Sur-Prizes!

Sur-Prizes!
Honored by Usha Ma'am & Rukhiya

Drowning

>> Dec 16, 2012


Castles and dreams are a lot alike.
They have unwanted air of decorations,
You build brick by brick, red faced,
for years; one day, they wake up to reality.

Love is a what-if.
Try your blood and water may it be.
In the end, they wake up to dreams.

In absence of a quarrel,
there is no peace.
Silence it is,
one that speaks too much.

It is more like pulling the chair
while you were sitting
right in the heart of the ocean.

It's a slow, slow fall.


Soumya

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Untitled

>> Oct 31, 2012

Boutique words on white page,
Invited or strangers
Noisy or chimed,
Ruffled or rhymed,
(of) novels they are -
trespassing, travelling, trolling.

Poems are virgins, men.
Useless in its property,
read and loved in shy lights
by humble eyes.

Silence is an amazon -
Deep, masculine, unsaid.
Like a woman it touches.

Poets die -
They depart on their four-legged sabbatical cot
as autumns come and winters stay.
Let frail leaves and dried ink count
unwritten poems.

-- (For Shakti and Sunil)

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Untitled

>> Sep 2, 2012

On one of those days when the clear sky brings about a lot of storm, I sit down writing for my own rebirth. Lovers die every day, on every inch that remains between an embrace, on every moment that retains itself in pauses.

A poetry never starts with ink, it starts with a lot of blood. To whom, for whom I write is as faceless as the cloud, as silent as it traverses by, as fascinating as the full moon and as wholesome as nights.

Do incoherent pictures make a collage? Sometimes they do, the very hand that picks them up and settles them in a frame. Such frames find life in carelessly taking a nap on someone's shoulder in a day train, losing someone momentarily and that growing lump in throat as you run and irrationally scream, while you hold hands and roam around aimlessly in the bazaar and bargain under dim lampshades, when you travel to a virgin beach before sunrise and dreams come true, when you sit on rocks to see the night sea alluring you to death. You want to die holding hands. Them, they make a life full of indefinite pixels.

Would you still tread love for sanity? Let us fall in love again on the same day, in the same manner as we did before, in the ways we know not and in cherubic times.

Perhaps then you will find me in the footsteps on sands where waves did not reach, perhaps on that wrinkled bed-sheet we made love some night, perhaps in the moment when we smirked at each other in opulence or near the drowning world where only love is not a stranger...

... Perhaps, here and there, as a commoner - where only you will know. And only we.


- SoUmYa

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So it Rains...

>> Jul 12, 2012


Getting up early on a cloudy morning, knowing that the feeble light that enters your room had divorced the boring, punctual time long back, is agonizing. It brings about waves of feelings rushing unto your mind. The outstation boy starts missing his home, the scent of his mother that only mothers have. The city girl is caught indecisive between the immediate and the moment later - she chooses to stay at bed convincing her of an illusion of the alarm. And the writers wait for the sound of rain. Cloudy morning dullness is pandemic. It touches all, paused to let each one of us have a philosophical view of life that has been and that is to be on a balance sheet.


Rain blushes with poetry from an old window view, the same gushes with disgust in an water-logged street. Most of the Cities in tropical India are a pampered child along the south while the northern parts of them are still parental - they are orthodox, troubling and still warm. People excuse themselves in the name of rains for missing out on zeros that sit on the right side of any random number. Children act, if better they miss the school bus. There is a happy union all of a sudden as the family sits down to have khichdi and papad. There is a glow in the mother's face that doesn't need any astronomical help to be recognized. Suddenly she gets two of her most faithful audience to talk about an ordinary life. Her warmth increases with cohesion.


Surprising as it is, one big umbrella shelters two genders underneath. Drizzles are as romantic as they sound and as they pour. There is an otherworldly charm in not visting western concretes still colonizing our cities. They sit on an bench, umbrella guarding them more from the intruders than the gravitating clouds. The umbrella was never enough for the two. But, when he recited a shy poem, the drops on her face could find a stream to hide in the name of rains. He did not notice. She did not want him to. Quietly rains condense. And so does love.

Life in rains has always been expansile. It has been about a little bit of glum, a handful of romance and lazy surprises. If there was ever a time to write a poetry, it is now. If there was ever a time to gift a flower, do not wait. If there was ever a time to say someone let us go to the sea, do not carry an umbrella.

Life was never so much about soaking in itself, but everything around it.

So it rains.







.

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Immaterial

>> May 25, 2012

Snowflakes are patient. They fall obliging to but not submitting to the gravity. Like autumn leaves, they are wise. Their purposes are served once they rest. Hundreds and thousands of them lie down on gray earth knowing they would coalesce with it one day. They die beautiful.

The bricks who burn and the glasses who are cut, are not opulent with such subtlety. They know they were born ugly. It is a terrible feeling when there are fewer eyes deep enough to look through the apparent. So bricks build civilization and glasses hide them - conveniently in squares, rectangles and circles. They believe they were pretty twins before the fire came in the wrong hands of Prometheus.

Then there are sands. They don't die, they don't mould. Futility allures them still. With every rushing wave they wish to go inside, somewhere deep, but proud as the Ocean is. Neither helps the little toes nor curious palms who try to keep them tightly. Sands are not meant to belong. They lie in between shy red crabs and wise blue sea. Sometimes broken oysters tell them stories of the other world. At nights they count stars and win.

There are no metaphors above. Life was always about realizing who we shouldn't let go of. Everything else was material.


- Soumya

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Apolitical

>> Apr 28, 2012

It is not so much for the inglorious past
than the uninhabited future.
Curious a child looks at the West every evening
and wonders if the Sun will rise at all.

On a chalked territory
where the name starts selfishly with 'I'
women wear iron-guards over breasts
and men helmets, painted with ancient Gods
Or assuring palms.

Blessed be the Curls and marks on history
as they are still practised
in sharing gendered foetus, farmers' credits and votes.

But there is hope,
Of a determined future with darker truths,
Of acquiring lands, women and innocent brains.

So the predators wait.

One day a bald with a stick heard wolves whisper -
If they were giraffes
they would have changed the colour of their flag.

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Road to sweetnothings

>> Mar 23, 2012

I want to build a dream.

A dream where you smile.
Moon and the sea can wait,
so may the flowers.

There are snowflakes of sweet-littles,
a cyclone of swings,
Crests and troughs many
and colors all in pastel boxes.

There are golden sands and
milkish hills
and happy, aspiring grasses.

You can be a boatman on a dried river,
a grasshopper in a desert,
a lovebird in turbulent time or
silken rush on brick red earth.

You care the other side, as you say.

Traveling though uncountable storms,
and floods and nightmares and strangers
when you sleep,
Let me play a dream for you.

A dream where you can sleep.

SoUmY@

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Timely

>> Jan 28, 2012

Holding a pen after a long time, when your hand shakes and fingers betray to keep a symmetry of similar letters, is a pleasure. You feel like coming back home from a far-away place and finding that old scent that you had left it with. But now you are new. Coming back is always like that. It makes us feel new to our old places.

How old is our past? Does it start with the moment before and end with your paperboats of childhood? For some it is like the backward journey of a night train. The stations are known by the whistles, sudden brakes and old station-master's familiar voice. The green flag looks black then. But you can still take a deep breath and just know. There is no past in an arrival.

We all search for patterns in our life, in others' lives. When we find one, we rest; when we don't we call it consequence. Sentiments, deepest of them, are a lot like glue. They can not let go. They stick to one's heart and hurt the most when you try to detach them.

In coming back home, looking back at past and remembering how attached you were - there is no cycle in that, there are no triangles and no conclusion. Strangely, there is a great air of certainty in knowing, you do not even write them for yourself.

Then we realize, leaving them is as important as it was in living.

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Homecoming

Transition is not a phase but a wise regulation. It is what we hate and the same we love. Likewise, our life. We revolve - around a few people, a few objects and a few thoughts. They are not moon to us, we are. They are as silent as the respiration of flowers, but essential to the tree.

In between, the cohesion spreads its arms and knots a few doubts to welcome the new. There is no glory, no ambition in it. It has deep sleep and a calm. As unassuming the sea is, the desert is and the hills are at night - yours and mine, the lives of others' are too. There the ink dries and thoughts flow as it has nowhere to reach. It runs. Poetries and novels become seismographs. They bend down on all the memories that were and will never be wise but neighbours all along.

Somtimes we write because we would want the story to end in a certain way, abruptly. Certainty is blasphameous for a lost soul. It is that when the old frog jumps from the sea to the well and feels nothing has changed.

He is home.

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The Hungry Tide

Inspirations Continue...

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