Soumya Scribbles...

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 . Watermarks! 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. If... 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. SoUmY@

Another quiet night passes by as we wait. Three for us, One for you, ( we still keep ). And "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...

Noise 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 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. SoUmY@

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. SoUmY@

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! SoUmY@ [Little moment of reckoning this! :) ]

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

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" SoUmY@

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 ... ....

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. SoUmY@

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! SoUmY@

Tonight 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. SoUmY@

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 require...

Indescribably in a rectangular path I measure height and you, width. Diagonally we traverse crossing each other Longing for a square. Wishing... (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. SoUmY@ [Pardon my french]

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?" SoUmY@ -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 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 yo...

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. SoUmY@

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 Wherever. 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. SoUmY@

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...

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. SoUmY@ [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 . ]

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. SoUmy@

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. SoUmY@