Well, I sorta figured with the help of friends that I write on Shiva and then few other things. So this is a series on Shiva. I have always been completely in love with Shiva, his blue skin.
These poems are not neccesarily about Shiva but are prayers to Shiva, and sometimes they work as both.
1.
Shiva,
your skin is the colour of night
when lovers meet, after a long absence,
more ink than black.
Your eyes are the colour of a poet’s cup
of coffee,
more black than brown.
Your voice is heavy ash
balanced on a cigarette’s edge
more grey than black.
At times, the sound of anklets
makes me search serpentine streets
for the glint of your nose-stud.
I’ve lingered in the flower
markets for days trying to find
the smell of your hair, your thick dreads.
Shiva, today, I’ll lick coconut
chutney from my fingers
and taste your skin.
2.
Well,
poor Shiva is blue with penis envy,
holding his breath,
willing his blood to rush there
so he won’t blush
when he sees you in Kailasa, my love.
3.
Shiva,
I’ve got a favour to ask
of you.
So, here goes.
I want to swallow
thoughts through my skin
so they would just sweat
themselves into words
because this need for men
that I love or love me
is tiring
and paper is never handy
which always makes me forget
the sliding tongues
and kneading knuckles
that I want to translate
into words.
I’m willing to sign
a contract Shiva
for you to allow
this to happen.
This way I won’t be
able to break your heart.
But for the favour,
we have to fuck.
Because then there will be
words dripping from me,
heavy breathing will make
your back a car-window
and scratching fingers will write
words on your back,
saliva will scab these words
into Braille.
Now, here’s really the favour,
just shed your skin,
So I can transcribe
it with a pen.
4.
Shiva,
I want a man with skin
like filigreed silver
with grooves and ridges
for me to hold on to
and climb from his
toes to his lips.
Fingers like bamboo reeds
with strength and flexibility
to reach into
my hard to reach places.
Legs like a coconut tree,
thick and a darker shade
at the thighs.
A tongue that is forked
so he can play
with my perineum and glans,
leave me brimming
and thirsty.
Lips that are like
thighs, so he can swallow
me, keep me and send
me out a born-again.
Shiva,
I want a man to love
he should be like
an ocean – large and all-holding,
so even if I drink
him whole, he will still give more.
I want to be his Lakshmi
and sprout from his navel
and know no other place.
I want to be Narashima
and reach into my belly, pull
out my heart and burn
his name on it.
5.
What is poison, Shiva?
Ankets promised
in exchange for love?
Or is it other things?
Shiva whispered,
“It is blue and lives
in my throat,
I am Neelakantha, the blue-throated.”
But poison is footsteps,
purposeful, hands releasing
anklets and turning
out of the front door.
