Soumya Scribbles...

I have your letters - The ones we wrote, sitting together. and few that travelled miles. I read them on winters as they remind me of falling leaves. In Summers, I sun bathe them. Blue parchments, yellow postcards, hurried white - Inks have been blotted in places. And they have your touch, ridge skins, printed. (They talk about) The broken table lamp we had, Constructive madness, correctional grammars and faded restraints - You have it all (here)  said, unsaid, implied, avoided. I have your letters - The ones we burned together and few that burned hundreds of miles.

The Blind: When it rains, I see a little boy, in torn pajama and with no shirt, running out of his small room. He stretches his hands to capture the drops -  all of them. When it becomes dense, unsolved puzzles play on his face - one for the success of the ones he could hold, one for the misses. He looks at the burial of each of them as the drops fade away on earth. He mourns as if it's his responsibility. His mother comes out, consoles, scolds. But the dutiful doesn't stop, can not stop. A few more, saline this time, fall and fade. There is none to pray. The Deaf: There is an old woman, a pianist. She still plays the piano on weekends and creates new tunes for herself. She looks at her little audience, looks at their eyes - when they are becoming indifferent, showing a little reluctance, feeling engrossed, catching tears - she plays on -  for all. She knows the reeds by heart. What she doesn't know is how she sounds when she plays. At the end when ...

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

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)

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 d...

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 f...

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...