Portraits After ‘A Likeness’

I don’t own an image, any proof that you lived: not a poorly drawn sketch or a blurred photograph.

There is no framed canvas in vibrant oil colours, the master of the place. No portrait to take pride in.

There are no stormy eyes glaring above the fireplace, that would judge my every move, every loose strand of hair.

All that’s left are memories, sullied by history. Your face cracked by your words, its art stained with their black tones.

Hearts may ache after leaps, but a canvas can’t be kept in order for one to live. A likeness will never help.

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         Sport
He always was the odd duck. He preferred a good conversation to senseless noise. He read books over choosing to sit endless hours in front of a TV screen. He always spoke like some throwback in the old black and white films. He called all the boys sport. Most didn’t understand him and I simply didn’t care. He drank scotch and would ramble for hours over the taste. The subtle hints of this and that. He was a talker with little to say. I gave him a book I had written . He looked at me as if I had handed him a pile of shit. “You write Sport?” “When not drinking I believe that’s what most people would call it bud.” “What sort of things do you write?” I took a sip of my drink and crunched an ice cube. “Well my friend looks like you will have to read it and find out.” He thanked me and took the book home. I saw him a few days later. He never mentioned the book or said another word to me.  A small sacrifice for art. I was happy either way not to be called sport anymore.

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Talkin’ to my Son

Talkin’ to my son today, he all weird’d me out/

When we was done, I didn’t know if I should cry, scream, or shout/

He’s says he wants to move to Brooklyn, with no job or plan/

But he needs a car, ‘cause he’s a young man/

I says how much does an apartment cost/

He say two thousand grand/

He’s only fourteen/

God, how do I make him understand/

You don’t move to Brooklyn/

With no job or plan/

He’s only fourteen/

God, please give me a plan/

A fourteen year old/

Is not yet a young man/

Now don’t get me wrong/

It’s not what you think/

I want you to follow your dreams son/

Do what you think/

But son, if you make one wrong move/

It could be over in a blink/

I thought writin’ rap would be fun/

But this really stinks/

It’s four a clock in the morning/

He’s restin’ in bed/

I am sitttin’ at this computer/

Bangin’ my head/

At least I know he’s safe right now/

God, please look over him/

He’s only fourteen/

Not yet a young man/

Vijay Nair

The Candle

Tallow wax in slender

Rare corpulent in shapes

Peppy she a burning bright

The way of spreading light

Her moments are in delight

Never knew the plight

Grief no for the life span

Brief than an hour;

Her fleeting existence

Is no one’s concern

Since, she melts to cast the shadow,

To show her celestial beauty

Before she dies without sorrow