Karineela

I happened to read a novella by K R Meera. Karineela. Dark blue, it roughly translates to. It talks about Sin. Sin as sweet as my lover’s honeyed skin, as black as the night, when it was committed. She talks of infidelity. She likens herself to a serpent spreading the venom of debauchery. She talks…

Conversations 6

“I hope you are happy.” A comfortable bubble of silence was burst by her shrill, needle-like voice. “I would like to think so,” I replied, in jest, almost nonchalantly. “Let me rephrase. I hope you are happy about what you did to her.” “We are not going to have an argument about this now. We…

Naiad

1.In my dreams, I saw her; fleeting, frail, through the morning mist’s pale veil, through mackerel sky and mare’s tail. Piecing together the figments from a fickle memory to reveal a Goddess from a Greek allegory.   2. Her eyes, like brown Jasper with a hint of green. A mysterious facade, she says, with a…

Conversations – 5

I sat in the dimly lit room, smoking my second cigarette. The transition from an occasional smoker to a chain smoker was quite smooth. I liked watching myself in the mirror while I smoked. The dense plumes emanating from me gave a sort of surreal touch to the high I felt. I could see her…

Conversations – 2

I opened the tap and waited for the bathtub to fill. I have recently been trying to focus my attention on things around me instead of floating around like a ghost. I tried paying attention to the gurgling of the tap water, the ripples forming on the surface and the way they gradually drift apart…

The birth (death) of poetry

  I wet my parched throat, drinking the dark night, from the deep chalice of your sparkling eyes. My words were hollow, like my body, before you breathed life into this orchard of bones. Poetry is born as a singular flow, a current reflecting the twisted thoughts of my inner ghosts. I sit at the…

Conversations – 1

‘What are you writing?’, she asked as she sat by me on the sofa, making herself comfortable. The coffee in her mug wobbled precariously as she tried to snuggle into me. I steal glances at her as she keeps fidgeting. ‘Are you done?’, I ask in a voice laced with sarcasm. ‘Yep. So. What are…

The Last Time

When I hugged you last time, Did you know that it would be The Last Time. When I kissed you last time, Did you surreptitiously wish it were The Last Time. When I tasted that honeyed skin of yours, When I feasted upon that wondrous mind of yours, I buried myself in the sins of…

Scars

The places where your skin had caressed mine, Had left indelible prints and inimitable fragrances. I peel those skins off my flesh today, In a vainglorious bid to forget. I hope that the new skin growing soon, Would hide the secrets of the old scars. This skin, however, Smells of putrid flesh, festering over wounds…

Elusive Illusion

What is poetry, she asks, Distilled misery, I tell her. Or refined joy, quips she. Sorrow hollows the soul, said Gibran, so its chalice can hold joy. Poetry, I said, is shards of my soul, being carved out, a syllable at a time. Her warm embrace dissolves the rest of the words in my palate….