Your Secrets

So many sects your secrets wear
and so many skins
you peel them- layered layers
showing me things i fear.

Hushing me you hush
so heavy the cloud of your breathing
it settles on my head
my hair is going thin.

Wear the secret
the glutton secret
wear it on your skin.
How would they know
if you won’t show
you bear secrets within.

Wear the cloak
the tattered cloak
wear it on your shoulder.
Let them hump
your guilt be dumped
there is sin so colder.

So many skins your secrets wear
and so many pins
you look for hearts-
the mellowed hearts
to hang there your sins.

So many pins your secrets wear
and so many cloaks. . .

Copyright, Tina Rathore.

The smog of memories

Smog surrounded
frozen i lie
in your memories,
clear the window panes
see though me.

Copyright, Tina Rathore.

Frozen Thoughts

Your frozen face
in my memories, a ray of light
and the smog.

Copyright, Tina Rathore.

If only

If only we could capture time
and put it behind bars
if only, if only
we’ll meet again
behind the noose.

If only we could capture time
and write it behind words
if only, if only
we’ll meet again
behind the pages.

If only we could capture time
and paint it behind colours
if only, if only
we’ll meet again
behind the canvas.

If only we could capture time
and bury it behind our backyard
if only, if only
we’ll meet again
behind our shards.

If only we could capture time
and murder it behind the arena
if only, if only
we’ll meet again
behind the masks.

© Copyright, Tina Rathore.

Bottle of Ink

We are a bottle of ink
spilled over sheets of life.
He pumps us into his fountain pen
carving every word He writes.
Once erased- the rims go blank
leaving behind shards.
Blackened
when greased forcefully
white death over dark alphabets
of love, agony, doom.

© Copyright, Tina Rathore.

Measuring life with….

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons-  T.S.Eliot. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

Measuring life with
evaporating water buckets
adulterated coffee spoons
delible ink drops
recyled/able paper
polluted sighs
traffic jammed roads
slummed fly-overs
fake smiles
parotted yes sirs
Measuring life with…

© Copyright, Tina Rathore.

Uprooted Words

I’ve torn the page
where
you came alive
after many deaths.
Now
i displace you
to pages
on a blinking screen
so many screens.
Where
you live
so many lives
once again.
You call yourself
uprooted
no mother
no father
land
to belong to.
There you reside
in so many hearts
in mine still.
But you insist
on that page
randomly picked
from a nearby bin
where i scribbled
with a careless hand
suffering
labour pains.
There you ask me
a hundred times
“how i came?
and from where?
who were my
grand
grandparents?”
and I
shut you up
with a thump
hitting you
with a push
of my keyboard
keys.

Copyright, Tina Rathore.

The way back home

The world’s calling me
my own world.
But here i am
in the shackles of freedom,
a weeded path,
a pair of amnesiac feet.

Where’s the way
the way back home.

Copyright, Tina Rathore.

Many of my..

“Many of my favourite things are broken.”-
Mario Buatta, interior designer. Quoted in Agha Shahid Ali, Rooms are never finished 55.

Many of my favourite things are broken.
From the cracks peep my shattered dreams
to gather themselves again
to break in your hands.

Many of my favourite albums are torn.
In pieces writhes my forgotten past
to become my present again
win time, if they can.

Many of my favourite clothes are out-worn.
In their threads still breathes that faded colour
to dye themselves again
and wear me, if they can.

Many of my favourite friends are lost.
But only to be found again
to look at me with those stranger eyes
and ask me who i am?

© Copyright, Tina Rathore

Stay awhile

stay in my life.
let me
stay in yours.
as words
in a poem
never written.

© Copyright, Tina Rathore.