Honored by Usha Ma'am & Rukhiya


>> Dec 15, 2009

There is something very selfish about dreams.
Remembrance is a trespasser.
And still, every night
I dream of you, you of one and one of many.
We circle, forget and again indulge.

Futility has an attraction of its own.

A life that we live but we wish.
A truth we see but what we believe.
A dream that is awake and another that is asleep.

Light is bent for everything
that happens with our without us.

I wish I will touch the Sun on the horizon,someday.
Can emotions be that cold ever?
Never if they are alive.

In between life and death, I count dreams.
and cross tress with white chalks
So that in the morning I can just walk upto that
and believe what we don't wish to.

We are taught
I can only strive for a wish.
They should always be like tomorrows and yesterdays.
Between them we are, we live, and nomore.

I believe, I will meet me one night
To forget how to remember.
And see how the faded watermarks
learn to die and to live..

...yet another dream.



The Return

>> Nov 23, 2009

Another quiet night passes by
as we wait.
Three for us,
One for you, (we still keep).
"Cheers"! ...miss the loud voice.
Someone gulps your absence down.
In a trance we believe you were here.
We sleep to forget.

Vodkas and grass lie with green hopes.

In half jaded senses,
when we go for our walk,
there have hardly been mornings
when Ravi hasn't forgot his chappals,
and Maddy his pullovers...

But never did we miss to touch the gulmohar
you so loved to sit beneath.

Is this what it feels to be feeling you?

We don't go there in winters.

Time is sarcastic.
You can't skip if you wish.
We gather for your birthday.
Maddy whistles, Ravi prays,
I keep mum.
Whether to celebrate or to miss?
Silence is so nauseating at times.

We blow the candles.
Darkness is comforting, we realize.

Three windy lives,
you as the only exception, wait,
as summers and autumns and springs cycle
and even hopes attract rust.

Then one day,
You come back.

Unlike the happy endings in tight embrace,
we shout, " why did you?".
The voices echo from and to
as our emotions fly, orphaned to excitement.

That day, On a less travelled road,
Three white flowers lay together.

You return,
to us.




>> Aug 21, 2009


For a thousand words
that floated like bubble between us,
Only few have burst into wet emotions.
Perhaps the others were too shy.

In that cosmos of togetherness
words that haven't touched us
have nudged each other, played in circle.

And we have wondered if
noise is what can't be deciphered
or won't.


Silence is us
When thoughts are symbiotic.
In between, there is a glass
that lets our eyes read each other, not in full.
Opacity is pride sometimes.

And then,
Ideologies have faced mortality
Through curious moments.

We have been individually two
When silence became a predator.


Just then, it dawned.
Silence and noise are twins.
We, the conscious, have conspired and failed.



If you promise me...

>> Aug 9, 2009

I wish to gift you but one rose.
The color parched in red
still drips the same, from me.

Indifferent we have been to the sea
and so has been our coming and going
and going and coming onto each other ; waves.

For I know how we have savoured a kiss,
A starved touch that has distancelessly etched
into the warmth of fire and poured on some mature ashes.

If I really write the saddest lines tonight
I wonder if the glorious moon will soothe any less,
the gentle sea will unlook shallow.
I am lost and I don't want to sleep but dream.

In a bright daylight where sunflowers bloom
I will gift you an irrelevant book;
you look ethereal when your eyes art surprise.
I will sketch you in trembling hands and tear it apart
because the joy is mine and I am selfish to share with you.

If you promise me a touch, I shall keep the moment
It has the scent of your skin, forever as a hope.



And etcetera...

>> Jul 24, 2009

There is a lot of truth in a parabola.
No two souls at either ends
are equi-distant.
Sometimes too close,
at times too far, we are.

Some say, acceptance is one
form of resignation!
I believe, its to know when
we need to take the parched leaf
out of the book and remember
how to forget; vice-versa.

Life is too direct for an abstract figure
or may be an opulent realization.

So, our little moments of truth
hide and seek and lie and die   
somewhere near the rear window,
the broken chairs and the old books
and granny's mahogany bed.

In these points, where
facts and figures and favours and follies
intermix- boil- burn- vaporize and condense again,
You get back life, unaltered.

Need not you say,
philosophies are born where
one looks up to the sky for a daylight
and the Sun is eclipsed,

just then!


[Little moment of reckoning this! :) ]



>> Jul 15, 2009

Perhaps there is more to life
than a blunt punctuality, that is mine.
I have always come early
but been late.

In a life where I never
intended to intrude in your sensitivities
always fearing that ,
oozing is inevitable when its me,
I have waited sheepishly.

Haemocyanin- blue blood, oh its mine.

Like the improper misplacement above,
I have waited and drenched in rain
just to feel what is it to be close to you.
Have spent sleepless nights
Just to know how pure is the Sun
That touches you first.

Today, as you tie a bolder knot
With the one who could say before
(and me? nay ever)

I will be there, mute,
Silently waving at your graceful departure
and wish, if for once you do the cliche',
Turn back and smile, perhaps.

Even if you do, I promise,
you won't see how an ice
drowned and choked in its own fate.

Can we reverse the moment
and never let it melt?


[No more complexities for today. Just a blunt and simple life. :)]


Us and Them

>> Jul 2, 2009

Entwined in the heart are
I and You.
Let us lock them up
in the closet today and
watch her, him and them.

Let us talk about lazy crows,
dead fish, a wet metro
or hustling bazaar.

I for once
(err, I was to put in the s(h)elf)
will choose that hawker boy
who sells roses and buys his dreams,
We buy dreams and sail our romance
- We complement them.

Then you for twice
can select your prey in the old age homes.
Look, there in the balcony, that sorry old lady.
We are together, still counting stars
They are so alone and tired of stars
- They contradict us.

In this com-n-con game, we watch
as I and you come out of locked worlds
and mix in the crowd of her, him and them.

They say,
"its an illusion that you are different.
We have but one life"



A note to you, dearest

>> Jun 24, 2009

The tender memories have
long been terrified and quiet under
your harsher overtones.

Smiles and giggles have hid under our pillows
that has designer covers with
many a sobs of mine carefully washed.

Artificial smiles, socialites' parties,
a theatrical performance each day,
happy photographs, innocent make ups -
All of them I have obeyed-
dutifully, gracefully, being yours, your own.

And I have seen life change
in the eyes of a pessimistic kaleidoscope
that never had a coloured glass inside.

At night, you crawl
No, NO, you happily trespass
on to the soul you legally claim
and never realize a void that exists between
You and me.

As the darkest of empathies coil up
within me on some nights,
That same vacuum takes shape of a
Unborn child that I have so dearly wished
and you have denied, on timeless times.

Oh, you have taught me to hate myself.

So tonight, before you think
you can choke me to death,
I don't want to read aloud
Yet another average verse
that bleeds and cares not ...

... because I am a woman.

Your serpentine chords of conscience
will never ever reach its roots
Where I am now.

I will sleep in peace, deep.




And I still have the petals
parched inside the pages
that had the scent of your skin.

It dies each day,
so do I...

...from memories to dust.

Tonight I gift you
what love had alloyed but failed.

An iron-y of us.



The way we are...

>> Jun 7, 2009

I have played with life.
Whimsically I found it shaped
sometimes squared, a bit spherical, is it?
Oh no, you see an undefined orbit.

On that squarish route,
My life has been squeezed
to insignificant volumes.
Fame, success, caustic lights-
They allure me in different domains.

I wonder if there is too much of me
in my words or so much of I.
An I for an I-
the world revolves around an ellipse.
Sometimes too close to life
and too far when you wish...

In this pattern which follows disorientation,
Comes the knowledge, hence the realization
and awaits a human in their shadows,
Owning them.

Life, as it is,
wouldn't have ever been the same
if there were definitions of you and me.

So I say, must you agree (?)
we make rooms square
To embrace surety.

...the Earth is round!




>> Jun 6, 2009

Let's meet in our dreams.

Let's hold hands gently
Your palm into mine, delicately ours.
We will traverse the mountains over the clouds
that pour in with fertile rains.

We will walk past the night
till we see the first rays of a crimson Sun.
Purity - oh, how I have longed for you!

Let me recount those empty spaces
before and after __ us __.
I will recite them today, audibly.

We will cross the waves once.
On the sea shore
where our memories lie embraced,
I will take fistful of sands
And never let it out, as if you are there, inside,
Fragmented in completion.

You can talk about a life lost
I will dream within a dream.
Imperfect be our poetry
We can still rhyme in the realm.

Let's not keep our old eyes open dear.
I have heard, tonight
we will love each other anew, in our dreams.




>> May 18, 2009

To perform the duty
that is poetry,
I sat back on my wooden chair
to relive the bygone days of playfulness
with words.

Its a calm night.
As the rains fantasize bout the dreamy moon,
So do I, about words that are hard to come by.

A forced poetry is like
asking an ice to get burnt into ashes.
Ashes - will they, ever?

I wonder if I am that beggar in the street
who is more sure of living the next day
than the residents of the high rise afar.

Because both of us have nothing to lose...
... and more importantly, nothing to preserve.

Sensitivity is like an empty piggy bank when you are like me.
You recollect and break yourselves into halves, threes n fours
Still they refuse to come; spent n dried - amn't I?

I still admire the showrooms glittering in neon lights,
the poets who create music with words,
the lives that make us dream.

And while finishing the undone trial of another false verse,
I become too conscious of a missing fullstop (.) in my epitaph.

They say,
the dots were never required.

I know,
I had nothing left to fill in the blanks




Geometric Gibberish

>> Apr 8, 2009

Indescribably in a rectangular path

I measure height and you, width.
Diagonally we traverse crossing each other
Longing for a square.

(Alas, if we had been a bit alike)

Three points - You, me and us.
We try converging into each other.
Frantically you unto me, me onto you.
and the last remains, untouched.

(Lust is it that never touches 'us' (love?))

I always took geometry as philosophy.
The smallest unit, a point, is dimensionless- a dot.
Like my white wish painted against your black refusals.
Black and white - they crisscross. Coexist invisibly.

(What remains is an orange dot of defying Sun)

In this gibberish, which are too minute to understand
Or cynically un-reasoned,
I talk of future, you talk of facts. We sum up- failure.

But of whom? I ask, you ask - to each other.

Despite knowing the 'Earth is round'
We could never love circles.


[Pardon my french]



>> Mar 28, 2009

I fear innocent these days. I can not look upto his eyes in fear of if he asks, "Why did you do it?"
I just can't stand in front of a mirror that has people behind.
They ask, "Why did you?". - "What did I?"
You just asked: "Where is the painter in his painting?"


Do not ask me what is this. Its happened to be called 55 Fiction

What is 55 Fiction?

A literary work will be considered 55 Fiction if it has:

  • Fifty-five words or less (A non-negotiable rule)
  • A setting,
  • One or more characters,
  • Some conflict, and
  • A resolution. (Not limited to moral of the story)
Usha ma'am is entirely responsible for this one. She insisted that I write one on 55 er and I can't skip. So, here was that attempt which I am sure was nothing worse than a torture.

But, but, Why don't you try yourself? Try and write one 55 Fiction yourself and share. Its really interesting.



>> Mar 3, 2009

On one such occasion
When words left me while I was sleeping
I knew they will be there, somewhere
Hiding behind the walls of worn out verses,
Fabricated lies,
Stories of us and them and
Truths of me, curtained.

I have books by my name
That has grown over me long before.
What is left is ashes of success
Which I had smoked to futility.

Burdened is a poetry
That expects jewels in return
and crippled is his pen who builds a stage
that is consciously poetic
To us (or them?).

I have seen colors fade-
Sky to be green,
Leaves came gray
Love to be black
and words in white.

So I wait as time ticks by
and with a curious alertness I try
To decipher the tune of silence
To listen to the words that are lost.

A victim I am and a spectator you are
Of the moment that recycles poesy back
To the dot, when diamonds were uncut
and roses were without petals.

Don't you count
Who got sold and for how much.




>> Feb 25, 2009

I will confess to the tree
About the times I had spent underneath
with you.

Rain tastes the same, feels the same
Brings back you and memories

I see sunrays draw many a tangents
Through the window over the shelf
Where you and I reside, mute, in albums.

You died once.
I die many a deaths each day.

For remembering you at moments when I wish not
And for I wish if I could remember at some others.
The flames overwhelm from both sides.

I jump.

I love winters for nature is at loss then.
Just like me.

And for memories that burn me from within,
I become a victim
Where life plays voodoo and I lose us,
All too often.



All that is, Who are Lost

>> Feb 18, 2009

Sometimes I stand near the window-
Old fashioned, rusty with fading colors.
It shows me an eyeful of sky
Where clouds conspire and turn black.

Clouds are like memories, no?
You know it will rain, but when.

I see the quiet lane in a midsummer noon.
On one such day my kittens ran away
And never came back.
I wish if I could see them once, right now.
I hope they are alive. They will surprise me one day.

Do you think cats have emotions?

I see the gulmohar tree.
Under which you had held my hand and promised...
...Promised to hold my hand, forever. Never.

The gulmohar lives on. So do I and you, may be.
All apart, distant, as three incidents who never met.

Do you think trees have memories?
I wish the gulmohar will die.

I wonder why do I talk of pain,
Of them who have left me,
Of the kite orphaned in the vast sky,
for paper boats that never return.

All that is lost can always be found.
I cry for all that remains but can't be mine,...

...For the memories of a moth
Who dived into the fire one night
To become a glowworm.



Of Ecstasy...

>> Feb 10, 2009

Beyond the horizon lies the gray
that rests between your feet, delicately.

Waves ripple and glide past the footsteps,
Silently washing off your prints afar,
Uncomplaining in tender reverence.

You raise your arms as if to embrace the sea.
I see twilight, I feel air gently hushing by.

The crimson Sun is at its last breath
And caresses you with quiet blessings.

As your innocence reflects upon
the gracing Sun and the soothing sea

I stand mute and mesmerized...
... Oblivious of the rest as the triad touches me

And I cry, just.


[p.s. -> This post of mine is inspired by the picture atop.

I thank Jennifer for letting me share this. And this piece goes to Angel.]



>> Jan 25, 2009

Wish I could be a cloud one day
I will love to be grey if its you
To whom, through whom I traverse.

Transparency is optimum;
For I know you are unattainable
like the sand escaping from the fist
like the meaning assumed from the gist.

look, oh yes, I can rhyme too.
If you wish I can artify our world.
Inspiration never needs a permit.

You had asked,
Why do I vomit blood.
Interruptions in dreamy un-realism
doesn't suit me. I know.

So I write.
So that I can breathe you in
and breathe dreams out.

Live long, you had wished.
(Wished), did you? honestly?

I will let it pass like just another
Failed attempt to face reality
Finds itself en-route to contamination.

Oh! then what is pure? you may ask.

Purity is not you, not me, but us.
Purity is the way verses traverse.

I will vomit to death one day.
Do not pray for me.
Pray for my poems who are quiet.

Let them borrow my breaths.
Let the poetry for us live.

(And the footnotes conclude:)

You - a miser in love
Me - a happy lender.



A Sadist's Soliloquy

>> Jan 21, 2009

I have peeled my skin
With each of your blank verses.

My poetry has gone through erosions,
lost pages of memoirs,
Un-remembrance and what else?

Irreversibility never liked me.
Nor did I.

Blood has dripped, once, twice,
May be more?
I never had a scale to fathom what I lost.
Nor did veins apologized, ever.

Veins, oh they know when to let go of you
As color red.

You had a quotient of quality.
I have put myself on either side of balancing machine,
Have weighed myself with my emotions
Perhaps the odd moments against my soul.

Unperturbed you were, you are.
A perfect imbalance I am.
Just like this verse which pleads to be understood.

I leave you with one question except me:
Will you ever kill your shadow to be alone?

Oh nights have the answer still.
I will wait.
I know you won't know for
Dark never wronged black.



The Hungry Tide

Inspirations Continue...

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