Archive for March, 2016

nothing like the truth

who would trample on souls, again, all over, would anyone nourish hopes to slay mercilessly as a figment, when liestruths morphed, broken words, empty hollow devoid of life, are like mere tin cans kicked down the street, lame and wasted away like last minutes sleet … … …

about time … … …

sometimes it does not matter how time passes, but that it passes. when in the pit, the great chasm, the yawning crevasse of day to day life, time may seem like an aeon, yet we bemoan the squandering of time, we lament its passing each year like a doomsday clock, counting down, chipping away at our apparent insignificance, chewing at wounds inflicted, lost in murky shallows of yesteryear, seeking another year, another day, another chance … … …

as she lies bleeding,
the girl who skipped, hopped to school,
all of nine and a half years old,
with ribbons in her hair and a laugh that was her parent’s pride.

as she lies bleeding,
shrapnel lodged in her torn stomach,
she stares at her skipping rope,
as her blood soaks it the colour of cherries her mummy buys.

as she lies bleeding,
she sees people all around thick black smoke,
blurred visions of scattering feet, shoes left behind,
hearing nothing but the pinging in her smashed eardrums.

as she lies bleeding,
she slips away and then she is dead,
a mangled heap of a nine and a half year old girl,
whose laugh was her mother’s pride.

as she lies bleeding,
for even in death she bleeds some more,
shrapnel wedged in her torn stomach,
stealing the light from her bright little eyes.

as she lies bleeding …

in jallianwala bagh in ‘19,
leningrad in ‘42,
freetown in ‘98,
soweto in ‘76,
jenin in ‘02,
hanoi in ‘68,
beirut in ‘85,

raqqa now,
basra still,
gaza too.

as she lies bleeding,
a little nine and a half year old girl,
whose laugh was her parent’s pride,
we know she’ll bleed more,

tomorrow and in many tomorrows yet unborn,

with shrapnel in her stomach,
ripped open and torn.

as she lies bleeding.


pic from google

          I N 
                M Y
                       N A M E …

Masks … …

clawing at my face,
slipping beneath the facade,

tugging, tearing, flailing,

stripping off the veneer,
exposing the fragmented decay,
under this mask I wear today.

groping for another layer,
embroidered on my thin skin,

peeling, rotting, searing,

shaving away the truths,
entwined in a jagged kiss,
the vacuum of an emotional abyss.

from myself yet again,
bound for nothingness,

desolate, cold, empty,

lost on barren pathways,
bruising my heart as I tread,
at the horrors that lie ahead


'illusory art' by Maya

the swaying of the grass … … …




a path leads,
to where wild grasses grow,
sashaying in the summer breeze.




along the path,
lightness settles within,
feeling the grass,
tickling ankles,
swaying to lilting bird-song,
a dance of intimate abandon,
brushing remnants of pain away.




melodies float across fields of green,
delicately caressing my heart,
teasing emptiness to flee,
comforting the mind,
to silently be.




walking on,
savouring the peace,
a momentary respite,
casting off burdens of the now,
all is quiet,
a stillness cradling fractured emotions,
the grass in the fields sway,
dusk descends,
shadows lengthen,

nudging dimming light to take leave of the day … … …


'illusory art' by Maya

he wept

he wept. alone.
he wept for hilarious coincidences. he wept for hearts torn out, trampled upon, and set alight by forces of indifference. he wept for the lonely. he wept for those creatures like himself, tucked in their rooms high on solitude, feeling bereft, achingly longing for something more. someone more. he wept. he wept for dried and shrivelled daffodils. he wept for this charming man. he wept for the spongy lines. he wept for the dialogue, insufferably banal and boring as can be. he wept for them. he wept for the muddied, soaked, fractured, throbbing, rehearsed pulses of conversational sub-genres. he wept for himself. he wept for his narcissism, egomaniacal, puffed up and bloated on hubris. he wept for us all. he wept … … …


'Illusory art' by Maya

the cat recommends …


food for the feline soul


he …

he continues walking down the empty boulevards, the soft petals beneath his shambling feet, his head down, feeling the earth crunch and the flotsam scatter, as he reminisces of yesterdays bygone, and tomorrows yet to dawn. he speaks to no one, just the obligatory shake of the head in acknowledgement at another soul traipsing down the same cobblewebbed slippery slope, braving the sudden winds that lash his frigid hands as he turns up the collar of his coat, feeling feeling swell and peak, the music of the banal soothing him somewhat. he lets his mind wander too, mourning crushed flowers strewn like blood on the soft earth, and fears the onset of the years, slower and dimmer, yet racing past at breakneck speed, heading for a heavens knows where, but just content, content to be in motion, walking, walking down the rusty dusty alleyways of this life … …

dew perched, audaciously poised, atop a petal of the dawn rose, as night distilled itself in a drop of morning dew … …

he … … …

he walked down the road, weaving paths he never dreamed he would, growing up, just being was about it, no room for non-conformity, no space for celestial emotions, this he thought to himself as his well-worn shoes beat the gravel down splintering it into a thousand little consequences … … …

side stepping shards of thorny thoughts,
stretching across pools of congealed memories,

the wanderer wanders on,

wandering, wondering … …

strummed vignettes, dimming, willowy, of bygone yesterdays, cascade within me, my feelings awash in a frenzy of colour, soaked to the heart, while while the while, snuffing out the last scattered embers, of a love once loved … … …

lilting strings plucked, teased, evoking melancholic childhood rain-swept days, of fragrant nature, fat rain drops splashing parched, thirsting soil,
soil that has witnessed horrors, of desolation, of drudgery, of blood, sweat, and gruelling toil … … …

thanking you … … …

I was fractured, my mind in tatters, my thoughts asunder, raging with bellicose thunder, till you stilled my angst, my wayward selfwrath, you took me in, firm and with harsh love, you mended my soul, and I may not have thanked you, so belatedly, thank you for helping me back to being whole … …


'illusory art' by Maya

you 2.0

fragmented memories, coalesce,
splintered emotions, heal,

your smile an abiding gift,

traversing the minefields of my moments,

without you, empty, barren, closeted, bleak,

with you, alive, fragrant, complete … … …

on your skin, scribbling odes to love,

angry, lost, empty,
raucous, pristine, encompassing love.

on my heart, scribbled odes embossed, etched, engraved,

yearning, pining, aching,

for you … … …

March 21, 1960 – Sharpeville, South  Africa.

they shot you. in the back.

the oppressors lead tearing into muscled flesh. the flesh of africa.

they massacred you. in sharpeville, in soweto.

today we remember you. we salute you, our valiant compatriots.


do we honour you … … …

your skin, burnished by the african copper sun,

your eyes, deep as the lake where  secrets lie,

you, your whole being entire, dazzling my unseeing look, embers stoked by your indomitable fire … … …

discerning shapelessness, shadows pirouette, etching a kaleidoscope of colour … you see, I should have gazed more into your eyes, placid pools of clarity, yet now forever late, sewed eyes shut, blinded by regret, by tumultuous fate …

words like pyroclastic flow, scalding, incinerating emotions, effortlessly slithering through this life, ravaging the peace, the pain, leaving burnt ashes of fried neurons and scorched dendrites,

navigating between the lava, stepping on air, untethered, bonded to now, this furnace of bliss, emptiness, love, desolation, streaming past, in an effortless pyroclastic flow … …


'illusory art' by Maya

waking up to emptiness, the synapses not firing, the gloom, the desolation, the feeling of worthlessness, all this brings me down,

and still, and yet, I’m no sad sack, am I,

no! I don’t want to feel this way.

I want the pain and emptiness to scurry away, leaving me to live,

just live, in peace,
day after gruelling day …


'illusory art' by Maya

another weekend repost 😊

my bipolar haze … … …

watching the stars fall,
scorching these nights,
the manic days,


yet she remains,
a constant,
an anchor,

in my bipolar haze …



'illusory art' by Maya

circles …

circles, minus edges, unabrasive, free flowing, unhindered, no points of departure, none of the grime of memory,

circles, effortless, untainted by breath, rolling across the spaces between us …

the whispering leaf … … …


'illusory art' by Maya

Infinite tendrils,
weave exquisite patterns,
forming an immaculate, delicate sheaf,

while morning’s dew whispers,
tales of forgotten woes,
left scribbled on every leaf.

Murmurs float gently,
across solitary trees,
to distant forests deep and dense,
teasing the waving grasses,
while coquettishly inflaming every sense.

Listen! For the murmurs whisper to us all,

listen carefully,
as the whispers recall,
the crushed memories of the lovers’ call.

For the whispering leaf shares,
a story that may travel,

to you, to me,
if we still our minds,


gaze upon each leaf,

if we can hush,
if we can still marvel.


'illusory art' by Maya

polished floors, paint dripping from fresh walls, tiles laid, house and home sparkling …

souls desolate, hearts unbeating, smiles jaded, ruffling through photographs, faded …


'illusory art' by Maya

innocence, innocents, once upon a night, long past,

stripped bare, to the bone, dripping red blood on the desecrated floor,

ah but yearning for those days, those nights,

evermore … … …

a wish for us all …


'illusory art' by Maya

static, immobile,
docile, yes-people,

that’s how they want us to be.

let’s not be static, immobile, docile, yes-people.


'illusory art' by Maya

leaden cargo hauled around,

at times fractured, splintered,

needling today,
tomorrow as well


'Illusory art' by Maya

talkin’ heartbreak blues … … …

jingling & a-jangling between insipid day & fungal night, rumbling from those spirituals of yore, in a time way yonder back before, you pirouetted into my days & my nights, when pain was felt, though never this deep, this raw, that rotten gnaw deep in my core, compelling me to scribble this scribble, as i hyperventilate & as my blistered mouth begins to dribble, these sentences, these words, these empty noises, barren drums, calling out, since you left, rendering me mutely bereft, just words, barren drums calling out to you, wherever you are & whoever you are today, now … … …


narcissistic selfie that is quite sad 😎


sidestepping shards of splintered glass, beyond the haze of billowing grass,
yesterday came, as today left, leaving me empty within, bereft,
so take my hand and walk with me awhile, beyond the tears, smuggling in a faint smile,
who knows the paths we’ll weave, as time trickles through its merciless sieve,
so take my hand and we’ll walk awhile, a few steps today, and who knows, tomorrow may be many a mile … … …

ennui … … …

listless thoughts, meandering over jagged faultlines,

seeking respite, rolling to the sea,

to an outlet, an escape,

to be a speck, an infinitesimal part of the whole … … …

as we make our way through this life, these finite years, with their share of tears, of strife, the cruelty we witness, the pain we see, the sorrow we feel, may we remember to never give in, however foul or fair, may we not despair, may we never kneel, beyond the jitters and the odd titter, may we stand firm, never bitter, past the jeers, jabs, and the cackles, may we arise, to shake of the fetters, may we stand tall, may we cast off the shackles … … …

when dreams divide waking days, fretful nights,

when feelings are buffered, hopes scuppered,

when lost in self-loathing pity,

i think of you, setting my soul free,

to be.

to simply be … …

rain sweeps across these streets, in sheets,


i think of you,
solid, honest, true …

feline + human


pic from google

sinking, stumbling,
making my haphazard way,

she stayed.

floundering, barely afloat,
falling so many times.

she stayed.

lost, within me,
battered by howls of fate.

she stayed.

love, simple love.
pure principled love.


hate speech is not free … … …


'illusory art' by Maya

when prejudice and hate are spewed forth, in conventions and meetings and living room lounges,

humanity shudders.

when doctrines of superiority and racism are flung, in talk-shows and Q & A’s and town halls and pillow talk,

humanity recoils.

hate speech is not free, it enslaves the fungal minds of like-minded bigoted folk,

hate speech is not free, it denigrates the dignity of swathes of humanity,

who are still, still, still trying to shake off racisms’ tyrannical yoke.

hate speech is not free speech … … …

do you remember our champagne kisses, deep in our African night,

i remember.

do you remember us in each other’s arms, as evening pilfered dusky light,

i remember

(  to  be  continued  )

immigrant song

are we broken by spoken barbs spewing out of sewers cloaked beneath acceptable garbs while the blades of splintered humanity are sharpened into lethal shards of ‘my country right or wrong’ under the comfortable charade of clinging onto feigned piety dragged along weaving new lies obfuscating what’s right and what’s wrong waving flags like swords wielding swords to behead and to subjugate the many who’ve forever been on the wrong side of the gate shut out of the dream pummelled by untruths of working hard and doing more and shutting up because we need the money the greenback the notes the coins the oil the designer innerwear that barely shrouds the stench of putrid opulence of festering greed of capital and influence and power ripping out each seed by the by wishing a better life for all a hasty goodbye because when love and life and hopes and dreams and aspirations and desires and aches and yearning for something better just a bit better not much not much at all except for some grain for the famished and respite for the numberless banished cast away into the currents of the seas swept along islands of stillness breaking ashore with the waves of happenstance.

so yes

“that’s how i got to be here”, the immigrant says

in love with hope …

she comes to me,
offering solace, gentle words whispered in my ear,

she placates me,
her words a tender caress, dispelling fear,

she seduces me, as sure as she breathes fire into my soul,

she teases me, offering glimpses of the promise of being whole,

she heals me, when i’m down, battered blue black,

she picks me up, shuffling my self as bones achingly crack.

in love with her, i know now, without her, i would not cope,

in love with her, i know now, she is abiding hope,

hope lives,
hope breathes,

always … …

lost and found … …


i was lost,
scrambling for scraps of love, of life,

desolate, empty, my heart seemed destined to ceaseless strife,

lost in between murmured promises and yearning for gay abandoned flight,

cast aside in the deep dark of night.


you found me strewn across festering boulevards, you picked me up as i lay broken,

your love breathed life into my deadened soul, after all the trite words were casually spoken,

your essence, your being, lifted me, my heart once more in free joyous flight,

you found me, you saved me from myself, you ushered in spring days, after aeons of corrosive night,

you found me … … …

c a t h a r s i s

catharsis … … …

when he scribbled, he was happy. happy not with a sense of glee or joyfulness, but simply happy. when he scribbled, he was at peace. not with the world, nor with the cruel reality encroaching, he was at peace with himself. when he scribbled, he was whole, not complete in a material sense, he was whole inside. when he scribbled, he cried, not because he was sad, nor sorrowful, he cried because he could. he cried because he could scribble on … … …

in stitches,
tears stream down my cheek,

grains of sand sprinkle my eye,

( sigh )

a stitch in time,
may save nine,

but my lesson has been learned:

don’t get too big for my britches,

after all,

life has been kind,

even if it often leaves me in stitches … … …

she smiled, she looked at me, incredulous, her jaw dropped,

how on earth can you be so sure about that ? ”

well i had to explain, cos’ motion at this velocity cannot be simply stopped,

so i thought, this was the bloke who sported mops of hair, yet dug those close shaves,

so i said to her, i said,

gravitational waves

what are we if not tinder, unable to rekindle the embers,

of hope …

what becomes of us if we stall, if we choose to lay down each time we fall … … …

tender words don’t sting, gentle words hardly stab, or jab,

for you and i have walked the paths, together, sharing each other, the magic and the drab,

now though the time may have come to part, i respect you, for you have always been true, a woman of substance, through and through,

and so as we weave and traverse the alleyways of life, looking perhaps for a fresh start,

let us be gentle, kind, tender, to each other, before we depart,

leaving behind memories that don’t tear, feelings that won’t scar,

memories of moments spent together, between the pain and smiles,

and know this, i shall always carry within me, a part of you, however near you are, or far … … …

u n t i t l e d

the sound of rain, on parched earth, coalescing, becoming one in a fragrant embrace.

(sound of soft rain)

the sound of rain, soaking beneath thirsty soil, fusing, joining together, you and i, our unspeakable embrace.

She Walks Alone …

she walks alone,
barefoot in the paddies of rice,

breaking her back for some precious grains.

she walks alone,

in jo’burg town, with a black eye,

smacked around by him the previous painful night.

she walks alone,

in the streets of neon hazed manila,

along the pristine hedges of rotten london,

on the crowded pavements of lonesome new delhi,

across the rolling plains of the vast bounteous pampas,

over the winding back-ways of the sloping and grimy favelas,

on the glittering pavements of rich and sweetly-scented jeddah,

through the blindingly false boulevards of that sad los angeles town.

she walks alone,

bearing the burden of mother and daughter
of cook and sweeper and wife and mistress and punching-bag,

she walks alone,

through your streets and mine,

standing up as she is beaten more down,

loving a little as the bruises on her face turn purple,

feeding the little ones with morsels of hastily cooked beans.

she walks alone,

in factories and in mills and in buses,

in schools and in brothels and in places in-between.

she walks alone,

staying alive on the alms of the ‘charitable’,

violated by those who from the pulpit preach.

she walks alone,

my sister and yours,

my mother and yours too,

my lover and your beloved as well.

she walks alone,

caged by society in its invisible prison,

a slave of norms and culture and religion and caste,

she walks alone,

but she is the conscience of me and you,

screaming at us silently in hunger and despair,

she walks alone,

and though fearful of you men she may seem,

be warned that she may not forever be this alone,

for she too dreams and thinks and believes,

for she too needs and wants and loves and weeps,

in the silent night of complacency while impotent mankind sleeps,

and she too will rise and in rising slay,

the beasts that in your callous hearts prowl and lay,

and she too will demand her rightful place,

for every mother and sister and lover and daughter has a real, human face …

… … … this scribble is about hope, that unweighable weighty word, often bandied about ritually, and thus its message, its voice, may be blunted by repetitive bluster, so i’ll be a-scribblin’ along, with all the gusto i may muster, since we’re talking about hope, without which the human race, us all, all of us, i dare say, would not cope, ’cause imagine an absence of something, can’t put your finger on that feeling feeling, that oftentimes rocks at our souls, leavin’ our minds reelin’, yeah that’s right, but no propagandising today, though with me, at least, i can truly say, were it not for hope, that figment, blister on indifferent fates’ machinations, that belief, that burning in the pit of ones core, gnawing, gnashed teeth muttering, that all this pain too must eventually, pale, and that’s whats a-sometime the reason for us being heartful, and or hale, its hope, raw, deceptive, lyin’, corrosive, rusted but a-shineyed up, yeah that hope that keeps my heart pumping, its that hope that keeps me alive, and its that hope upon which, may all new flowers thrive … … …

walking through tombs … … …

bicycle rides to ancient tombs, stealthily traversing the bygone years,

those days and nights of delhi long ago, pluck heartstrings, a sitar being tuned, the cricket matches in the park, fetching the ball from monuments to long dead sultans,

feasting on a masala-dosa, my bike chained to the rusty pole next to the paan-wallah,

downing numberless cups of cardamom chai, in between home and school, bunking classes to catch the one song in a bollywood flick, sitting amongst the people, singing along in days and nights that used to be so full, so long,

now just a fading memory, of diwalis at the kumars, and eid feasts at home, intermingling with splashes of holi colour,

a synthesis of cultures, of faiths, of friends transcending caste and creed,

a delhite whistling beatles’ songs,

ah yes, nostalgia that sly deceiver,

be mine again, come to me in rain-swept monsoon nights, lit by a million diyas of softly flickering lights,

wear your kaleidoscope dress,

rekindling memories, stay with me, my eternal evergreen seductive mistress … … …

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