Poor child

A poor child
ceases to be a child
for there is no laughter
only the rage to survive
for there is no dream
to dream means color and life
for there is no life.

Rubik's cube

My life was like a pocket cube
unsolved, yet simple
some moves here and some there
I could see the smoke clear.

It turned into a standard cube
as I was finishing my teens
I started judging each face
but things hardly felt in place.

It progressed into a Rubik's revenge
to remind me of all my mistakes
cubes deceived to be where they belong
and gave me a sense of false aplomb.

It is spiraling into a professor's cube
I stare helplessly at new dimensions
that get added at twice the rate I age
tagging along and taking center stage.

I wonder if there is an algorithm to use
deep in my heart I know there is none
my life is meant to be a magic cube
that I will forever try to solve.

On the fast lane

His wagon rushed like a wanton thought
etching its own free course, as his
torpid mind stared through drowsy eyes,
dancing from those shots of spirits.

The wagon found its prey, driving over
drooping bodies and dreamy minds
relieving them of poverty and of life
and leaving behind a few orphans.

His mind was still dancing.

This is for all those people who sleep on pavements and beneath flyovers. Where we wake up to sunshine, they are truly lucky to even count another new day -- not run over by careless drivers.

Title - TBD

Harmless lies and unclaimed mistakes
as a flock of birds, similar in anonymity
screaming thoughts in ranting mind
thick as a stacking column of smoke
nameless fancies and fledgling hopes
making separate trips to lotus land
contained anger and pungent humor
hidden behind a mask of muteness
sprouting ideas and simple questions
like potter's clay that never take a mold
unfounded doubts and modicum of hate
that try to flourish and painlessly revive.

Lost in the humdrum of days and weeks
that spread like an unending fabric, and
struggling to decipher the road ahead.
These short emotions go unheeded,
tangled as the yarn that made the web
like a pile of seeds scattered all over
unless one decides to sprout and
touch the purple cloud.

Just a thought on all those fleeting emotions that cross my mind during the day. Nothing stays long enough, it all changes with the situation. Wanted to capture it in words, but I am really not sure if it's conveying what I want to.

Nature and Physics

Nature is harmony and artistry
that kindles this physicist’s curiosity
she speaks not, nor she observes
she acts of her own free desire, but
has a benign heart to let me watch.
To study what she does is hard
to see how she does is formidable
knowing why she does is impossible.

This is part of a poem I wrote on physics and nature for my copoets at NYU. The other stanzas aren't very beautiful, so I decided not to put them here. I am working on making them better. Perhaps I'll use them in some other poem.

As a teen

Profanity was my armor as a teen
I heard it in school - it smelt to me
like blood does to a carnivore,
tasted like my choice dish that
I couldn't let go, so as I used it
I felt in control and saw it as
the start of a revolution in me.

My parents hated me the most
and they felt terror as I spoke.
They loved me more than my sibling
Lu, who went to school in Beijing.
My dad was home on Mondays and
my mom was home on Sundays, so I
stayed quiet two consecutive days.

To rid me during holidays, I was
sent to my grandma's place
I threw my cousin into Lammond bay
so she spread rumors without delay
"Su swore and called God gay", which
upset my grandma so she sent me away.
I will show her it wasn't my mistake.

I was with a cute owl that whole night
when I actually saw a black rose bloom.
The owl tried to make some rose-hip jam
I hit him in the head, called him thug.
"Je suis desole, ne chatier pas moi"
he cried, and light, light the night smiled.
Then I fell off the tree with a smash.

My parents promptly arrived to find
my ankle bruised bad as a rainbow -
red, blue, green and indigo - my naive
cousin of deceit watching with regret.
Soon we hugged and smiled like mates,
made up before I left, but she is a bitch
and I cursed her under my breath.

Those words had life, but I used them so
much they are now old and almost dead
that I've laid my weapons to rest.

This is a sad attempt at Jim Simmerman's twenty little poetry projects. It is a challenging task to combine the projects into one poem.

On Lex

I hear the rhythm beside me
like the faint beat of a drum
it flows with the mild breeze
and abruptly ceases, to free
me from my skein of thoughts.

It resumes in a few seconds
once the white man shines
its evenness stands apart
from all the soft voices,
giggles, and clamor around.

I'm focussing on the beat now
but I fear my curiosity may
kill the constancy it shows.
But she walks ahead, not a step
missed as her blue skirt flows.

Between those few blocks I've
heard the rise and fall of strides
before they fade into the subway.


I was on my way to a subway (metro) on Lexington Ave a few weeks back. There was this lady walking near me with such a rhythm in her stride that I was tempted to swing around and take a look. That I did. A few days later when I remembered it, I just scribbled these few lines.

Mind

My mind just created its twin
and they're playing tug-of-war
how I wish one would just win
they're identical, but never concur.

One is here, other is there
and they are both getting stronger
one is happy and the other gloomy
I can feel the increasing polarity.

While one is loving, but despaired
the other loathes, but is inspired.
I know not which one lies, I see
not which one is a friend of mine.

The game goes on and on
can't they sing the same song
be of the same stripe and kind
oh, the ambivalence of my mind.


Contradiction and chaos are integral part of my life. I built this poem around the first two lines because I liked the idea of twin and tug-of-war applied to my mind.

Strangers

The world without strangers
would indeed be a strange place
recognize every single face
shake every hand and yes,
pass infinite smiles.

You’ll never reach where you
set out to go, because of
numerous stops in between.
You’ll never get home because
good byes will never cease.

You’ll never say excuse me,
never make new friends.
You’ll always try placing
names and events and you’ll
hardly be in peace.

This is a tribute to all the strangers around me. Thanks for being one.
Inspired by the word "Strangers" on someone's t-shirt.

A day for Pi

There’s a day dedicated to Pi, you may
ask me why – maybe because it’s
irrational and an infinite decimal.
The celebrations on the day before
the Ides of March may mean eating
a pie, playing a piano, or simply
drinking Pina Colada. What a way
to celebrate the rare constancy
and honor our very own sweet pie.

I love math. Particularly because I'm not good at it. When I was writing a poem on physics, I got to know that there was a day for Pi. Thus "A day for Pi" was born.

Thoughts

My thoughts have drifted
away, far and remote, like
a dandelion clock blown
by a five year old.
But then I realize that my
thoughts have reached home.
It’s me who is still drifting
away, far and remote.

I don't want to say too much about this poem. Just want to go home.

Nineteen Eleven

When I was in my bold twenties
many, several moonshines back
the world was prepared for war
and I was moonshining in the dark.
On those rugged Appalachians
we were about fourteen men
making firebox to bury the blaze,
getting liquor from the mash, as
smoke and steam rose sky-high.
Those nights were always fun
making whiskey and rum, selling
them for prices so low, in clay
jugs signed with symbols obscure.
A silvery twilight in nineteen eleven
the revenuers arrived quickly, we
deserted our distillery, fires burning,
still working, and coats hanging.
I never took to moonshining again,
but many, several moonshines later
I know the shine always tasted better
than all the gin and rum I’ve ever tried
and I was a shiner with pride.

War in the name of Lord

Mumbai blasts: for those who call it holy war - Terrorism in any form in not justified. Holy is a very inappropriate adjective for this dastardly act and I'm sure the Lord himself is grieving this day.

While He is busy mending the earth
In which for war there is no dearth
He thinks His name is called out loud
And learns it's "War in the name of Lord"

He is shocked and surprised
And strains to find if He heard it right
Alas! He has made no mistake, for
He'll now not even our prayers take

Puppy in a bag

Carried by a dainty heiress
in a beautiful velvet satchel.

Peeking through perforation
with plain look of consternation.

No need for perambulation because
swinging in a royal procession.

Great sense of repletion with
slight sense of suffocation.

Enjoying all the attention
while vying for liberation.

I borrowed

Green from spring's first leaf
Red from rose's velvet petal
Yellow from the sun's morning ray.

Blue from the ocean's mighty wave
And Black from the darkest night
To paint your perfect portrait.

You took a glimpse and smiled a
smile so dainty and nice I marvel
what color can capture that shine?

The Magician's daughter

Bring paper to flower and fur
And move towering manors around
Turn spherule to velvet and water
And change things that surround.

She was angelic than my sorcery
My seraph, my priceless treasure
While I beguiled all the gallery
Death clipped me in a juncture.

All my conjury was in vain
Magic couldn't keep her alive
As she writhed and cried in pain
Darkness kissed her out of life.

Was she just another illusion
That darted past a charmer's vision?

Transit

Carriage filled with hundred faces
Each with its spring and station
And going a hundred places
With a tiny span in unison.

As the transit abruptly ceases
They spill like peas from a skin
It was a chance togetherness
that may never happen again.

Voice

As Ocean's song is its waves
As Forest speaks through its winds
As Fire's tone is its flames
Find your voice before its late.

Feel strongly for some issues
On others try to find your call
Be it right or be it false
It's better than having none at all.

Stars

They bristle and blaze within
And they abidingly collapse
But on a clear night welkin
As they wink, shine and dance
Stars are the numerals of repose.

Oh, Leaf

These lines on my palm
Those veins on your face
Where do they meet?
Do these stripes rule my life?
Do those seams vote your fate?