Death

Death,
Like betrayal
kept a promise.
Death and betrayal,
bound by tasks assigned,
kept promises
and worlds
fell apart.

Lest, the world
falls apart.

(C) Jatin Gandhi, April 18, 2005.

Untitled

morning
begins
the way
You are.
bright, sunny,
shady, glum,
pouring.
nights
pass the way
you were.
live,
calm, starry,
cloudy, dark.
the in-between
times,
i spend dreaming
of sleeping
with you
after a life
spent making love.

(C) Jatin Gandhi April 18, 2005.

ice

When I said
I need ice,
Was I lying?
I have been
Coughing these
Last few days,
Having rum
With warm water
And certainly no ice.
It is winter now.
But I say it as a habit,
Each time,
I fix myself another
I say I’m getting ice
Have I been lying?
To everyone
Including myself
Or is just a habit
To call rum, ice
Or is it because
The damned thing is
Just so cool
It does to your brain
What ice
Does to your tongue
In winter?

© Jatin Gandhi, November 16, 2006

silence...and i

when silence and i
parted ways
we didnt
make a noise.
we didnt hear
each other go,
but each knew
the other
would soon
come back.
and did too,
silently.

once again
we were
holding hands,
walking over
crackling dry leaves
silently.


(C) Jatin Gandhi, March 29, 2005

Putrefaction

Love died that night
but I clung on,
for the heart's sake,
to the corpse.
The decay would soon
and did
set in
but I clung on.
The rot spread
and our lives were
putrefied.
It didn't matter,
I told myself.
Wasn't love itself
life,
before it died?


(C) Jatin Gandhi, April 4, 2005

Once

She did, he did
Once upon a time
love each other

(C) Jatin Gandhi

Untitled

He got drunk
Last night and
Fell in the slush

With mud in his eyes,
He wept and thought
- a man must live, drink,
fall and die alone.

(c) Jatin Gandhi, November 9, '04

Writing sometimes...

Writing, sometimes,
Is like stitching up old wounds
And opening new ones,
Cleaning up some
And prodding others.

It’s also like opening
Old bandages to see if
The wounds have healed
And sometimes finding them fresh underneath.

Sometimes,
It is the wound itself.
And pain is not the connection,
Time is.


© Jatin Gandhi, October 31, 2006

To paint a song

I don’t have to be drunk
To sing a picture
Or paint a red song yellow
When I strum the paintbrush
I can smell the music flow
I don’t do grass
Before I wet the sky with words
Or breathe a joyful dance

(C) Jatin Gandhi, 2005

Lecher!

Lecher!

Do you letch at a woman
Or letch for her?
Or is it, to letch for other women
Is because you letch for the one woman in your life.
Can there be one woman in one man’s life?
Or are all women one
To a letch?

Can you letch for a woman
Who is no letch,
Shows no signs of being one
-- a woman who does not bring the lecher out in a man,
would a letch still letch for her?
Is sexual activity one-sided?
If it is all in the mind,
Can a table be an/the object of sexual desire?
Or a glass or bottle –
Empty or full – will it change everything?

Eating chocolate induces the effect in your mind
How many chocolates can a man eat before he feels a limp?
And women? Do they love chocolates more?
Or do they pretend?
Are there categories of flesh?
Is forbidden flesh one?
Can you stop a woman from eating flesh
Or a man from showing it?

(C) Jatin Gandhi
October 25, 2006

Showbiz

…and the mannequin looks on
hand on hip
another on waist
whether or not
if looks could kill.
But the mannequin looks on.
Lamps and lights
The din

T h e f a n s, t h e c r o w d s
And m u s i c too

Cigarette smoke rings
Clouds and wrings.
Dead flesh too sweats,
Trust the witness
---- the dead never lie.

Suffocatin’ smoke
To combat pungent,
Foul breath.

Ignore the stench.
Opaque glass panes and thick sideboards
Do not matter
If looks could kill.

© Jatin Gandhi

Metastasis

It began as heartburn
but travelled
at the speed of thought
and spread.

The brain was soon
infected.
The hate then entered
my lungs
I was breathing it

Next, it ran in my blood
every vessel, tissue, nerve,
cell got involved.


And before I could die
My soul was infected.

Nov 9, 04

The fractured arm

One arm, three bones
And many pieces.
Fractured, broken, split,
splattered, oozing, dripping,
wreaking, smelling, writhing,
twisting, twisted, deformed,
together, apart, all, one, many.
How it happened, they can tell.
But why, can they?
Would reptiles know more than humans.
Snakes, wild lizards or crocs?
Or the lizard on the wall.
Remember Anna,
The early January afternoon?
When, the lizard took over.
When he spoke of Wordsworth
But I thought of Isaac Newton.
He looked helpless.
He wanted to fly but gravity pulled him down
He fought gravity and inertia weighed him down
It is inertia perhaps that breaks spines
But broken bones are no big deal
When the spine is intact.


Jan 27 ‘04

Red

They came drenched
In red paint
Wearing red
Badges and carrying
Red roses

But there was no
Blood

(C) Jatin Gandhi, 2006

Unititled

If cities were beasts,
the one I live in
would be a mongrel.
A hungry one.
Ugly and rabid,
scarred and smelly.
Water flows from the tap
like saliva from
the sun-struck mongrel’s
tongue.

It heaves and pants.
It is noise.
But for those who have lived
here a long, long time,
just voices in the city.
The hungry mongrel
devours almost anything –
food and garbage
with machine-like
Hunger.

The cur took away my voice,
As if it were
A discarded piece of bread.


© Jatin Gandhi, April 25, 2006.

PORTRAIT OF THE POET AS AN OLD CLICHE

Squatting,

(under the huge

tree with red,

yellow leaves,

half-bent, half

falling into

green, brown waters

of the still,

dirty lake

turning orange,

red, gold, silver,

black under

the purple, violet, blue,

turquoise sky

in the red, orange,

brown setting sun,

half drowned in

the silver, gold,

white smokey

clouds)

the poet in the

long, black,

patched old

felt overcoat

and broken,

brown boots

holding

a long, thin, dry

reed

was a poem

himself.

© Jatin Gandhi, 2005

Meditation

I love your silence
My lord
I'd love it more if
it weren't
choreographed.

(C) Jatin Gandhi, 2006

Epitaph

They
who wrote my
Epitaph
didn’t know
I was a
writer too.

(C) Jatin Gandhi, August 8, 2001

Story teller

Meet him,

man who hates other men,

but don’t talk to him.

And don’t look him in the eye

or he’ll hate you too.

He’s a story-teller

who writes of men and women,

children, pigeons and places.

And kittens.

He writes what men talk

watches them when they talk

and listens carefully

sometimes with his eyes closed.

He loves to talk.

But don’t talk to him

just listen

Or he wont tell you his story.

(C) Jatin Gandhi, 1999

Unedited on October 29

Maria, have you heard of a man

with four names?

I know of words with more synonyms

Than four. Five. Six. Seven.

But not names.

And not people with so many names.

I know a man who named his dog

VIBGYOR.

He said was a

Seven-in-one name

Violet.
Indigo.
Blue.
Green.
Yellow.
Orange.
Red.

Its just three colours but.

And then it's one name

Vibgyor

I have heard of violet flowers

And indigo scarves,

Of blue bicycles, green snakes,

Yellow cars,

Oranges hair and red books.

I have seen colours

And met people.

But I haven’t met

A man with four names

All names that mean

The same.




© Jatin Gandhi, 1999.

The rum drinker

The rum drinker

If
he jumped from
the ledge tonight
and died,
will you bandage
his neck first
or collect pieces of
his flesh from
between the cracks
in the road?
Will you cover his
body with leaves
and let children discover
him in play
or would you rather
drink up his rum
before they knew?

For him
to have died leaving
his rum unfinished
was good for us.
But think of him
to kill himself
-- could it mean
death meant more to
him than rum
when he died?

© Jatin Gandhi, 2004

Untitled

There were no vulture cries at
the electric crematorium
only cell phone beeps

vultures don’t come here
anymore
they migrated to bigger cities

too much multiplication
but not enough dead
our city ranks too low
on the misery index

they bury the dead or
burn them
not cosmopolitan enough

men eat all the dead pigs
or sell them
other animals die only in custody

there isn’t enough food for vultures here
they migrated to bigger cities
where bigger vultures
repeat success


© Jatin GandhiFebruary 1998

WAR

WAR

Wet desert sands
And the mirage
In the city
Four walled
Oceans
Of concrete and
Overheated flash bulbs
Under the warm sun.
Screens and curtains
And stars by the beach
Palms and the breeze
Men and Godmen
All delight as
The Opiate torchbearer
Falls in love
With fires


(C) Jatin Gandhi