(xix)

fingers unwind, the very same that
caressed when intertwined, mine in yours.
and as we part, the halting caresses relive
the painful moments of canorous, crooning,
warbled words. wishful thoughts…
the very words, your dainty fingers, sometime
before this sepulchral silence,
on my gnarled and mottled skin, wrote.

(xviii)

she is elfin – it is in her eyes,
the tourmaline tinged satyrs,
that mischievously shies

in numinous splendour; she peers
through the canvas of the night –

head to toe, covered in tenebrous delight.

(xvii)

In a surreal tapestry of gossamer silk and sunbeams,
I have etched the beautiful contours of your face.

The somnolent eyes,
drooping as if a lotus-eater had sprayed the Sandman’s opiate into them,
the juxtaposed limbs heavy-wrought and listless

….you are a dream,

you are the rainbow fantasy in speckled and gold-flaked dust,
shimmering on heaven’s stairways
and bright-punctured like a lover’s acid sighs on the firmament.

You are the elusive
an ever out-of-reach mirage-evanescence
that quill-wielders speak in hushed awe-filled tones.

You are my fantasy,
my deliverance of sleepless nights

….and somehow, their reason too!!

(xvi)

You are dazzlingly beautiful
these scintilla of your beauty
could in tumescence light up the heavens each night

….and if you smiled,
a thousand universe would be set aglow with an actinic light!!

(xv)

I am captivated,
ensnared by the silken tresses and the charm in the smile,
entrapped by the single finger gesture
that you enthrall me with, castled and annexed by your beauty,
the grace and the comport that befits a princess
…. you are a lovely seductress
There are always words to meld with other words,
and essays and epistles to etch on the ivory of your skin
and the tourmaline of your extremities.
You do this to me, with the ease and deftness of a practiced enchantress.
You do this to me by just being.
By being you – and none other.

(xiv)

like a whisper chases its shadow,
around a domed gallery made of stone
we leap-frog from liaison to liaison, yet
in the end, as at the start – are left alone


(will you be my gallery, my whisper,

or will you just leave me lonesome?)

(xiii)

ՔՆԱՐ ( Qnar):


Her ashough caresses her curves;
marmoreal surface limp in prone latitude
of a more laconic repose. Silent, waiting to sough
and sing, to his touch; peregrinating fingers,
probe and tease her supine, slender arms,
stretched heavenwards as if in supplication.


Eventually his digits will run through her taut strings
deftly, as if an aashiq gently his paramours unravelled
tresses coils – and uncoils, around the assiduous inches
of his nail, and bare-sweating skin.


Troubadour – and his exquisitely crafted lyre,
bewitching when quiescent, enchanting when stirred,
resonating with the tuning-forked vibration
which is still primordial to each universe….

and,

her curves, her caresses, her minstrel-love!

 

(xii)

these quotidian phases of life,
these diurnal dimensions we dwell in.
this missing you, the elusive touch,
the feel of your untangled hair,
the smile, slow-spreading like sunlight
on melting snow, and the memory of cerise
lips, wet, eager….unreal.


….these routines we rue,
the lives we choose to cocoon
our twin-souls in now;
all this and more, curvaceous one,
in the unwinding width and beam
of your lissome form, I have felt –
and more than that with you,
I have been.

(xi)

mecum omnes plangite :

…..they say the mountains are filled with crystals,
and good fortune.

Turn off the gas now, the jester weeps;
it is the hour the long-haired croupier
(O Fortuna! Sors immanis!)
in skirt and stilettoes, steps
on shards from shattered hearts.

that which the eagles at night had dropped from Psunj….

“….perhaps I’ll bring you luck!”

(x)

she is the effulgence in the

gathering gloom of loaming,

the scintilla of shooting stars

in the crepuscular and chthonic;

she is beauty,

shimmering sylph of a supernal arcadia…..

…..she is the dark, seductive night.