Scratch A Rock

Posted in Where Nothing Rhymes by Bharat Iyer on December 17, 2011

He left no trace

of himself in his books. No notes

scribbled between the lines; no

passages underlined, not even a name

on the first page.

Look closer though,

and you might see a face form

in the mist: a smoothed out crease

on page seventy four and the stain

in chapter three that shrinks with

every turning page; an invisible

presence buried in a tear,

a crumbling grocery list pressed

 against a page.

The force of his breath

turns the pages,  a faint echo rides

the spine, before the mist is blown away

in a stronger current, leaving behind pages

that bear the stillness of salt flats.

A Middle Class Neighbourhood(edited)

Posted in Where Nothing Rhymes by Bharat Iyer on August 27, 2011

old people fill up

the park every evening

cotton pajamas shuffling along

paved paths, brushing against

trimmed hedges and clipped grass

once in a while they greet each other

a bit like prisoners allowed outside

for some sunshine and exercise

some of them sit on benches

in clumps of three or four

the men and the women separately

their conversation is sparse

and mostly unintelligible

save the name of some pill or affliction

floating in the slow summer air

others, of creaking arthritic joints

attempt exercises, their skin flapping every time

on calcium coated washing lines

and as the sky darkens

every passing bird looks like a crow

 

outside, the road runs putrid

with overflowing drains

and the wet air smells of rotting food

down the street an old bum

pees in the municipality garbage bin

he licks the saliva dripping

from his toothless mouth

his dick in one hand, the other on his hip

his legs spread wide apart

fast cars churn sewage into paste

and noisy children play with a ball

behind painted fences

 

 

 

Title? Hah. Title.

Posted in Where Nothing Rhymes by Bharat Iyer on June 17, 2011

it is not in fire
it is not in water
it is not in faceless rocks
it is not in the folded palms
and shaven heads
of holy pilgrims
not in the drop of honey
that dangles over a saint’s
painted forehead
not in the rotting flesh
of yesterday’s dead
it is not in the clouds
it is not in the winds
not in the pustules of want
that erupt on your darkening skin
where is it Yajnavalkya?
is it in the speeding car
that skids to a halt inches away
with a primal screech from beyond time?
in the blank stares that are exchanged
in that moment of utter stillness
the eyes at odds with each other?
walk carefully, brother
there is danger afoot

Posted in Where Nothing Rhymes by Bharat Iyer on June 14, 2010

Published elsewhere

On a very hot day of the summer

Posted in Where Nothing Rhymes by Bharat Iyer on April 24, 2010

Published elsewhere

This is not a first post.

Posted in Where Nothing Rhymes by Bharat Iyer on April 17, 2010

once again

there is

me: hello

floating up

to rest in

its lonely corner

like a painting

hanging behind

a thousand others.

if a tree falls

in an empty forest

is it really a blog post?