Soumya Scribbles...

It's been pragmatic for long. The cobwebs and the dusts have made their fragile colony. The first letter is always special. Sabbatical has ended after countless summers. Shaky hand holds the pen, writes and strikes. Cigarettes burn. Wasted smokes dance around dim lit lights. White papers are to poets, what love is to a tree. It secretly wishes, someday it would bend its arms and hold the one she loves. It would confess for forgotten springs. But winters come and wrinkled papers stack. Night trespasses and leaves. The dawn comes, What was the yield? A poet wrote about how poets fall.

Dear love, Highways and boulevards aside, there have been sunshine and thunderstorms to remind me of your ruffled hairs and my unheld palms. The sea has been calm, it hasn't seen your footsteps on the sands. The sea has been rough - your absence, my abstinence, therefore. Light drizzle on night glass, whispering to my left, humming to my own I had what leisure asked for and pleasant offered. But, as I write this letter and the candle burns, I know how silly we are, how blunt! And that when the lightening strikes, it rains somewhere.

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...