THE LETTER

So hear me write a letter to you
The struggle of spoken words, broken words
Replaced by the symphony of pen on paper
Words are Niagara, Victoria, Mt. Kilimanjaro
This letter its mist, rush and Snow


Words etched in twilight coffee
Words burnt in mid-noon sun
Words strummed along with Baez
Words hummed with angry Dylan.


Words winked at your friend’s dimples
Words hung up on late night calls
Words walking down zebra crossings
Oscillating between your rise and fall


Words that adorn your bare back
Ones that caress your black-brown hair
Words to sooth, hurt, kill and conceal
Words drowned out in Vanity Fair.


Words waved from airport lounges
Words smeared on train windows
Unspoken sorrys and never made calls
Words you’d hide saying “ HE KNOWS”


Words lost in midnight madness
Words wedged between lovers’ rift,
Sheets of blue ink inside your soul
A letter, a song, a parting gift.
Hear me write this letter to you.

INVIGILATION BLUES

I see twenty two faces before me,
Maybe nervous, Maybe calm, Maybe resigned
Stung bee lips of one.
And coal mine fingers and palms.
Calculating, Calculative
Red fingernails on Calculator buttons.
The kissing and hissing of pen and paper.
They whisper like lovers
Little lip movements
And sign language,
All jumble up before me.
One of the girls is called Bobby
She smiles every time I call out her name.
Maybe she thinks I fancy her!
The others frown at the answer sheet
Creeping, crawling
Three hours towards freedom.
And I, their prison guard
The most fettered of them all.
I'm the vending machine
On foot and mouth
" Does anyone need extra sheets this side?"
What a dolt!
They need answers, Release.
Or maybe a moment or two alone
With new found Emergency Services by their side.
In the Battlefield
And the examination hall
Any alliance is welcome.
It's their Auschwitz.
Instead of poisoned gas
Through overhead showers
The city heat slithers in their skin.
And instead of Wagner,
I have the Lansdowne traffic
Drowning out voices in the head.
I feel three inches shorter,
And my English has a German ring to it.
Maybe they want my head.
I see Tagore looking down upon me.
That deliberate, sombre Mount Everest look
Behind which lies the inscrutable Indian.
He never appeared for a three hour paper?
In the heat, Dust, Petrol Fumes, did he?
The horn honking, Ambulance screaming,
Urinal smelling crossroads of the city.
Does he have a poem on invigilation???