The First Rains (1995)

The first rains of the monsoon have burst overhead,
Filling the evening air with cosy countenance;
The streets awashed with reflective glows and threads
Of fairylights aroar with colour at the mall entrance.
People hustling with shopping bags into taxi queues,
Forming perfect rows of silent pews.

The chiselled cityscape and hooting cars beckon me
Explore the festive revelry which mocks my solitude
Passing couples in hands and awkwardly see
What I miss out on while Cupid stays mute.
I gather my thoughts to warm my heaving heart
Knowing what comes to naught as hope falls apart
I choke silently, my voice stuck as such
Against the notion that Love’s at large…

No soul should have to bear the brunt of life alone!
No heart should be rent from ever having known
Healing consolation which cherished friends afford;
Nothing as warm as love given not affection bought.
Then startled, suddenly with a thought;
(I walk on) but it’s you, I realise, that I sought.
Yes, to love, affect, embrace and caught
To create some scheme to lure and have wrought
From idea to opportunity my soul thirsts
Of unquenchable desire, released just as heaven burst
Reigns, neighs, unbridled rain, nay no worse.

Who would silence all cars, break bottles by case and casks!
Hear the whisper, now a storm, which urges on
Wreak the senses from solace to solitude’s sullen mask;
To feel the aching pain of one forlorn,
To trim the fear and not hesitate.
Should I call, no, later, or wait?
Lose another moment once lit by hope,
That you might be, too, alone, in bed
Longing the same, while cuffed in the silken envelope
Expecting my call, and tempt fate.
How I now wish to kiss you and erase
Pain of missing you, anoint with caresses your face
That we might be grace to bless that inconsolate bed:
From emptiess to lottery and life, create
Prized beatitudes to realise are worth the wait!

What a joy it would be to awake, turnaround, and feel you tight,
A cluster of the earth’s finest roses in your huddled form,
Perfume in the morning light, smooth stems with thorns shorn –
Your skin like washed sand, after the storm.
What a joy it would be to awake, reality, derived from this vision,
Of sleeping with an Angel, banish bland reason
And find the senses, sweet from the Four Seasons
To be unearthed and tossed tumultuously like incense
Filling out time and space its drowsy shroud
Wherein I see you lift and whirl about
Like the phantom dream, love is, dismissed into the hollow crowd.


Thursday, 9 November 1995
2245 hrs
Shopping and then slipping back into the Four Seasons, to awake and find the other left had left already for the day. I drove a Ford Laser 1.6L then, and for official business entertainment, would have a black Audi A4 to use. Quite a fine life, then. I think there is something about mobility with a car that makes up for the emptiness that follows a good night without breakfast in bed…