. Love is only an empty tavern, the
sun has been extinguished and the stars
in the window will be gone by morning.


More poems in the “Universe” series on my instagram page: @tp_poetry  Trying to pull them all together – soon.


Half universe. Half poem.

I wonder how they see the universe. Those
that might be a little more unencumbered, a
little more free? Is their night half lit instead

of half dark? I worry the engulfing murk till
it opens an ear. Till our angst matches our
scars. Till we promise each other a share of

invisible moon. Light is the preoccupation
of those who see the outside. I close my eyes
and look within. Half universe. Half poem.

Emptiness sits in a half full glass, uncomfortable
and wet along the rim. But the poem immerses
itself in the darkness, sometimes a word gleams

or a star catches its shout for help. Freedom
is the hallucination of those trapped on the
inside. A universe where poems swim or sink.

There has to be.

I can walk away from this, from your
universe. One, two, three steps and the
shackles start falling away, I begin to
unlearn, I forget your name, we become
strangers. Beyond this, there is another
space. There has to be. I grow with the
distance, larger, larger, until I can peer over
the giant fence, until the clouds are below
my feet, until what was becomes a tiny morass
of mostly darkness, its lights fading like the
memory of last night. Nail down your stars,
glue your shadows tight, incarcerate your sky,
hold your emptiness close, the song that echoes
in my heart is playing somewhere else.

Micropoetry Month: Nov 2017: #15

Micropoetry MonthSome mornings, a random headline catches your eye and spreads itself out in neat lines into a poem…all by itself. Of course, on other days the words just stare back at you while your muse leaves in a huff, banging the door shut behind her.

This one was in response to something that popped up in the news about yet another discovery in outer space.

Share your micropoetry- in any form- using comments or Mister Linky. If a headline inspires you, let it!

they say they discovered something recently, a
planet, a dwarf, a failed star (nomenclature has

to be irrelevant beyond a few thousand light years),
bigger than Jupiter, how colossal is Jupiter, how

mammoth is this galaxy, is there another at the end
of this gargantuan universe. See, the words I have for

‘big’ are only as large as my mind will allow, even
its wonder is constrained by the size of its own

incomprehension, this is the mind, you have to
understand, that keeps its cosmic incredulity, its

moons and meteors and gilt edged heavens in a safely
distant sky so that it can still believe I am significant.



Once we were friends

when you take your eyes off me, universe,
I feel your chill like a sudden cloud cover,
grey with disinclination, the taste of alone
metallic at the back of my helplessness,

it is true your usual armoury of hate and fear
and hunger, every ugly arrow in your quiver,
was blunted by banality, by insulated cliché,
your every battle cry silenced by the
monotonous hum of the insipid tedium,

I tried to forget you,
to undo the knots in our weave,
but you grew petty and took away your largesse,
see, the rain here is tepid and tasteless,
the ocean motionless in a faded stupor,
the sky unwilling to undrape yesterday’s sweat stained clouds,
poems wither unread in the shadow of your retribution,

but your craftiness is old, is wasted on hearts
that don’t crave the colourful distraction of change,
the luscious touch of want , the opium of victory,
go away, universe, once we were friends, were more,
singing together at the purple brink of creation,
but you needed too much,

put away your angst, your shallow revolution,
the wildflowers no longer smell of warm honey
but birds gather on the old brick porch
and fresh tea bubbles on the stove,
come sit a while,
remember what happened here
the first time we met.