sonnet to an unknown love

right this moment, where is she
working hard, or romancing a he
is she single, like yours truly here
or is she a couple, like a happy hours beer
is she snowhite fair, or dark as the night
a thing of beauty, or a genetic plight
will she make heads turn, or is her heart her virtue
or will she have neither, but a nice l’il fortune
will she cook well, to feed my chauvinistic belly
or will she expect to be served in front of the telly
will she appreciate fine poetry, especially mine
or will her dream words be a ‘for sale’ sign
will she be a giving lover, a tigress in bed
or like an pedigree poodle, will she play dead
will she get along nicely with ma, like a house on fire
or will they quarrel, like polygraph and a liar
will she speak her mind, or have none
will knitting a pullover be her idea of fun
will she believe in god, or be an atheist
will she love me for what i am, or inspite of it
have I looked into her eyes, or have I never seen her yet
is she a stranger, or someone I’ve often met
will i find her on my own, or will my parents have to step in
is she tamil, punjabi or three-quarters finn
but to tell you frankly, there’s really only one question
only one criterion deserving mention
…will she be a compromise, or a real bargain
a wife truly worthy of ram cobain?

an ode to insanity

like a feast of salty broken glass
the sweet scratches of a mask
a vivid splash of nothingness
a nameplate with lost address

he stands there gibbering to himself
a mighty soothsayer afraid to tell
some bitter truth too big to share
a solemn cross he alone must bear

the blurring of edges, the clarity of space
an angel falling headlong from grace
a race of slow throbbing death
like hurried gasps of bated breath

they pass him by without a glance
this freak of some divine mischance
vacant eyes, twisted face
a canvas too ugly to be erased

yesterday, today, everyday
less black, less white, much more grey
caught in time or freed from it
savoured by streams of dripping spit

he sees what they do not dream
and dreams what they must not see
a vision horrific, or is it pretty
paradise lost or guarded closely

alone, not lonely in the world
like a valiant flag in the storm unfurled
seeing, smiling yet blind to it all
poetic, esoteric, immovable wall

he cares not what they make of him
like a fish drenched in rainy swim
they effect him not, they affect him not
sadly happy private thoughts

scorned like fruit, long gone bad
this aimless anchorless nomad
hard to accept, but what’s harder to know
who’s better off between us both.

ram cobain

padmavati

“father…some water…” Padmavati said
to the old invalid, tied to the bed
the father croaked an inaudible whisper
the hut glowing, by wands of camphor

she foraged through the dingy cell
this place less home, more of hell
a pot, a pan…oh anything to buy
medicines, while the father died

but penicillin, prayer, all did fail
like laundry drying in a wet, horrid gale
like a martyr dying without a cause
like brittle, bruised candy floss

meanwhile the aged one, grew more old
his body smelling like green bread mould
and while Padmavati searched for anything to trade
providence smiled on, too happy to aid

now desperate, she looked at the empty room
barren like an infertile womb
the only commodity left, of interest to the buyer
was now the lady, who opened for hire

matrimony thus commenced, as a one-night stand
and her body caressed, by an alien hand
but even polygamy has its price
one insulin injection, for two creamy thighs

so when Padmavati reached home, torn, tired
“my good daughter…” the old man enquired
“you sold something…” he contentedly sighed
“yes father”, Padmavati replied


(the name ‘Padmavati’ is taken from an r.k. narayanan story, in which the protagonist, commenting on the dismal lack of barbers in the town, disgustedly says
“one and only one Padmavati for the entire village!”)

A small tribute to the merit of having no merit at all…

to nobody in particular

oh how good it is to be
just another fish in the sea
not big not beautiful not even rare
a sight unworthy of a second stare

not blessed with abstract intelligence
or poetic talent that doesn’t make sense
or a lover’s heart doomed to pine
like sniffling snow in yellow sunshine

not wanting like a millionaire
aged, broken, beyond repair
or so famous that nobody knows
what all you’d give, to just be ignored

not pained by easy sparkling wit
that bubbles and burns like acid spit
that when spoken, stamps a scar within
specially on those you call your kin

little do they know, the superior small fry
the great merit of being an unexceptional guy
for it’s the weed that escapes the plucking hand
and what use a flower on a garland?

writer’s block

the shovel hits stone
the earth tired, groans
this drought’s been long
the sun burns strong
the last drop’s dripped
the faucet’s tightlipped
the breast’s run dry
a little child cries.

ram cobain

the wedding night

he takes her by the hand
up the sparkling stairs
a bride without a marriage band
a groom with receding hair

they pause to air their lungs
this walk filled with promise
he grins at her face, innocent, young
and rewards her with a kiss

the door, there it stands
open, inviting, ready
she looks up at her man
heart racing, feet unsteady

the bedsheets hungry, red
the pillow soft, so warm
and like a hyena unfed
he grabs her by the arm

he holds her tiny waist
firm, rough, really strong
hands strip in needy haste
while lips break into song

he plunges deep within
this crevice yet unexplored
her world starts to swim
and her thighs drip wet, gored

he looks into her eyes
tired, spent, had.
she gazes back and replies
“can I go now…dad?”

ram cobain

poetry

what is poetry
but reason in rhyme
what is poetry
but a way of stopping time
what is poetry
but prose gone good
what is poetry
but thought for food
what is poetry
but the esoteric made easy
what is poetry
but the simple made sleazy
what is poetry
but intelligent feigning ignorance
what is poetry
but the stupid making sense
what is poetry
but a voice in the wild
what is poetry
but a grown up child
what is poetry
but a prison door wide open
what is poetry
but a windowpane broken
what is poetry
but a cleansing smile
what is poetry
if it isn’t worth your while?

ram cobain

adverti…sin

your toilets will sparkle
your hair will shine
your investments will make sense
and retirement’s just fine
your cola will make you cool
your energy drink will make you win
your water will make you pure
and coffee will make you sing
your breath will stay fresh
your teeth will never decay
your skin will turn fairer
and that pimple will fade away
your car will earn you respect
your fuel will make never touch zero
your tyre will make you unstoppable
your cycle will make you a hero
your deo will get you women
your cigarette will make you a man
your suit will make you complete
…just buy my wonderful brand

ram cobain

please read

incredible, strange and sadly true
there exist such people and not a few
they’ve never met the catcher in the rye
or stared into Poe’s stony eye
never asked who was John Galt
(and what did he halt)
or why must sweet Veronica die
they’ve never escaped from Monte Cristo
never matched grey cells with green-eyed Poirot
never cried over George and Lenny
never said a prayer for Owen Meany
they’ve never fallen in love with a Juliet
never trembled in a Tommyknocker sweat
never searched for the holy grail
never hunted a Moby of a whale
never been friends with a Corleone
never had Rome for an enemy
never stayed locked in Anne’s cage
never broke free of human bondage
never ever heard the mariner speak
never seen a Huck Finn week
but to cut a long story short
please pardon this one…
they’ve never known what’s elementary
like dear ol’ Watson

ram cobain