tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35591940096735897022024-03-13T13:29:09.839-07:00Memorise My NumberThis is my first collection of poems.Anoopa Anandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05759701509118238083noreply@blogger.comBlogger32125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3559194009673589702.post-73278730027686062062007-10-31T03:11:00.003-07:002007-10-31T03:11:42.543-07:00Author’s note<strong>The cynic and the happy fool</strong><br /><br />Words inspire words, inspire words. And somewhere in this circuitous route that strives to take us back to where it all began, we tend to lose one of two things. The words may lie in corners preferring to fade into the two dimensional humility of pages. Or inspiration- that prodigal son- sucks the agony and the ecstasy out of us, to leave us with nothing, to return with nothing.<br /><br />It is for the happy fool and not the cynic to take a trip to the museum. For the fool will wonder and marvel at every crack and chip in every artifice, worship every layer of dirt and come away speechless at perfection. But the cynic will shake his head over imagined flaws, grumble at destructive missiles darting about in their school uniforms, glare at glass panels, and come away nodding in agreement with his own dusty ideology. <br /><br />Sometimes it takes but an afternoon of introspection and a flash of humour from the calm eye of a brown dog to discover the happy fool, masquerading in the suit and polished shoes of the cynic.<br /><br />This is the story of a girl who, much like her words, preferred to hide in the stale shadows of corners. The curious concentrics of time shifted often, like quirky sands. From joy to sorrow, from success to failure, from love to its shattered remains. From trust to mistrust. From innocence to betrayal to cynicism to sense, and back again. Much like every other concentric of time in every other life. <br /><br /><br />In realisation of this simple fact, I present, Memorise my number. And I have only the flashes of humour from the brown dog to thank.Anoopa Anandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05759701509118238083noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3559194009673589702.post-81224301322109820552007-10-31T03:11:00.001-07:002007-10-31T03:11:13.117-07:00The cynic.Anoopa Anandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05759701509118238083noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3559194009673589702.post-74545781671687034092007-10-31T03:10:00.002-07:002007-10-31T03:11:01.615-07:00The girl in the cubicleToday, you have been cancelled.<br />There are three blackheads on your nose<br />your nail polish can't tell<br />your fingers from your toes,<br />your hair is having a bad root day.<br />Your sweater is very old<br />your fingertips, too cold<br />the irony on your lips<br />incredibly stupidly bold.<br /><br />But mostly there is nothing in your eyes.Anoopa Anandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05759701509118238083noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3559194009673589702.post-68792083245927262862007-10-31T03:10:00.001-07:002007-10-31T03:10:45.455-07:00Three handsI wish this was a painting-<br />I could have changed things around.<br />His head on your shoulders,<br />your method to his madness,<br />his angst on your unfurrowed brow,<br />your logic on his lack-thereof.<br /><br />But real life is no Renoir-<br />and this, an impossible menage-a-trois.<br /><br /> <br />So these colour images are faded.<br />Here lies the sepia and grey<br />of a lifetime of dreams:<br />my truth, your cloak, his dagger, my heart.<br />Our unfinished masterpiece.Anoopa Anandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05759701509118238083noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3559194009673589702.post-62416283585554522272007-10-31T03:09:00.002-07:002007-10-31T03:10:28.923-07:00How to write love poetry when not in love (OR) 9 o' clock blues9 o'clock in the morning-<br />The traffic lights and speed breakers<br />are making love to vehicular smoke,<br />one little schoolboy wails piteously like a siren<br />at his academic plight,<br />the cows practice their fly-swotting,<br />raging hormones make their way <br />through college gates.<br /><br />9 o'clock in the morning-<br />Blue suits are already growling into their cell phones,<br />buses are already running late,<br />my day and I have already started out on the wrong foot<br />without you.Anoopa Anandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05759701509118238083noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3559194009673589702.post-79210478501670692252007-10-31T03:09:00.001-07:002007-10-31T03:09:47.292-07:00The residueMortified.<br />Amused.<br />Supremely uninspired.<br /><br />You make my poetry as cliched<br />as the impression you left on me.Anoopa Anandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05759701509118238083noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3559194009673589702.post-91731478457528535792007-10-31T03:08:00.004-07:002007-10-31T03:09:16.024-07:00I hang on to the memory of your shoulder6<br />I hang on to the memory of your shoulder.<br />Each morning, the shadow of your beard,<br />like breakfast in bed,<br />sits abandoned by my sanity,<br />and all the books on the shelves<br />grow cold.<br /><br />5<br />I hold hands<br />in a single moment of sepia,<br />cheek to cheek<br />with your frank declaration<br />of things I should have heard.<br /><br />4<br />I play footsie<br />with boots too big<br />for your logic and<br />my penchant for sucker heroes.<br /><br />3<br />I kiss the face<br />of reflection too young<br />to be so old.<br /><br />2<br />I fall asleep in the heady warmth<br />of a nightmare you left behind.<br /><br />1<br />I hang on to the memory of your shoulder.Anoopa Anandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05759701509118238083noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3559194009673589702.post-3845247940360367612007-10-31T03:08:00.003-07:002007-10-31T03:08:55.126-07:00What I amI am the moment before the news breaks.<br />The moment immediately after<br />the last man gets the joke.<br /><br />Too early for astonishment,<br />too late for confirmation of understanding.<br />Maybe it’s the atheists’ purgatory.<br />Any purgatory will do,<br />except<br />I don’t know what needs to be purged.<br /><br />I’d like to think it’s my wet purple socks.<br />Too damp within, too cold without,<br />and no shoes is good shoes.<br />Tomorrow, I will be on sick leave.<br /><br />I am the misfortune that favours a genius.<br />The affluence of those<br />who never learnt to discern it.<br /><br />A rupee short of a cigarette,<br />a bank of unspoken baloney.<br />Maybe it’s middle class morality.<br />Any morality will do,<br />except<br />I don’t care for it.<br /><br />I’d like to think it’s my quick wit.<br />Too backward for dignitaries, too evolved for dates,<br />and no booze is good booze.<br />Tomorrow, I will be quiet.Anoopa Anandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05759701509118238083noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3559194009673589702.post-75190273704092492812007-10-31T03:08:00.001-07:002007-10-31T03:08:19.278-07:00What poetry?The kind that stops short of a sonnet<br /><br />just because I left no mark<br />on you or Petrarch?<br /><br />The kind that breathes deep<br /><br />then runs into pages<br />because I haven’t seen you for ages?<br /><br />The kind that practices scales<br /><br />and renders a chorus<br />because it’s lonely and amorous?<br /><br />Or the kind that pulls out a Kleenex<br /><br />and blows its nose<br />as another couplet comes to a close?Anoopa Anandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05759701509118238083noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3559194009673589702.post-83812924115214621092007-10-31T03:07:00.005-07:002007-10-31T03:07:59.939-07:00The transition, part one.Anoopa Anandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05759701509118238083noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3559194009673589702.post-91400935424062896772007-10-31T03:07:00.003-07:002007-10-31T03:07:48.554-07:00She walks inShe walks in.<br /><br />The sun has curled up like a cat, by the sea.<br />The man on the moon is hanging by a crescent.<br /><br />Leaving her working blues at the door,<br />she hangs up her let-downs<br /><br />She walks in.<br /><br />The cat has sunken roundly from the tin roof.<br />The man and the moon have climbed the stairs.<br /><br />The blues leave her to find work,<br />the kettle whimpers, she hangs around.Anoopa Anandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05759701509118238083noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3559194009673589702.post-29077874206923079422007-10-31T03:07:00.001-07:002007-10-31T03:07:31.716-07:00Joan Never-Been-KissedShe is so delectable,<br />you could write a recipe book<br />on her lips alone.<br /><br />I am so deplorable,<br />you should write a self-help book<br />for my kisses alone.Anoopa Anandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05759701509118238083noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3559194009673589702.post-57856990418763488382007-10-31T03:06:00.006-07:002007-10-31T03:07:14.641-07:00Bus No. 13DTomorrow appears<br />dullish grey.<br />A bit like<br />week-old chicken soup,<br />yesterday's news,<br />corporate dinners.<br /><br />Today appears<br />pop-eyed.<br />A bit like<br />the fish on the line,<br />your old English professor,<br />an expensive pug.<br /><br />Will you wait awhile<br />or become<br />dullish grey and pop-eyed<br />at the busstop?Anoopa Anandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05759701509118238083noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3559194009673589702.post-19729556159770261732007-10-31T03:06:00.005-07:002007-10-31T03:06:54.843-07:00Pencil in the jugular? It can't be suicide.This poem<br />made it through<br />three revisions,<br />four stanzas,<br />and five minutes<br />of deep thought and toil.<br /><br />Her friend was not so lucky-<br />it was a case of bad blood<br />and too much water under a ruined bridge.Anoopa Anandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05759701509118238083noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3559194009673589702.post-57662463887541356162007-10-31T03:06:00.003-07:002007-10-31T03:06:37.858-07:00BrochureAbout <br />When in a public place,<br />I often pretend<br />to be sketching someone.<br /><br />Clientele<br />He will walk up to me,<br />ask me if I draw.<br />I'll tell him I don't, you see.<br /><br />Objective<br />We would have had<br />our pointless conversation<br />in the beginning instead of the end.<br /><br />Contact Us<br />He will walk away, baffled.<br />Four hours, five fake sketches later,<br />he will endeavour to memorize my number.Anoopa Anandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05759701509118238083noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3559194009673589702.post-39056065770924279282007-10-31T03:06:00.001-07:002007-10-31T03:06:21.069-07:00What big teeth you have!When you mock me,<br />your eyes dance like<br />leopards over sheepskin,<br />and I feel like last season's wool<br />trying to dredge up a new sweater,<br />and I feel almost convinced<br />that I can do better.<br /><br />Only not.Anoopa Anandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05759701509118238083noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3559194009673589702.post-29485543938718324492007-10-31T03:05:00.005-07:002007-10-31T03:05:54.528-07:00Tonight, she sleepsTomorrow<br />poetry will bleed from trees,<br />leak from ruins,<br />ooze from dead earth.<br /><br />Tomorrow<br />poetry will reek of spontaneously combusted crows,<br />smell of yesterday's suicide note,<br />strike up a conversation with the dead cat.<br /><br />Tomorrow<br />poetry will sigh pathetically,<br />and sweep silence gently away,<br />along with ellipses of no promise…Anoopa Anandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05759701509118238083noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3559194009673589702.post-65739163784349173612007-10-31T03:05:00.003-07:002007-10-31T03:05:32.067-07:00The transition, part two.Anoopa Anandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05759701509118238083noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3559194009673589702.post-46985659392483111282007-10-31T03:05:00.001-07:002007-10-31T03:05:17.069-07:00The Word Slaying LadyAlways<br />in the evening,<br />when I have beaten words to death<br />and there is incriminating ink<br />on my fingers,<br />I come out into the garden.<br /><br />The birds cry all the way home<br />with news about the Word Slaying Lady.<br />The trees whisper to each other<br />about what the highest branch saw.<br />The grass sighs softly<br />wishing it was on the other side.<br /><br />Someday,<br />I will be long dead,<br />my bones carefully toasted<br />over a hot fire,<br />my soul wandering aimlessly in search<br />of pen, ink and for God’s sake,<br />some fingers, please.<br /><br />Outside,<br />the birds cry all the way home<br />telling fledgling-stories of the Word Slaying Lady.<br />The trees will admonish saplings<br />for standing on their toes to get a peek.<br />The grass will tell their seed<br />that this side is far better, because<br /><br />inside,<br />a little girl furiously scratches<br />on yellow paper,<br />with inky black pen,<br />the mortal remains<br />of the Word Slaying Lady.Anoopa Anandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05759701509118238083noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3559194009673589702.post-75816361643832378682007-10-31T03:04:00.003-07:002007-10-31T03:04:56.328-07:00Poem over lunchI take myself seriously.<br />Every morning, I wake up and take a big fat shower,<br />and I do this every morning religiously.<br /><br />I take myself seriously.<br />I can be a lot of funny, with a lot of everybody<br />But an insult brings out my worst best mysteriously.<br /><br />I take myself seriously.<br />On Sundays, national holidays and bad hair days<br />and especially when the sun is behaving shiningly.<br /><br />I take myself seriously<br />While I smirk over a pint and watch you<br />take to a taco and all the belles, so seriously.Anoopa Anandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05759701509118238083noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3559194009673589702.post-76296703325701031472007-10-31T03:04:00.001-07:002007-10-31T03:04:36.909-07:00The random validatorI am the random validator.<br />When the teapot complains<br />about being short and stout,<br />I rub her rotund back<br />and tell her thin is out.<br /><br />I am the random validator.<br />Each afternoon, when the crow weeps<br />for better hair and a baritone,<br />I remind him of the Bee Gees, <br />and a certain Rolling Stone.<br /><br />I am the random validator.<br />The sidewalk made a snide remark<br />about wanting center stage.<br />I pointed out Colaba;<br />now its poise has come of age.<br /><br />I am the random validator.<br />If I ever ask you<br />for a pat on the back,<br />remember my random ways:<br />cut me some slack.Anoopa Anandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05759701509118238083noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3559194009673589702.post-39212493002340686772007-10-31T03:03:00.000-07:002007-10-31T03:04:16.301-07:00Thoughts of whisky on a TuesdayOn the first day of this mess,<br />I gave up, among other things,<br />chicken kebabs, whisky<br />and the Times of India.<br /><br />I would tell you, among other things,<br />that you inspire me,<br />sepia is your colour,<br />and we should drink whisky together sometime.<br /><br />But I gave that up.Anoopa Anandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05759701509118238083noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3559194009673589702.post-39591032008010107402007-10-31T03:01:00.001-07:002007-10-31T03:01:20.714-07:00Coo-coo-ca-chooI want to wake up one day and find<br />the whisky and the words.<br />Before it's too late.<br /><br />Before punctuations are thrown in prison<br />for misdemeanor and rioting.<br /><br />Before September steals August's thunder<br />lightning, rain and the smell of wet mud.<br /><br />Before the oceans eat us all up<br />as we brisk-walk away another Sunday morning.<br /><br />Before you become preoccupied with<br />male pattern balding,<br />and I acquire a taste for young boys<br />and red lipstick.Anoopa Anandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05759701509118238083noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3559194009673589702.post-76330048566474401982007-10-31T03:00:00.002-07:002007-10-31T03:01:00.943-07:00Anniversary aperitifMy Monday morning muse<br />has not washed his face.<br />The milk has gone sour to his whining,<br />and I don’t believe there are any<br />eggs.<br /><br />I have often gazed at his shoulder,<br />the furrow on his brow, his <br />sophisticated jaw line… but today, <br />I heard him fret over the shape of his<br />legs.<br /><br />In the shower, he whistled soap bubbles<br />and in his head, he shampooed a symphony,.<br />But his baritone yoddled off into a <br />high soprano, as I screamed, “Oh no! Oh please! <br />I begs!”<br /><br />And then my Monday morning muse<br />slipped into garters and high-heeled shoes.<br />His dramatic swaying exit was <br />preceded by the downing of four hurried<br />pegs.<br /><br />_<br /><br />A year gone by, now my Monday muse<br />is the alcoholic wench who I watch<br />slink into my neighbour’s ink<br />before I slip down to the pub myself and help empty the<br />kegs.Anoopa Anandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05759701509118238083noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3559194009673589702.post-74515382652536145102007-10-31T03:00:00.001-07:002007-10-31T03:00:38.953-07:00Last yearTwo thousand poems died of loneliness,<br />cold and wet at the bus stop,<br />unable to find a rhyme for themselves,<br />tripped on poetical outcrop.<br /><br />Five hundred and seventy were hit and run over<br />by drunkenly-driving coffee cups,<br />three hundred-odd asphyxiated<br />on inexcusable grammatical hiccups.<br /><br />Two hundred and ten little poems<br />were the runts of rhyming triplets.<br />They died and left their siblings-<br />two hundred and ten little couplets.<br /><br />Seventy-five died of opium,<br />twenty-one of spurious ink,<br />eight died of handmade paper,<br />one of an overdose of pink.Anoopa Anandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05759701509118238083noreply@blogger.com0