i like poetry...all kinds...rilke and neruda...byron and wordsworth...all kinds. but its not their songs that comes to me when ever i have to think of a poem i like most....its 'if'. its faintly patronising, fantastically naive. yet whenever i read it...it hums to me (like roosevelt's man in the arena). it tastes of the salt of the earth...the man-next-door...like parle-g in my lunch box. it could almost be my dummies-guidemap-to-a-life-well-lived...my yellow brick road...with only the markers that matter...cut the existential angst crap

and where might you be? asked trepidation

burrowing in for the winter, replied truth

and what are we to do? said concern concerned

hey...i'll still be around! exclaimed chaos

how does it all matter... lamented despair

but it does! and that was hope, vehement and true till the end

(though she does do a trepidation every now and then and refuses to accept she did)

i noticed something
the way your face fits into the small of my throat
snug like it was made for there
the way it gets all excited
your laughter the accompanying notes
the surreptitious way it sneaks into an argument
the sly turn, the raised brow
the way it changes when you are angry
the twist to the mouth, the flare to the nose
know this
i will love you in spite of you
i will love you in spite of me