Joblessly Verseless!

The Interview

I stood fiddle straight

With ironed everythings

The shirt down to my heart

The breasts down to my soul

Stretched in tense conformity

Like a spiraling tower

Of Indian cowherds

Who lifted Krishna

For a taste of destiny

While they mutely played dumb

Before he asked the questions

I had wrinkled back to my foetal self

The heart up to my shirt

The soul up to my breasts

Slackened in rebellion

And zilliords of distant stars

Stretched out their forked tongues at me

Once again two celestial choices

At the Door of The Interview


The hang-between girl

I like to leave my music on

And leave the music and go out

Somewhere along the way,

I drape the sheet and hang

A hammock of it all

A hammock of the tracks

Playing in your Ipod

The other peg, may be resting

Near a lonely child

And I put him on guard

And tell him to ensure

That the hammock comes undone

And I come back again, someday

That someday, I may come back

As a mongrel, a rock or something else

And gather enough to roll out

On my loose long hammock

A writer once told me to switch off the music

The lyrics got in the way of his writing

At work, I had to switch it off

I carried home the pause in the music

To my dying lover of yonder years

Who told me to not understand words

Not let them come in the way of poetry

And I lay back on the couch beside his death

And let the pause seep inside my membranes

When I came back to where he was

He was dying at the other end of my hammock

When my mother looks inside my room

She asks about the mystery of it all

I tell her am the hang between girl

That I live in spaces which decisions

Have not murdered yet

I live where the lovers haven’t

Devoured each other in their kisses

In the little space between their skins

Or, in the little space between the

Two strands of hair, so beautifully

Done up in a bun

I am the hang-between girl

And I lay waiting between

Two waits. I lay living

Between two survivals

I lay singing between two silences.

And I lay dying between the two pegs

Of my loose long hammock.

I am

The                                        H                 between girl





Unpacking a Poem

He laughed in stairs

And I got down on them

Rickety wooden steps

The kind that spirals

The kind I love

I haven’t told you this yet

Or have I?

Going down the stairs

Is the Bluebeard’s wife

Caged anger in her eyes

Did you hear that?

Somebody cut the strings

And believe me, there’s a long way to go

Why is it? Why is it? Why? Why? Why?

That some voices whisper just to me?

The wood flakes fly off

And over there I see mists

And nothing else

And nothing else

Or maybe I missed

A rustic call?

And sure enough,

The boatman stands two steps behind

Asking me if he’d tie the boat there

Would he, love?

Is it here, that we lie stranded

Making silent screams

And hurried love?

He asks me again

And I hear you laughing in stairs

This time you hurry

You jump some, miss some

Teasing me in stilettos

Now, the edges become sharp

How far have you gone inside me?

What is it like there?

Is it the romantic quicksand I imagine?

If you’re in that murk

You’re still laughing in stairs

And I’ll die leaking your laughter.


Howling at the moon

On a pregnant night

When moans seep through my closed walls

I toss and turn in my begging bowl

And my bed springs screech of loneliness

And you, my loyal betrayer

Left me too much love to handle

Too soon, too soon, you imbecile

Having your last laugh in hell fire


1002 Nights 

It didn’t stop there

My Xeroxed lung

Carried me around in a rug sack

The shady shackle on the beach

Which no one raids

Except mistaken amour

The heroin party reject

Breaks down a medicine shop in black

With odd-fitting abuses

That winter night

When her bra-strap

Dug a little too hard

The disco-ball glared

At clear smelling drug

She said ‘I do’

To a high Huxley


The Tongue

As a child I remember

Trying out the tastes

Of assorted terribleness

Sometimes, I tasted my father’s

Work torn soul

Sometimes, my tongue slithered into

My mother’s monotony

And most often

I had a meal

By licking off the salt

On my wounds



Full Marks – 100. Time – 4 hours.

It was over. Once and for all.

The last chance to make it or leave it.

4 last hours. 4X60 minutes. 4X60X60 seconds.

The last sigh. The last train. The last grip.

Part I – Answer all questions. Each question carries 1 mark(s)

It had started with questions.Head full of them.A no-brainer really.

The sunset beach and the hushed promises.

Seemingly objective questions – When? How? Where? Why?

I searched for definitions instead of words.

On the way of losing the game.

Part II – Answer any five. Marks will be deducted for dirty work and wrong question numbers.

Narrower focus. I had zoomed out of the picture.

Dwindling questions. Weightier questions. Escaping time. Escaping reason.

My watch ran slower by the speeding minutes.

Part III – Answer any two. 10 marks each. A warning bell will be rung five minutes before the time of completion.

More. More. More.

Intense by emotion. Slackened by reason.

Alas, I am no Hamlet.


To finality

To absolute

To decorum

To deities 


  1. January 31, 2012 at 11:30 am

    carry on! nice work! 🙂

  2. Uma S
    February 4, 2012 at 1:29 pm

    And if both the survivals suddenly cease to be, one day, if both the silences are broken, if both the pegs decides to come off … have you thought about that moment ? Would you still be ideating your way, in your foolish belief, that to remain hanging is the most happening thing ?

    • February 4, 2012 at 2:53 pm

      I don’t think keeping hanging is the most happening thing. It is what I compulsively do. We do, infact. There are no absolutes Uma. The ‘silences’, the ‘hammock’ are inklings of the larger scheme. We’re all on a journey, we hang, though we do not know. I really am grateful to you for challenging the poetry. Keep coming back.

      Yours Joblessly,
      The Jobless Ideator

  3. anupamseth
    February 8, 2012 at 5:07 am

    good to see you back in action…like your thoughts…
    keep writing and thrilling…and ideating…

    • February 8, 2012 at 6:32 am

      Good to see you here too! I hope I do keep writing 🙂

      Yours Joblessly,
      The Jobless Ideator

  4. Anonymous
    February 17, 2012 at 3:40 pm

    In “Unpacking a Poem”, the last stanza meant to me as though the lover-persona has been left behind like an unfinished werewolf. I am not reading the poem so well, but I like it. In “The Interview” I think you a “t” is missing in the line “wrinkled back o my foetal self”. Perhaps I am reading that wrong as well. Very good wishes. Keep writing.

    • February 17, 2012 at 4:01 pm

      The ‘t’ is missing.Unpardonable typo. Thanks for dropping by 🙂

      Yours Joblessly,
      The Jobless Ideator

    • February 17, 2012 at 4:05 pm

      The last stanza (after the dotted line) is a separate untitled poem. Thanks 🙂

  5. sinjini
    March 6, 2012 at 6:00 pm

    Instructions made an interesting read. Am not sure about the verse form though. “To deities” is what leaves me baffled.

  6. March 7, 2012 at 7:44 am

    I never disentangle bafflement. I do not subscribe to ‘explaining’ any form of art. It kills it. Keep turning it in your head and some meaning will evolve. As for form, I do not believe in it either. Makes poetry sound like a catalog. This may disappoint you in the lack of erudition. But it’s just how I am. Thanks for reading 🙂

  7. sinjini
    March 7, 2012 at 7:53 am

    What an angry poet you are ! 🙂
    I like this arrogance, i do like it. 🙂

  8. March 7, 2012 at 8:32 am

    Anger, no. Firm, yes.
    But if you like the former, you can take it. Anything for readers 🙂

    Sreemanti Sengupta

  9. April 4, 2012 at 5:33 pm

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  11. June 22, 2012 at 11:39 am

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  12. June 23, 2012 at 11:28 pm

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