Her and me (and sometimes him)

NOTE: It is quite fascinating to imagine a third person between two - be it friends, lovers or even parents or siblings. My imaginations of the same produce the following poems, and some before that [You and I (and sometimes another)]. Some of the imagery may be repetitive, but feel the grip of that invisible third person as you read these. Enjoy!

I.
Every time I look for him, she comes before me.
Every time I think of him, her memory becomes vivid.
Every time he talks to me, she sneers from behind his shoulder.
I am shadowed by her ghost that lives with him.

II.
She doesn't need to be called,
She doesn't need to be known,
She doesn't need a name,
She doesn't need no fame:
I know it is her, and she knows it is me,
And there begins the story of her, me and him.

Followed

The lurking shadows,
The eerie sounds,
The mysterious scuffles,
The entombing silence -
Nothing but myself hounds me.

Secret Palimpsest

A secret,
multi-layered,
lies in my bosom.

Its layers, all there, but not-so-there,
Like a palimpsest,
It attracts all audience,
And gives new meanings to all.

Everyone can have a layer to take with them,
And all can be satisfied.
But only I know the volume of its inscriptions,
And unaware to them,
Decide what layers they are served.

I make meanings for them,
I complete their understanding,
And yet they gloat at what they learnt,
And yet they pride at each possessed layer.

My secret shall be entombed
In my selective memory
In the absyss of my mind
And the chambers of my heart -
You shall see a part
And like the blind feeling the elephant,
Be happy with what you know.

The Smells We Live By

It's the smells we live by.

A whiff of wet earth,
fertile like the ready-to-receive-you woman on the bed inside,
Drive you towards her smell.
And when you awake
from a dream full of sighs, moans and orgasmic raptures,
It's the smell of cigarettes you seek.

Or, maybe it's coffee and tea that calms you,
and, along with Coorgie fragrances or Assamese delights,
A little of strong eucalyptus,
Or the light menthol-tainted Vicks
can soothe your throbbing head.

Late evening,
And the unassailable-but-attacking breeze
from the kitchen
Tells your stomach it's time.
Ravenous smells -
of jaggery, spices and more -
Gobble you up in a frenzy.

You walk along the road,
And penetrating wasps of grey air
tell you how crowded the city is.
Choking, wheezing, strangling smokes
of vehicles, burning tobacco, construction gravel and roting garbage
Leads you on to find your space within.

In your office,
The stagnant AC-ed air,
carrying the breath-odour of your colleagues,
Their sweat and saliva and semen-smells,
Their cologne and perfumes and deodorants,
Mingle with yours
and settle down upon the fabric of your life,
Uncomplainingly.

It's the smells that we live by.

An eternal tale

A long folk-tale is my life,
Re-embellished with each narration,
Re-tarnished with each vituperation -

A long ceaseless ballad,
An epic of gargantuan passions,
No scale to measure,
No depth to unravel -

Curved around each letter,
Hanging on to each word,
A blood-sucking leech,
A slimy slug,
An itchy caterpillar -

A tale of fantasy,
Of repulsion,
Of monstrous proportions -

Meted out in scoopfuls,
To prisoners within my tale,
Thus turning them cannibal,
And becoming a phoenix, a self-creator.

A long folk-tale is my life,
And I shall live in the words as much as in breath.

Thank You Poetry

When smiles are aplenty,
Words always fail me.
I have a lot to thank you for,
O Poetry,
And a lot to apologize too.

You have shown fortitude
As I shed my depressions upon you,
Used you to bludgeon my frustrations,
And pounded you to free my repressions.

You stood by me
As I watched friends go away,
Dreams shatter, and
Life flow away in a stream's chatter.

I gave you no form,
No rhyme, No reason,
No colour,
No body -
And yet you embodied my soul.

Thank you, O Poetry.
You are my alter ego.