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This is a selection of English poems I have written over the years. You can find a more extensive collection at the Instagram page vivijay_poetry
I was born within these walls.
I carry them around, wherever I wander;
The glass keeps me safe from
Their blades and arrows and bombs
As I trudge my way through, with caution.
I hear them whispering
About my hair, my mouth, my skin;
Never the right size, never the right colour.
I draw my glass walls closer,
Hoping that would somehow shield me
Against their ruthless eyes.
The whispers get louder;
My breasts, my thighs, my hips.
My brain, my heart, my voice.
Do I deserve, to be thus
Sliced and diced and assessed
Under their relentless scrutiny?
As I bow my head in defeat,
The ghosts of my ancestors
Spring up around me.
I gaze at them, with tenderness,
And slowly, I see
Stars and planets and galaxies
Where their flaws and imperfections used to be.
My eyes revert to my body.
Was it not wonderful all along?
As the glass walls shatter, I scream
At the top of my lungs, fearless and dauntless;
“I am the daughter of stardust;
And majestic is all that I shall ever be.”
‘Twas the days of chagrin and turmoil,
The world falling apart beneath our feet;
Yet, amidst the chaos of perpetual desolation,
I sensed a whiff of home.
The world seemed hazy beneath the dust of all things broken,
But the beacon that called my name remained undulled;
My steps were slow, but never unsteady;
The world was falling apart, but we were falling together.
As the dust settled down and specs of green kissed the burnt up ground,
Writ in our hearts was a vow of eternal affection;
“Be the world as it may, with all its bliss and despair;
For you, my love, my heart shall forever shine sanguine.”
He was not a pretty child.
His greasy curls constantly invaded
The large, sombre eyes
That never cared for civilities.
“That snotty little rascal,” they used to call him;
At eight, he was already a master of trickery.
The streets were his home,
His academy, and his sanctuary;
Or so he used to think, but then
He met her. The bent old woman
Selling achcharu by the school street.
She never seemed to notice
How he snatched a handful of
Spiced mangoes or pickled veralu
Off her laden basket, when she wasn’t looking.
Neither did he notice
How the occasional scoop of achcharu she offered
Turned into packets of rice, then old clothes,
Then one day, an invitation to her home.
She still sells achcharu
By that very same street;
Alone in the morning,
But a little companion
Clad in a white shirt and faded blue shorts
Joins her every evening.
Lead me to the horizon where hell meets heaven,
To the paradise isle of fanciful romantics
Where honeysuckles blossom and wither in plenty;
Drown me in ephemeral oaths and contrived caresses
Till my gossamer wings dissolve in the morning dew.
When the delusion dwindles
And the remnants of our tainted glass sculptures pierce my heart,
Lay strings of forget-me-nots around my gravestone,
And kiss the daisies by my oasis ever so softly.
The aroma of black coffee on a lazy rainy morn
Wrapped in blankets; jasmines on her tangled braids
As she leans down, leaving a shy kiss on my brow
Fixing the crumpled pleats on her maroon-gold saree.
Her energetic chatter rises with the sun;
“What do you love more; me or my dosai?”
She laughs, threatening to poke me with
Fingertips ladden with red henna and green coconut chutney.
Eves at the kovil, sindoor on her golden brow,
Marigolds in hues as vibrant as her blessed soul;
Exotic chants and bells and fumes of incense
To bring out the goddess in my woman.
The sun rises still over the hills of her isle,
Though it holds not for me the joys of my youth
But the beloved agony of reminiscence;
Oh, how I miss my island bride.
On a forgotten alley in my hometown
Scattered with abandoned dreams of the forlorn,
I caught a glimpse of a familiar figure
That I once dreaded and despiced with all my might.
Its eyes, that once raged hot with fire,
Have burnt out, leaving behind ashes and charcoal
And a fading trail of smoke.
Those beastly arms that locked around my body
In an inescapable grasp, when I was a weakling,
Have wasted away into papery skin
Wrapped around its misshapen skeleton.
In its feeble state, knowing it could own me no more,
Its disdainful glare turned fearful, then apologetic;
Staring right into its demonic eyes,
I snapped its loathsome neck in two.
As I walked away from its carcass,
I could feel, stronger than ever,
The rage in my eyes and the strength in my arms
And the sheer power vested in me
By the vast, unapologetic universe.
Placed amidst the frolicking waves of a serene blue ocean,
The land I once loved used to shine bright and proud.
Adorned with lush forests and rippling creeks
And a millennium’s worth of brilliantly fearless humans;
My land was where heaven intertwined itself
With alluring earthly terrains.
I surf through wave after wave of painful memories
Trying to find the origin of the downfall of my paradise.
Thousands of years of jubilant history
Demolished by the mock decency veiling repugnant idiocy.
Now I hold onto my keys and pray to all gods
As I walk the same streets where
My ancestors used to roam free.
Everything I eat is poisoned.
Everywhere I look is sabotaged.
I slash my ballot sheets with ruthless lines
Because how do I decide; which bastard shall I choose
To rape my mother this time?
I see the ignorance in my people’s eyes.
I feel the pain in their deterioriating bodies.
Where the trees once kissed the skies
Now stand towering columns spitting out toxic fumes.
To lament or not to lament?
The land I once loved is now barren.
Someday, when I’m gone,
Write on my tombstone,
Not of my accomplishments, my mistakes and failures;
But of the things I loved.
Write about my dog, my friends,
And the love of my life;
The worn out dresses and the slowest of bike rides.
Write about the days spent on hilltops and roadsides,
And days spent in pj’s with messy hair and rom-coms.
Write about the hours geeking over a sum
And the playful days laughing under the sun.
Write, not in gold, but in sparkling mauve cursives,
“Lies here a girl who fell in love with love.”