Gauravonomics Diary

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There are days
When it seems that the only way
To stay sane
Is to read a poem or write one.

So I read until my eyes hurt
As much as my heart
Hurts and are so sore
That I can read not even one word more.

Or I come
All over the page and come some
More and continue to come until when
I can come no more and feel only emptiness within.

If all else fails I write your name,
Write it over and over again;
For your name is poetry to me
And panacea to all my pain.

I have always had
This tendency
To be intoxicated;

I have always been drunk
In one way
Or the other-

On words,
On verse,
And on you.

After all what is love
If not
Inebriation itself?

And isn’t my verse
A mere manifestation
Of my maudlin meanderings?

Today, for instance,
I am drunk
On your voice.

Red is the colour
Of our nuptial night-
Tonight, red reverberates
Between us.

The red of the roses
That decorate our bridal bed,
Fill our bridal chamber
With their fragrance.

The red of the vermilion
In the parting in your hair,
Now forming patterns
On your forehead.

The red of your bridal dress
Crushed by our caresses,
Drenched in the sweat and semen
Of our desire.

The red of your skin
As it blushes at my touch,
Assumes the same hue
As the henna on your hands.

The red of our tongues
Enmeshed together-
Sharp as swords,
Slithery as snakes having sex.

The red of the blood
Pulsating in our veins,
Pounding our minds,
Pouring out from our eyes.

Even the desire
That binds us
In bliss and blindness
Is red in colour.

Your letter lent me
A fresh lease of life -
And now, I die every day
Waiting for another word from you.

Practicality tells me
To try not to think of you -
My poems impatiently insist on
A quid pro quo.

However, not thinking of you
Is a punishment more severe
Than pining away
In your thoughts.

The pain of hurting you
Far outweighs
Any pain your indifference
Might inflict upon me.

And so, I fashion poetry
From my pain-
And pine for you,
And the postman.

I look at those little lines
On the inside of the palm -
The lines that are supposed to tell you
How many loves you are destined to have.

I have only one line there.
In loving you,
I have already used the one love
I was allowed from above.

Even palmistry predicts
That we cannot part
Even if we try to.
Still want to try?

In losing you
I seem to have
Found myself.

Maybe, you have
Found yourself,
As well.

We saw
Each other
Blinded by bliss;

Now, when
Bliss is no more,
Nor you,

My eyes
Don’t want to see
Anymore.

Watching my two Pomeranians in heat -
The entreaties for intimacy,
The dithering between yes and no,
The shy dissent, the hesitant assent -

It strikes me that
We aren’t all that different from them,
Especially when
We shed our clothes and our inhibitions.

Yours is beauty
That is
Aware of itself,
Afraid of itself.

Aware of what
It does to others,
Afraid that
It does too much.

Falling in love
Is like drinking,
Or having sex-

When you aren’t doing it,
You want it,
Wait for it;

When you are,
At the height of headiness,
You wonder why.

As I read through
The hundred odd poems
I have written
I watch myself, like a voyeur,
Fall in love, four times.

The pattern repeats itself
With startling regularity:
Attraction provokes poetry;
Poetry reinforces attraction;
And we are in love.

Then, the inevitable follows:
“As long as you write, I am yours”,
She whispers.
“Write or watch me writhe and die”,
Love lists down my alternatives.

In spite of the pressure to perform,
The poetry flows, as does love.
She is my muse:
I worship her with words,
Make love to her with verse.

The poetry, in itself,
Is more mature each time;
Deeper, in some sense.
A result of years, I wonder,
Or of love that is more mature?

The intensity varies, though,
And follows no pattern, whatsoever.
There’s poetry light like a danseuse’s step,
Or heavy like death itself,
Or reflective like wet eyes.

And so, it works perfectly,
Until love dies, or poetry,
And the other follows suit, leaving behind
Two broken hearts and some verse
As evidence of what once was.