Rony Nair’

Intolerance-Incomplete

there were trains that went to Pakistan;

before it became this generations’ war cry.

when they found themselves entombed by a fear that hadn’t a name,

like love, and its paradoxes.

 

We gave fear a motive, a drawer peephole, a straitjacket to explore.

as we turned around the bends and tried to draw up cheat sheets and indicants.

We gave fear a measure in lynch ratios and slabs of frozen mutton.

We gave fear a score. In a medieval court.

 

Barometers sound off roofs as movie stars’ cacophonies.

Wet dreams from surrogate mothers and love child stand forgotten

in escape; from delinquent

farce.

Where misty eyes burn down from sacrificial pyres,

while men who needed to speak

forgot their tongues.

 

50 steps to the Railway Cross

Cast out

of the apartment.

Together,

that we helped set.

Friends and fathers;

Question time.

 

Of Cancer cells eating away.

Yours and mine,


Borrowed time
.

 

We rolled mattresses up lifts that day.

a grimy table,

A spring bed on the floor.

Rickety.

New.

 

The floor

was still in undress.

Unmade.

Duress.

 

Hurried lunches

from takeaway bins later.

It was time

To be thrown to the rains.

 

Spat out by that old car,

Driven by the woman friend.

next to that school ground

that’s seen it all.

 

the old wheel seller was hard at it

The lanes filling up.

Mucous,

Water,

Friction.

Static.

Dulcet.

 

Splashes.

Of Our faces looking back,

Puddles,

Those litterbugs of silence.

Always drawing comment

When it’s you; when it’s me.

 

In selective memory

I divide that moment into bite size chunks.

In strange plays of words.

In hands that grazed and stayed.

In memories that I beg to tweak,

To change;

I remember that I ran away as always.

Hitching a ride.

You’re still under the awning.

Alone

 

Use and Throw

there’s always the wait,

in connections,

that have turned away.

Redundant,

in a global age.

where you’re drawn closer,

and then spat out.

 

like the gutter.

the vomit.

a guilty pleasure;

to use.

And throw.

 

it is always the one who discards,

who is loved.

 

Pits

does your armpit still drip

towards the right;

like a faucet in retreat?

 

where the eyes alight

half mooned;

in their questions?

 

does the sweat still patch

the confusions within?

as the furrows brow deeper

and the vain airs try

to breathe?

 

do the nostrils still flare

as the right arm grabs

and bites out the last wisps

of my breath?

 

And then your eyes filled with tears when

It was time to don,

Each other’s sweat.

 

Holograms

In your town I search,
without seeking visitations’,
of the divine.

Not for me the corpus of maudlin and hymen.
or scores lost in meandering intent.
there’s you somewhere,
in the oxygen that I breathe.
Somewhere in the hairclips that tie disparate strands
in airy weaves and raised flags,
In long ago defeat.

somewhere in the roaming of the mind
around the bends in the head,
somewhere in the rusted edges of your contempt are shrugs which begin from eyes that have already reshaped history;
Entwined it in cobwebs of stretched out half-shreds,
shrapnel bursts from long ago.

 

Rony Nair’s been a worshipper at the altar of prose and poetry for almost as long as he could think. They have been the shadows of his life. (They’ve been) the bedsit at the end of a long day; the repository that does the sound of silence inimitably well. Not unlike a pet; but with one core difference- the books do suggest, educate and weave a texture that marginally provides streams of thought that are new. And one of the biggest pleasures of his life, is certainly holding a treasured edition in one’s hands. Physically.Rony works as an oil and gas Risk Management consultant. He’s been 20 years in the industry since starting off as an Industrial engineer a long time ago. Extensively traveled. Dangers fronted often. But that’s his day job. The one that pays for bread and bills.Rony was a published columnist with the Indian Express. He is also a professional photographer about to hold his first major exhibition and has previously been published by Sonic Boom, Quail Bell Magazine, YGDRASIL journal, Mindless Muse, Yellow Chair Review, Two Words For, Ogazine, New Asian Writing (NAW), Semaphore, The Economic Times, 1947, The Foliate Oak Magazine, Open Road Magazine, Tipton Review, Antarctica Journal, North East Review, Muse India, and YES magazine, among others. Rony has also featured in the Economic Times of India. He cites V.S Naipaul, A.J Cronin, Patrick Hamilton, Alan Sillitoe, John Braine and Nevil Shute in addition to FS Fitzgerald as influences on his life; and Philip Larkin, Dom Moraes and Ted Hughes as his personal poetry idols. Larkin’s’ collected poems would be the one book he would like to die with. When the poems perish. As do the thoughts!