In those days, you asked me, innocently, ‘why do you love me?’.
I answered with vague things. I spoke about our great, winding conversations, about your eagle’s wings, your sparrow’s heart, about your knife-like fingers, your face that floats as a lotus in water, about how your lap is the lap of the sea and your arms are cradles, and your breasts! your breasts!
You didn’t believe me. ‘why do you love me?’, you asked me, ‘why do you love me so much, with such strength and tenderness, as if without it, your whole world would fall apart? Aren’t there? Aren’t there other women with eagle’s wings? with sparrow’s heart? whose arms are cradles?’, you asked me again and again and again.
my love, may be I should have spoken about your neck that sparks off memories missed.
may be I should have spoken about your hair that smells of lovers dead.
may be I should have just taken your face in my palms, and answered you, once for all, with a deep, deep kiss.
I owe all of my poetry to the influence of Pablo Neruda. Reading him 10 years ago on the beaches of Goa, gave me the permission to be who I am and write what I feel. My poetry has never been the same after that. All that I write is an offering to Neruda.
Look deep my friend and soon you will discover a special assignment for only you The siren song of the bong is strong fuming sacraments to exclusive green parties Tie yourself to the mast deny the hot blast It’s clear-monkeys