net crush

Between his work tools

he spares a thought,

it is enough

for eye and eye to meet

word and word

to stand side by side

It is the rhythm

of question and answer

but the real thing

is him simmering

down your breath

as you take him home

on a long memory

and google up his name

helpless,

sick, almost obsessed

in the cold winter morning

you know where he lives

his age

even his email address

what next?

close your eyes and

visualize

every breath has met

every thought

every gut

you know this is love

and you can do nothing

about it.

Defeatist.

writing is to me

wait for it

like a mosquito

to insert its proboscis

slowly at first

then quick, rapid

fast

the world is spinning out of control

his mind is spinning with food thoughts

this drink

would be enough

for the whole night

or perhaps not

if his stomach is libidinous

you wait

with a flat hand

and rush

squash

blood smeared with black insect body

there you have your muse covered

in first draft

Milk

Yeah-I-want-to-communicate-so-much-and-you-can’t-understand-a-thing-and-I-know-wisdom-is-not-the-only-thing.

Not-the-only-thing-because-when-I-smile-you-smile-a-bit-or-two-after-me-and-you-chew-on-your-nails-to-show-you-need-milk-and-I-want-to-tell-you-that-now-is-the-time,-your-mother-is-ticking-with-energy-and-wisdom-and-she-can-tell-you-so-much-about-the-world-and-what-is-new

and-you-dream-into-my-face-as-if-you-always-knew

and-by-the-time-you-would-get-talking-I-would-forget-my-syllables

and-by-the-time-you-rein-on-those-alphabets-I-would-forget-the-snippets-of-my-epiphany

and-when-you-grow-young, I-would-have-no teeth-to-tell-the-wisdom-through

and-even-if-I-write-it-down-it-would-vanish-one-day

and-you-would-have-so-much-more-by-the-time-you-reach-where-I-am-now-you-would-know-more-than-I-could-tell-anyways,

and so I sit down lotus-styled and continue feeding you your milk.

sleep

if you wait

an exploding moment comes

where nothing stirs

not air

not leaf

except a bird or two may fly

it is here

that two roads diverge

one into idleness

the other, super-idleness

the station after that is sleep

insomnia

sleep is a boy 

who has been missing

from his place

who is nowhere to be found

not even under the desk

not near the clay computer

not outside the room

not where the barrels sound

with rainwater dripping in them

not near the outside trees

or the hunt house

sleep has escaped 

leaving his satchel

behind

its crummy

because it would be recess time

and he is not as far as the ground stretches

the podium

the stage 

the assembly line

sleep has probably gone home.

(apathy)

scanty rain

against a breezy window pane

 

po-e-tree running through my vein

 

I am no farmer 

to complain

society woes

now that we have killed

the pigeons who made

a lot of shit on our window

sills

 

we got after dogs

who piss in the vicinity

and bite our kids

 

and then when the dogs

are finished

but our anger isn't

we shall kill the children

who make noise on the swing

 

then the old people

who don’t seem to

rationalize

or materialize

into our game plan

and keep ringing the wrong doorbells

 

that leaves us with just us

wise, middle aged men -

we shall party through the

night and enjoy barbeques

till our laughter reaches

the wild, new morning

 

and we reach home

to find our wives sleeping

with other men

who have kept a glass of poisoned tonic

by the bed side

for us to drink

 

© Rochelle Potkar

June 2009

rocking chair

she scoops the cleavages

and concaves of news

- city news, world news, 

town news

village news

 

but the day stretches

long before her

as more news is being

created, churned, rehashed

by the world

to be breakfasted upon

the next day

Home

a mystical land

a fictional place

opens up through your plane window

mountains yawns

trees slide down

making way

for your bird to land

clouds play 

havoc

over mountain top

flat land

the mechanical bird

is warm, silent

crowded markets

colored streets

hawkers yell

dollars deteriorate

the sun

has a special place

to the left,

unfamiliar

from your own land

the roads are tiny

zipping through

breasts of mountains

goats stand tall

eating grass

the wind shaking

their food

its hunger time

you quiver

with the nostalgia

of thirst

flags flutter

calling for the dead

to return

there are chants

mantras

in monotone

the mountain reverberating

in its own echo

till you reach to pay for

toll

you are 

2000 ft above

the valleys

the sunlit paths

the birds flying below

the muffled air

the disguised laugh

echo of your own heart

"home"

"om"

"om"

Marketing Plan

Two of my stories, Doors and Sepia are in the anthology 'The curse of the bird and other paranormal stories' and it feels good.

The rest of the announcement is as follows: 

Dramatized Readings and Dramatic Announcements

Reliance Timeout and Unisun Publications

invite you to the launch of

1. The Curse of the Bird and other paranormal stories


2. The Shrinking Woman and other stories

Two superb collections of over 30 short stories each from the house of Unisun

The volumes bring together several prize winning writers and their irresistible stories. They contain over 60 stories and 45 authors drawn from all over India and outside it. Their backgrounds are as varied as the stories they have written.

and the announcement of the prizewinners of


The Unisun Reliance Timeout Book Club Awards 2008-09


on March 7th 
3 pm -5 pm
at the Reliance Timeout Outlet, Cunningham Road, Bangalore

(Parking available in the basement)

*So if you are around you know what I would have told you to do: Go to it!

New Year '09

bhutan

...

In the stealth

of night

when i am hungry

and i peel

a banana

inviting

its mulch between

lip and tongue

thinking of you

does it amount to 

infidelity?