Three poems written over the last week

The Waterside Poem for Maya

Maya,It was a thousand evenings ago you abandoned
yourself to me inside an old Volkswagen. In the
faintest post- dusk light by the dark expanse of the
reservoir that lay in front of us. We
rushed. hurriedly feeding from each others' mouths as if it
would be the last time we could taste each
other. I kissed your purple pendent made of gemstones as the red of the burn
crept up your neck and
burst in a blush of red across
your face. Your sweet perfume made God
rattle the dice cup of love in my veins. The windscreen
and the windows were misted by our mad mangled octopus
of love; through steering wheels, gear stick or even our own
breaths.
Plain.
Blatant.
Unashamed.
The Starlings drew maps of
non existing continents in the last drops of
lights outside. The swans and the Canada Geese
were quietly making way out
of the waters and coming inland.

A thousand evenings
later I
find myself by a lakeside many
miles away. I stood by it staring into
what would have been its ordinary fare on an
ordinary day but for
its frozenness. One single swan was
walking towards
it's perfect-white centre. Oblivious
of the weather warnings.


Poem for Maya (the awful illogic of love and God)


That is a bridge too far my mother would say
I say never you venture on your own
again. I smell the coriander in her clothes
as I feign submission to her reprimands.

Earlier, my dog and I, the Sun beating down the bursting
Bougainvilleas and lines of Rusty Shield Bearers
Had made our way to what once was a wooden bridge and
had watched tiny Barbs and Rasboras flirt with yellow butterflies on
the edge of the waterlillies,Underneath, lay
mysterious, moss laden, deep, dark waters.


Later
My father explains the constellations of stars to me from
the verandah as a little breeze blows. Andromeda, Aries, phoenix and Orion.Water drips
on a tin mug.


Years later, A thousand broken bridges and a billion stars later I
stand by a doorway in a misty nowhere cottage and
long for an Englishwoman. She
kisses fast and uses the front third of her tongue on mine,almost
anguished by the guilt of our flesh in conversation.


And cries later watching me unlock my insane Indian ghosts.
She tries in vain to save me but I eat her, in agony, in deep darkness of
My heart, my heart.


And dying from a thousand, violent sins unknown the
awful illogic of love and God are the only things that suddenly
seem real.


The Unrequited Breast



Maya's pout in bed was a sign of her
playfulness. The 'duck-face' of her being
wanted. I fumble from somewhere lost in my
mind's woods in distant response;wrecked, battle-torn and
detached.

I am aware of her electric response at my
barest touch as outside the ugly, ordinary hoot of a
Tawny owl murders the silence lapping the tall birches.

I watch as she gathers herself in polite
composure as she leaves, always remembering to smile what
really were an ocean of tears. I glimpse her left breast still sing as
it slips out of her red silk gown.
Perfectly shaped.
A nipple.
Erect.
Unrequited.

We seek separate spaces and
the night to play out our bodies'
two separate tragedies.


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