Home?

I woke up one evening to a late summer sun that lives far beyond

its days of regular hours of light

to be situated in movement, in dynamism,

flitting between my lands of illusion and perceived reality.

I searched for landscapes that I’ve known to see by virtue of comfort

in between content sleep and momentary awakenings.

When I travel,

there are reassuring dim lights outlining mounds of back-lit mountains

with their own gaudy colours and early night's chatter.

My father in the front seat:

awake and seriously holding a conversation with the driver while

the speakers float in a language 

I comprehend at the most intimate level.

I woke up in a car racing back ‘home’.. Or what I should call home.

It took me three whole minutes to realise where I was

after the remnants of deep slumber

resting itself in the nooks of my breasts awoke

to transience.

Ten months in this city

and I still wake up from every deep slumber

to unfamiliarity.

Why, the dogs here never stop. 

They don’t have the time to stop.

They’re smiling and following the tug on their leash

following their human who has taught them to sit up straight and act like a dog,

to not lick the faces of people they love and act like a dog.

Don’t jump on her, those clothes will get dirty! Act like a good dog!  

They apologise for their furry companions sometimes,

‘I’m so sorry, He loves people.’ they say

and I want to just strip free of the collars round my neck,

strained attempts to ridiculous decorum

and roll by their side and fight in the mud;

because

familiarity to me is turning into my street

and whistling to have five street mongrels at my side.

They jump, they paw, they lick

and I could wash their freaking ticks away if I ever contracted any

But their love stays on across the seas for all the times they've listened to me

with crooked ears and curious eyes.

And so,

every single time I see a well-behaved dog outside my window

after a slumber so deep that I don’t realise where I am,

I miss being home where chaos was more unruly with herself,

flirting with the orderliness of monotony...

I finally understand what homesickness really means.

But now, I'm not sure I know what home means.

-Hemu

An Affair With Addiction

I don't understand those poets that romanticize alcohol;
attributing poetry to a glass of high
or a joint of weed.
I'm tempted to judge a man
who loves alcohol and smoke;
a daily dose of exigency
to unlock and  let oneself be.
But what right do I have to roll my eyes
at him, an artist
immersed in the illusion of beauty;
recovering and emerging from
a bottle of whisky
when my words spill and fall like
a momentous dominoes set
when I think of you?
The illusion and the addictive need
to romanticize the image of you?



~Hemu

A Heart's Reach Away

Day by day, the hope and the tiny bit of light in
a crowded heart vanished to form a black hole
where a lot of happy memories emerge from, resurgent ;
unlike the voids that draw
only to submerge her in a vast pensive of loneliness.
 She feels left out, as a clown who is lost in the group and the ordinary,
quite strong in ideas that don't bend,
searching for that one another person who lives the way she does,
to live.. to laugh and smile.
She still goes around scanning through the known faces
searching for him.
Searching for that one person, who now loves another..
for that someone who dwells in the colourful tones of her dreams
and in reality, far away.
At the end of each day of hers, every fragment of his word and stare
pierces through her like a knife of ice to numb the pain
and melt away into water, keeping her eyes dry for a while.
That which was thrust through her; blaming an expectant love
who let it grow when she knew it should have died.
Oh yes! She should have stabbed it to death,
to have bled the little fairy-tale hope of him turning back to
offer her an exquisite glance,
so it would hurt only a stingy bit before it passes with the clouds.
She should have chopped the dreams while she was still asleep
  so that reality doesn't feel like a burdensome chore.
  Like the nightmare that she lives for real.

                                       
~Hemu

Image from the internet. 

The black stallion that I never owned

Wandering as a child through the crowded field of yellow popies,

I looked at that which I had yearned for,

throughout the thirteen years of my life...

The black stallion.

The black stallion that I never owned.

He was just a few months old, with a black mane and a furry tail..He was black.

I went near him, searching all around for a person who would claim him..

I found none, as it was only him that I had seen and could SEE..

A black horse in the midst of a yellow field, He was just the dream I had seen.

The black love.. with the colour of my eyes,

a mother's love, and the reassuring stride of a father's strength,

that which I liked to have..

For, I had none but that beauty of my dreams..

I reached out my hand to touch his pink nose and feel the silk of his coat,

With the perfection combination of everything, he stood there..

As though waiting for me to hold him, speak to him, take care of him, ride him.. and to love him.

Perhaps like me.

With a soft nudge he caught my thoughts in its tracks and gave me a loving look..

It looked like he was smiling, his teeth was white..

As white as the pale moon that runs behind dark clouds...

He was perfect.

He was my dream come true.

At last, I've a black stallion. I could see him everywhere.

In my sleep, when I roam, and when I dont get to see those who bore me...

I just looked at his gaze, following it.. Paradise. Being with Him..

I was about to mount on him and feel the breeze that he could've offered...

I wanted to feel the flight on his back, with the wind seeing through me.. beyond all physical obstructions..

I felt the necessity of his presence.. for seeing me and the blunt emotions inside.

I felt through his black mane and got ready to gallop with him through the gay yellows,

full of happpiness, speed and the blowing skies,

Right when the yellow suddenly hit my eyes like a spear does a life..

And there I was lying on the dead field that cracked right down, without a sprout.. parched.

I turned around for Him, he wasn't there.

Like always, I go near him and he disappears.

HE, my wind, the black stallion that I never owned.

~ In search of the black stallion.

~ Hemu

(this piece, originally written on a train journey:

7:15pm

23/5/2008 )