Poetry by Rony Nair: Incomplete Typhoons and BCG Matrix-Love Scenes

Incomplete Typhoons

there are breaks in rhymes and pits that are lined
in yesterdays gutter and todays water supply
theres rainwater angst and crocodile tears shed
when every woman is all pink inside
there are ozone layers and seamless splits
and canonisations of the town wit
where arches are built in round furlong heads and you and me
fuck head to head

the stormwater drains burst row upon row
the refuse piles heap the local charlatans store
the rainwater’s angst now streams down your face
as you urinate and pray
for divine grace
the pinkness of it all spews its own death wits
as mendicants in far city seek redemption in packaged,
aid drips

you walk in and give your half a day lug
your spiel on the country and the hope it spews
where somehwere along the lines
of chequered flags
standing in for people
you forsake the truth. for the safe lined good causes.

waterholes still drip through limestone pits
of sex divorced from love in strange ways that only the mendicants and the religious can comprehend
and altruists glimpse
clouds that never bend the rains.
To their will. To get ahead.

To think love was different,
From sex!


BCG Matrix-Love Scenes

i can still see everything;
passing between the guttural sense of the real and unreal
spouted, spooned and entrapped.

your religion becomes a clarion card to be played as you choose
in tandem with moral certitude.

i can still see everything;
the knots on your wrist and the headbands that you cast onto your wrists and strain to hold.
your touch more firmer than
the whists of hope ever can be.

the mattress’ you slept over.
with certainity

i can still see everything;
in their embers as your hair cascades over me and you
resting your head on my thigh.
looking up with those half mooned eyes.

i can still see everything;
as our bodies intertwine and the distant doors of the radio towers
open their arms and there are voices in the corridoor outside
reminscent of hours pen pushed
as you bite my underlip and the knots on our faces coalesce into pain.

i can still everything;
yet i see nothing!
Where whispers of armistice adapt
To a mind standing still.


Rony Nair
Rony Nair
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!