A spoonful of green

featured in the poetry forum March 5, 2019  :: 0 comments

Memory is a needle and a long white cotton string
Stitching yesterdays in hope and loom
Only to hammer in this indestructible reality
Every time I try to pen down my gloom

editors note:

Our addiction to empty, ever returning to make white black full. – mh clay

Chores / What is a perfect line?

featured in the poetry forum December 9, 2018  :: 0 comments

It’s not about the pace
Nor about this race, or how one must slowly learn to earn some disgrace;
Why one chooses to do the dishes first
Or, for that matter loves sweeping the floor.
But the onions must be cut, the garlic peeled,
Washed one by one, left alone to dry.

You can move slow, you can be fast
Change your pace, slow-burn
The oil or speed heat the water
Bay leaf, salt, turmeric, cumin seeds. Sugar?
The choice is ours

Not to hold onto a set instruction
As long as the taste works.

editors note: The proof is in the pudding (if you like pudding). – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum January 6, 2018  :: 0 comments

For U Srinivas and John Mclaughlin

A turn, a curve
A body bitten by a Gamaka
A slide, a deep swipe
of a fret-less life
Lovers stung by a Gamaka

A sloth, a murky sun
Bleeding fingers of a Gamaka
A wood of warmth,
that rubs your heart
A body aches in Gamaka.

A night dies between two notes
measures its distances through a Gamaka
The morning is drunk
The workers are out
Sleep has come to the old city in Gamaka

editors note:

Wiki says, Gamaka is any graceful turn, curve or cornering touch given to a single note or a group of notes, which adds emphasis to each raga’s individuality. (This poem comes from Goirick’s recently published collection, Wet Radio. You can get your copy here.) – mh clay

Wet Radio 2015

featured in the poetry forum June 27, 2017  :: 0 comments

Rain has no gender.
Why are tears then often assigned gender roles? We, who defy, cry immersing
ourselves in rivers, for life is but a long hallucination of memory and miseries we cull. Love
and loss are often one and the same- they eat our brain cells like ants swarming over
stale, decayed bread by the side of your garbage bin, early morning.
I have lost count of my lovers in imaginary strawberry fields, now purple in evenings without
crowing crows. Often, I have tried to lose my memory. Sometimes by falling
in love to seek pain- sometimes by disappearing a little every winter.
And escape came running down the green paddy fields, through a broken shortwave
radio whining in pain
Or, in guitar solos that illuminated my lamp lit, power-cut evenings. Other times, in lyrics
we gathered from the album covers.
Skipping lunch, biking for hours under the hot, arid sun, saving
to buy, to listen to the songs that remind you of your favourite lover, the punishments you
received at the school, and so on. May be, crying was just an excuse.
I was probably just longing for some goosebumps.

editors note:

It’s a retro radio wasteland. Tune in to your favorite triumphs. Turn off the tragedies. (We welcome Goirick to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of his madness on his new page – check it out.) – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum October 18, 2016  :: 1 comment

The dust I have acquired over the years
has hid my eyes from all that is before me
And I rust, disappear a little from your memory
Your vision
It has been a slow ride
And now the hills have turned their back
And I am not exactly sad
Or happy, I can’t see very well.

editors note:

No definition, no disappointment. – mh clay

Re-imagining Bop

featured in the poetry forum June 14, 2016  :: 0 comments

1. An amateur explains Bop Part I

it throws you up
cuts you off
flirts with you

it can run through your bones
in slow motion

It can
like planets in the sky,
fall off the cliffs

Jumps, catches you by your feet
It can
a fat fish,
Slither inside your throat.
The double
bass now gives you a headache
sometimes in poverty
sometimes in rhyme.
who knows,
a river might just set itself free?

2. An amateur explains Bop Part II

run, run, run
The city has taken off its clothes
and it rains, naked bodies
window panes
sliding doors
evaporates into a smoke

the black hands

iron chimneys

a sky of filth. above
lonely planets
who get high.
chemicals leak intestines.

The gods are in town and they are
burning the stage

one by one
they come and disappear

at odd hours of the night.

3. Coltrane

A cold train in rain.
A breeze through your veins
An acid in your throat.

Is he angry?
or is he just searching
the distance,
two points of time?

Hills breaks into rivers
Cage morphs into a bird

Hunger, an old trick.
In slavery, our freedom.
Through notes we can’t fathom
And a rhyme we have chosen to forget

An ancient snake breathes out her disgust.

4. Jazz for the have-nots

It is heavy like a thali.
A bag of stones over your chest.
It bleeds through the age, enslaves you
But they drink it with white wine

A city grown old
Counts its rage

editors note:

No amateur imagination, this. Bop on! (Note: A thali is an Indian meal made up of a selection of various dishes.) – mh clay