Monday, October 6, 2008


today i'll pen the happiest words
as raindrops conspire
to conjure a rainbow
cats stalk orphan vanity
up Cleopatra's nose
i'm alive

Monday, September 8, 2008


Winter segues into spring
French woman comes visiting
Madame Bougainvillea

Wednesday, August 6, 2008


a hill is razed
the unseen takes form
it's the mind that exults

Saturday, July 12, 2008


that strange


indifference of

unhappy savages

Friday, April 18, 2008


Undivided Family

I feel an orphan

A family is forming itself, alien
Not group, gang, junta, cabal; but
Family, pure and simple, lovely,
Sweet, gooey, nice, fragrant, soft, coo

I feel an orphan

I'm not rebel, loner, eccentric, strange
mad, furious, angry, young; and yes
mom and dad, both are alive, yet
a family is forming itself, alien

I feel an orphan

Soon the juniors will be here
Little feet pattering, on the
Corridors, some will be adopted
This family will have kids

I feel an orphan

These guys are evolution, even as
JNUSU is vanilla and orchids upon them
I wait for Angelina Jolie, to place
Her palm beneath my chin, kind eyes.

I'll call her mama



Monday, March 31, 2008



come and see the shit in the streets
come and see the shit in the streets
come and see the shit in the streets

Monday, March 24, 2008

states of matter (for Scarlett Keeling)


Don't go gentle into that good sea

Inside the chapel
A shark awaits baptism


No oceans in transoxiana
but your eyes tell me
what tides have ebbed

sunset and sunrise
asleep, like lovers
in a grain of sand

©Umar trivandrum

Thursday, March 20, 2008




Rasa should fill the poet
like wine does a pot
unless pot with wine is brimming
the poet is but wasting ink.

Sometimes the poet is a broken pitcher
watering, till it leaks from the cracks,
taking a break once in a while
passing piss and something else.

©umar trivandrum

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

Burying Faustus

Satan's morgue
Solar mustard
Love's chamber
Bitch Helen.

Surrender Mist
Prophet's snow
Republic of lust
Grammar of gain.

Sunday morn
water colour
River desert
Hitchcok mom.

You forgot
Thine apple
Search and rescue,
Antique Adam.

Million stars
Ravish Joyce
Even as termites venerate
Venereal Earth.

Jesus wept.

©Umar trivandrum


Mother is alive
Yesterday or today ,
I don't remember

©Umar trivandrum

mind of the m(h)arried man

I have a nightmare…
I’m at the sink, washing dishes. In the oven something’s cooking. It’s an east meets west kind of recipe concocted by His Holiness our mystic Baba, I’ve been told. The second batch is in the oven now. Four of them, gooseberries steeped in honey and cooked in wine, sit cute in sauce. The recipe is meant for the monsoon, and confidential. It’s raining outside and I’m in the kitchen, doing a bit of cooking as ususal.
I wait for Babli, my partner now.
She works in some BPO, KPO or LPO God knows what….I feel hungry, the rain motivating the metabolism, I’m not alone. A chilly wind is blowing. It doesn’t feel great to be outdoors, waiting.
I’m back at the sink, washing the dishes. How many times have I asked Babli to buy me a dish washer. If these walls had ears, they might have heard me, but not she. One day when she finally took me to the showroom demo, the models were all too expensive. I really liked the big machine which sang `My friend stole my sweetheart, as we played the Tennessee waltz’ as it cleaned and warmed the plates.’
I wait for Babli.
She’s always busy in her cubicle; tap, tap, tapping away. I even tried going there once. But the security wallah (he is only a glorified chowkidar, with his wireless and all. They’ll be giving laptops to sweepers next) told me to wait outside and then brought me this dal vada and tea. The snack was good. These new age chowkidars can cook!
I put on a raincoat and take the dishes outside, one by one, to wash them in the rain. The rain strikes up a fragile rhythm on the china. A pool of muck forms on the ground below, which I skirt each time, going inside. The plates are stacked up by the sink. The tap is still running. The kitchen floor is dank and I will have to mop it now.
I take the Babaji’s recipe, scribbled on an A4 sheet, fold it in four, half fold the sides, cup it, flatten it and then draw it slightly apart to make a boat, which I float in the rain. The muck is blue now, a sort of ocean. She’ll love it if she comes in now. It’s getting dark.
I wait for Babli.
I feel like a hot bath. In the bath, a thunderbolt starts me. The water is hot and scented. I drink a bit of it. I like it. Then a spider, spinning its thread falls inside my bathtub. I don’t like spiders. Babli calls it phobia or labia or something. I step outside and carefully drain the water. Babli has pasted this big poster of a spider’s web over our bed. She calls it our matrimonial web. I personally don’t like matrimonials at all. Fair Telugu girl, MNC job, alliances invited. If she is so fair and has this job, then why should they advertise. Boys will be queuing up outside the
I too feel like a spider, awaiting its mate …I wait for Babli.
I try to read the Sidney Sheldon novel Babli bought me yesterday. I ask her for a dish washer and she buys me this. What am I going to be, reading all this stupid stuff? A professor? She says it’ll improve my English. I’ve seen Basic Instinct 20 times. Really liked that Sharon Rock.
In the kitchen, I find Babli. She is sniffing the dish. I’ve a rare spark. I’m Adam, and out of my rib is she made. There she is, Eve, offering me the fruit, the kitchen our Eden. But she won’t play.
I sorely miss the snake.
Babli is not amused. She doesn’t like it at all. And she is not in need of any mystic Baba food, she tells me. `Sorry, had a party in office boyo. Rahul’s daughter’s birthday.’ My dreams of a deluxe dishwasher go down the drain.
Now she’ll go and start tap, tapping on her laptop
I must join some gymnasium. There is a good one in Munirka, Babu who lives next door told me. They give you nice injections too, to build muscle. My bottom is itching.
Or shall I ask our Baba for a new recipe?
I fall asleep, and my nightmare melts away.

©Umar trivandrum