Soumya Scribbles...

There is this dark sea, One that scares, baffles, reminds you are a human. There is this shore. Sands - treacherous they are they will slide away. Each step is drunk with a beauty that awaits and uncertainty that roars. As I stand there endangered and mesmerized, the sky plays cruel. There are stars and no moon. Black as it is with a little gray, Surrendering is only pivotal. Either way, you are already killed to live, better. SoUmY@

And I sold off my poems today. The ones who bought it had red sackbag with them. They never knew what poetry is about, neither did they care. They cared about the ounce and pounds. Convert the numerics if you will. I have a bright Eucalyptus as my memory. Can green be bright? Perhaps. They have the Sun behind them. The roots have reached where they should not. Restraint is a play of nervous system. You may be as random as your favorite liqour And its a pity that it takes one peg to write a poetry or may be one or two smokes. Art always was whimsical, but never sedated. With a little of all that we know, and all that we don't, a violin, little rings of cigar and lost alleys of Varanasi, You won't know what you are, Unless you have lost yourself Once. SoUmY@

A dazzling night and I can not sleep as easily as you can. In my millions of veins there is a rebel that fumes and exerts and still is quiet. A blood that freezes an ice, is of mine. What is it to write without an eraser? it is almost you, real. The way you falter and can not clean the way you can derange and be helpless So are we on the sheets. I had seen a painter who has sketched on a black art paper. Art, as they are, indistinguishable, Unavoidable, plain as the paper. Bring him a white chalk, perhaps. Likewise, we all are. We run while the hideouts are lit up And then face a chuckle, gross. I will run to the horizon to search shyness. SoUmY@

If you want to escape, surrender yourself to the cloud, once. You may float as the density of emotions were never as great as clouds. They carry traces of other world's. You are a no one there. Biting my fingers is a pleasure that I derive from my drinks. I like to feel if I am me. Almost like this night where I am drunk And can feel myself more than I do with you all. there is a loneliness that is comforting, strangely. Far away from where you can reach I have a world of my own. A world that I savour, even the pain. if you had come, realize, All that glitters were never gold, but life, alright. SoUmY@

We all live with a box. There inside lies black papers, earthen pots, some postcards of countries I have never been, A few letters and a past. Some trees have roads in between. They stand in a row. When it pours, I come out with the box, Take a drop or two of seasonal rain, Keep it. The earthen pots may melt. The postcards are old, they refuse color. But clouds travel. This rain may come from cross-atlantic. I keep all that I can not touch, then. Possessions are not prismatic. They reflect pity. They reflect past you can't live without. For all of us, the box is that. Some day I will go to the quietest river and drop the box with all I had. Then I will dive. We all die with and without. - SoUmY@

How much can you trace back in one moment? May be a mile. Memories are not measured by units. Today there are no more sad lines. We will talk about the wine that is buried in your backyard. We will talk about the graffiti that I am yet to construct. These days art has a new name - photoshop. You can buy yours with a quick few clicks. I am half drunk. The other half is life. With that I lie in a dark room and listen to a music that is soft but deafening. Most relations are, the same. Pretension has its perimeters. They are weak when you are. On one such moment, you do things that you never regret. People change, so do leaves. You wait. Give me a hundred good dreams. I will sleep deep, then. SoUmY@

What you call a black paper, Is the one that awaits a white chalk, I hold. The thread between us is like those small red crabs on sea sands - Quick feet, unsure, still beautiful. The scent in you is perpetual. I peel the skin at nights. Yours are like snakes' in winters. They glow when I dip myself, into. Somedays I burn. I am like phosphorus(P). And porous(:). I try and contain you, the whole of you in me. You slid through as grains. Helplessly, I emit at night. There is no fire, you say. I am incandescent. I cry. In happy and sad times, my eyes fill up with saline water that reflects moon, sharply. You say, its childish, We are role-reversed. A man shouldn't cry that much. Then, monthly expenditure of salt is mathed. We agree that, I will never write on a wet paper. And, I break my promises, far too often. SoUmY@

There is a little rain in all of us. There should be. There are winters too. Seasons cycle for humans, or vice-versa? There is a lot of vice if you think. My poetry is as good as the moment. They dissolve and laugh and cry. If I am lucky, I am loved. And luck? that is a respite for loss. Today I wish to talk about important things, may be that red bag. It has travelled a lot, with me. To cities, to seas. It has carried a lot, of me. To buses, to boats. Now it stays, stoic, and the metallic chains rust with a lot of me, inside, as air, as vacuum. I have burned myself like wax. Melting has its own charm, As has sacrifice. One is never the same before, and after. If you Compare loss to mutual funds, you will understand there is more to shares than money. There always were. And laugh as you may like, the world that lets you lead a life, is actually getting slow, to die. The day it stops, Breathe. SoUmY@

Through the distant stars I recall the nights that had our names, as two oval halves of a sandclock. Complimenting each other quietly we would mix. My love for you is like the coloured windchime. Tune is its forte, still on a rainy day you prefer sparkles. Remember? You gifted me a magnet. Poles reconciled. Opposites attract. We were quite the same, still. Physics is so merely physics, at times. A quota in my life is for me, little. Rest is yours. A quota in my poetry is you, a lot. Rest is a mundane stanza. A note I had had for you. Delivered but escaping a thousand waves of your white saree. Still living with the scent, I have changed a line or two, "All the roses in this world were white. Until love came and dipped them in red." SoUmY@

Lonely is the poet. If you can't find another expression, You worry not. We all live with a little of physics, chemistry and mathematics in life, but poetry. On a chilling night, when kith and kinship is established in real world, The poet wraps himself up with the snow and the blanket that is as porous as a metaphor. He heads South. Words? No he is too full of that. Souls? He is still to. On a rainy day, when people are either sheltered or making love, The poet visits his old school street; He finds new joy in waiting for someone, again. Knowing she will not come, she has sent rain. Care? No he is too full of that. Life? He is still to. The poet dies ordinarily one day. When people were either happy or sad, The poet leaves, just. It was not winter so there was no metaphor in his death. Beside him was his book, his poems. Poems? No he had written too many. Blanks? He still had to. SoUmY@

Two autumns. My blue pen has dried off as has been many of the thoughts. They have come and gone and no one has cared. Just like that quiet station in the village where the train itself is a curiosity first, necessity later. There is a human who signals with a green flag. Station master. I wish I would get that job in the farthest corner of human existence. But. But you all have made Earth round. In all these human rights and democracy, a person cries for a quiet corner on the busiest road. He is wearing a torn red shirt. Someone please help. I assure. He is not a communist. I am not a humanist too. One spring. I have felt a lot. I don't know if there is any capacity of emotions just like our address-books in mobile phones. We delete 'old' contacts. We bring in new. Tennyson should be happy. He would not be. At some cloudy nights I have gone through some of my such 'old' friends. Our savoured moments are called logs there. 2009/02/28 22:00:00 PM 45:00 minutes. 098...

There is a game we play. Black and white, as they are. 64 is just a number, as are cats' nine lives or our one heart. You are a pawn if you are first. Reason out your sacrifice, within. When someone crosses, die hard. Relations are straight. Go, meet and stay. When needed we know You and I become animal, diagonal. Eat up and carry the leftover. Escapists wait for two and a half. When no one is looking, they jump, at night. They prey. You and I are pawns. Like emotions and trees we never go back. I die when he kills. Or else squares make me a vegetable. Money is like a rook, Traverses here to end, Scaled to be one-dimensional it is. Then Life castles. We trade humans for emotions. Love migrates, We call it a defense. Beyond all these, time excuses itself as we blindly fit ourselves to those 64 squares. Win, lose, mutual, checkmate! Why do we always have a story to tell? SoUmY@

I Between you and me There is this sea of space. Even the warmth of your blood is not on the floors where my feet are. And in between there is a plastic that burns quietly, without flames, Obnoxious! Between me and you, there is ash. II Three course of meal, and in between, we make love. Morning - I excite. After lunch its you. And before its night, we try. On other days, we sleep, Strangers and hungry. III Between you and me We share ghazals. In a serene night With you around, talking of moon, I play. Life is so good between two songs. We live the moments in pauses. IV You surprise me with bright sunflowers at times, The other day you come and embrace when I am still sleeping. Simple Sun enters my room, finds an excuse and lies beside me. You drop the curtains. I smile in dreams. - Thus, Tilting an usual square, we make a story of our own, in a rhombus. SoUmY@

In a suave Indian lounge some people gather to party. Posh as they are, and as is the word, they show all of it and much more than you may wish to see. With some Peter Colonial Country shirt and with a perfume that arrogantly bosses over the air of a third world country, they laugh and fall over each other, 'unnecessarily' is a word so true to its own existence. Beyond their attire, they are conscious of keeping their feet on the ground and so bring plastic flags which feebly depict a tri-color a third world country should. They take positions, one after another, finding their partners as only a neon light glows inquisitive of the emotions, pride or lust. There starts the National Anthem. Importing independence and democracy onto themselves, some fold their legs, some lean back, some talk over a boring lyric and the others, if left, sing along. After that, all clap, more as a relief than of a passion. Even the big cotton flag, despite the artificial wind around, embarrassingl...

There are people for whom A does not precede B. May be I am one. At times beneath the banyan tree you have touched my hand in one moment that we can not recreate. I was to take yours and press a bit, shelter your cold palm in mine. I have only smiled. At times inside a lonely tram, along the roots of our heritage city and with an ageing conductor, you have wished I will cuddle and plant a kiss, perhaps. Spring has come, but I have sat like a tree where winter still hails. Stoic, willing, wishing and still desperately, wishing. At times while argumenting You have tried to fight, jostle. Anger is the flame of love's impurity. You have tried to burn us together. I have kept silent Having hundred questions to ask you but never could, even one. I have let you win, always. I have let you lose, thus. In high fever, one night, Trembling you have murmured, " Come unto me". 'Passionate' the lover I am, have stood still. Gently touching your forehead I have let you sleep. In...

On a day like today when an abrupt monsoon meets A delighted Sun, I think of you, like the dew drops on the petals - the freshness, eternal. On a day like today When my Neruda can sip coffee with your Joyce, you come to me as if memories were more real than now. They always were, are. On a day like today, When the translucent streets of my home gets wet and hears a tram go by, your thoughts occur. I feel you beyond those concretes and raindrops kamikaze. On a day like today, When my words seek no grammar and chases no metaphor, I think of poetry and I think of you. With or without, I wrote for. On a day like today, When I am diseased and all burnt, I want you to forget me as a season. We will meet again in summers, in our little ways, before Sunrise. SoUmY@

Two nude people are gazing. The picture is on the orange wall in A frame made of Mahogany wood, One that smells of a burnished past. They are discussing paintings. Oil paintings they are. Colors are abrupt, sudden and strong as the saddest nights, Soothing and polite as promised whispers Or whispered promises of colors, that have faded. Art in its essential, is pure; So they wish to be the same, nude. Of Adam and Eve, Of Prometheus; art is fire. Pictures come and go. They sit on wrought irons - sophisticated, minimalist, sharp and nude, like them. And here it is, a face under a veil. Dark black it is, tanned skin, eyes speak of a thousand pain and a single humor, or vice-versa. Interpretation is an artist's pride, deciphering is his patience. So they are visibly restless. Apparently immovable two souls stand and try gazing what is under its veils. Desperate, nine straight lines on their foreheads, each. In this artistic liberty, they don't understand that nudity collides with n...

In that 4' * 4' glass house, Colored fishes roam about alien trees, look at this side of the world where living doesn't create bubbles, Neither do they burst. Two souls live in a bigger cage and take care of the 4' * 4', Happily taking pride in sheltering orphaned dreams, that come so close to the glass house and go back nudging the belgian wall. They pity, they laugh. Fishes can't cry. On some other days, Satin hopes rejuvenates with candled romance. The two shadows become one. Their souls lie on the white carpet where conjugal stains used to frequent. Cleanliness is so unworthy at times. Around the time, that ticks-tocks and ticks-tocks, upon hourly insecurities of a clock that mumbles and counts the path it has traversed, ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong - they keep track of absence and quarrel. Presence instigates bitterness of the two. The clock stops at times, or whispers low. It has two helping hands. In the bed they sleep, distant. But dreams are not meas...

Uncountable battles you have won behind the back, Prudent, shrewd the soldier you are, the anarchist - as some will say. And the others who spit on your name for the deities you have maligned. The armour, embarrassed it reflects hundreds of bodies stampeded by Mughal rampage, where brave rajput souls still lie in dreamy eyes, and their women - long been fed to satisfy. The person you were, a predator who never believed in his own blood, could not have asked history to redeem you of the fatwa s that you once made, oh so coldly. But tell me Aurangzeb, today as you see the gallant successors of yours, ominously lurking, possessing whatever or whoever is affront, Do you feel you were never a history? Or it was just foolish of us to blame you. Blood never bore the Mughal descendance. It was always a stoic asset. And so, in the name of uttaradhikar , We have inherited what was already inside, ... history that we, ourselves despise of, but possess, nevertheless. SoUmY@

That night some rain conspired and stole clouds from your sky to pour down on me. Love is what turns a why to a how. So you never questioned. I drenched, wondered, wandered. Window is an escapade for poetry. And my decor is un-weak. So in our world there are only rooms. Doors can be latched, Unlike your memories and my emotions. I haven't let them yet. We can cook up love, is it? Moments are kept in spice jars. Never mix them while they are there. It may smell. I will bring you fire. Burn. Let us go deep. Here is the bed where A platonic you meets a real me. Chiffon hesitance may rest, We will only whisper tonight. Beneath this, there is a grave which lies as a witness to many a sobs. Never visit there with naked feet. You will at once know its our dark that I have still preserved. Ask me why. An irrelevant me will answer, Even our saddest moments were too special to let go by. Do not plant a kiss yet. We have no doors. SoUmY@

Is there a tunnelway to poetry Where mine meet yours? Two poets can not live together. Verses make a world of their own when they are asleep. I have heard words whisper with each other, make love, maybe. We are insignificantly coupled. I know not how often have I fed a poetry. Are you grateful that they come? Redemption is dangerous. They come as punctuations and can unsettle you, unexpected. Beneath the poetic soul, there is another who is a labour, who constantly bears the load of words, carefully places, sweats and still does. We are too lost in the hemisphere. Lonely words - Vagrant, vagabond, orphaned ride the bridge of other words and console each other when the complacent is asleep. That is why You keep a rose inside them, You will see it died of salinity. SoUmY@

Your love is that of sea. You love mountains So your words echo, the ones you say. And for the silence, it's turbulent. It comes in waves and I taste salt. There are moments when we differ. We all do. Your anger comes in waves, dive and burst. You say I am oceanic. My emotions have no end but one must explore; you do. For the times you have waited for me to call your name, I have been busy keeping your memories in the heart of the ocean. You have asked, Have you been restless, ever? I have only tried. Depth is a burden at times. You will never know. The times I have cried and called your name, I was too deep. I am blue. SoUmY@

Let us not know each other tonight Let us not think what we could have said, what we had to, what we can, what we should. Let us just, unknowingly, make a story. Today you can just hold my hand, or not. We can keep silence; it grows distance which someone says, is comforting. I can blurt it out today. I can tell you how many times I have missed you and cried and laugh about it, just. You can count yours. Happy face? Let us not call it a love too. We have seen too much of it, haven't we? Let us just unknow what we don't And say, we knew each other, unknowingly. SoUmY@

Today I want to write about the imperial sadness that spreads way above you and me; Like the roots of a tree that threatens the earth and embraces like an octopus. Stoic is the sky and there is one moon that is sad. At this hour, darkness is silk You can wear it and cry unnoticed. We know not why even truths have versions. There are different truths; stories to tell. We choose convenience. Or sometimes the other. If you are afraid of heights, fly. You may meet a cocoon who decided to date back and became a caterpillar. SoUmY@

This winter the hummingbird did not come to the banyan tree in front of my room. I saw leaves ageing and dying and every morning hoped for the chirps I so longed to hear. Perhaps, birds are like humans. They just fly away someday and never return. I forget that even the ones with wings can be escapists. Or is it me, judgmental? Expectations have given me many a seasonal disappointments. People migrate from one place to the other; from one relation to another. Almost like seasons, they are. The traits, the aura, the magic each time is different. You can not blame one for doing that. Then that hummingbird is to be cursed first. But. Let us talk about the residue now. The remnance are the ashes which will kindle another candle. Yes emotions. I wonder if they change. I wonder if we feel differently if we love different people in different times. Is not that a migration too? Maybe some of you would be able to answer that yourself. Our earthly belongings - they move too. In my office I am ju...

1 2 3 4 5 6 I discuss no maths here. They are bricks, that pile up events after events, bygone, as remnants. Have you seen the sea shore? What is left of the sands After a wave passes by. Relations, us. I have seen togetherness die one night and in the next, individuals are born. Do they live? Some questions only embarrass the affected. I wonder if the ashes after death hold a life's memory. I feel they do. Futility adds a lot of understanding. Ashes are thus, such. For a leaf is born in the same place where the tree sheds in winters. And with our faded memories we cry, Why don't emotions have chlorophyll? SoUmY@

Someday I feel I will write an essay. Words should have the luxury of coming in twins, build a locality of its own. Poetry for them is a lonely space. Each preciously used to carry out a task ( we call meanings) and until they are done, pretend as if they are someone else. Metaphor, some call it. I wonder if I will ever be able to shred the too many 'I's I use in an I-tem. If ever I can live upto to write what is non personal. Something that talks about trees, seas, mountains, hills, Sun and the moon and for a moment reserves the blunt knife for some blunt-er souls ( like me ofcourse, no offense to you). Reality has come into halves all my life. I have dreamt the other. Like the conventional glass case, I have measured the half empty moments of life and treasured the half fulls. For a strange optimist I have been, the reason for pessimism has also been the same. I know people who invent ways to sadden themselves. There is a strange negative energy to it, a sense of security in ...

I want you to know tonight if I die in my sleep, do not forget to switch the AC off tomorrow. Bread, butter, jam will be on the table and oh yes, keys in the hall. I want you to know tomorrow if I do not wake up, Remember what is left of us is under the bed; Photos, letters - memories and a whole lot. Do not just leave me like any other day. Coming back will be a discomfort. I want you to know tonight if you be more indifferent, I would not mind. I am used to your late night whispers, pretensions conveniently termed 'office calls'. You were never a good liar. But, tomorrow I may just wake up as if I have changed my mind And burn this letter. Its the hundredth time. What you won't know is, Like that piece of paper, I have only dreamt of being read oneday. There has never been a pulp fiction. Perhaps there never will be. SoUmY@

For once I read my poetry and caressed with my palm, Felt what I have fathered and suffered and altered and still kept, dearly. You may show indifference but deep down between the pages, you have counted stars and tears: same time, for one. Your promises that were fulfilled and wishes that were abandoned, it still has the scent of the first red rose that has died waiting to be savored, somewhere else. The earthly smell and the aroma of rains happily trespassed and blotted a few emotions when you slept oneday keeping your window open. I shall stand up and say this to all you poets. If one night you feel like gasping, Touch your memories that are etched and inked as events, there inside your poetry. I have heard emotions can soak. For you will see glowworms coming out of them, and flying all around your room. You freed them and saved a life (of your own). Rejoice. SoUmy@

I am sleepless at nights. Between you and me and our rhymetic and prosaic verses Lies a Judas- perspectives. Yours and mine and theirs. Replication is for machines. And uniqueness is an illusion in a crowd. Because anyday we all are grouped to be too common or too unique. Just like this above contradiction, I concur... ...Lets not decipher a beautiful thought. I can take an oath against my limitations and say, interpreting is an insult sometimes. You can take a poem for a petal And sit there, just admire. Can't you? Because oneday you will mother an orphan emotion. I shall examine the skeleton and laugh. Would you like that Poet? SoUmY@ [You are free to avoid this piece as a crazy social experiment going wrong :) ]

For there are words and clothes similar in ways which may or may not be put in places. But silence and skin are both uncomforting. Coz they show us the truth. Truth is again what we perceive. And what we perceive is what we choose. What we choose is not the truth, atmost, almost. Cycles are confusing because we need an end. There is none. We put blanks where we question or don't want to answer or wish to feel more. Take a teacher and an escapist and a lover, sequentially. Still there are routines, schedules, trackers and plans. Someone is running away, We are running out. Mr. Time is arrogant. Have faith some say. Have fate, I do. For there are words and clothes dissimilar in ways which may or may not be taken back in places And silence and skin are both comforting. Coz they show us the truth. At random, without a mask. Take an escapist who taught you to love oneday. SoUmY@