Thursday, November 11, 2010
ki nazre giri giri si koi gham mein
aur honthon ke rang utri si kyun rehti hai
Unhe hum kaise samjhaye
ke har raat khwabon mein aap se mulaqat hoti hai
aur har baar humari rooh ka ek tukda hum chod aate hain nazraana
Ke ab toh lagne laga hai aaj kal ki humara is duniya mein kam,
uss haseen jahaan mein basera zyada hai.
Hum kehte nahi kuch inn logon se,
woh jaante hain, aur hum bhi
ki ishq mein fanaa huwe sharabiyon ki koi kami nahi
yaha is maikhaney mein
Bas do ghoont pi lene do, musafir
phir aap ko apni manzil mubarak
aur hum chal diye uss khoobsurat saaye ki orh...
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
And counting the stars in the sky
Letting the night breeze play with with my hair
A friendly dog on the street
A handful of melodies from simpler times
Stories woven inside my head of strangers passing by.
Maybe the search for happiness isn't all that elusive
As we would like to believe.
Tragedy is only that many unshed tears weighing us down,
And joy that many introspections away.
You bubble-wrap your heart and put it away,
Picking up the pieces later seems more tedious.
Emotionally more pragmatic, you say wisely.
I nod, and wonder what it would take to make you believe
You can't swim with the dolphins if you don't get your feet wet.
You can't fly among the eagles if you don't spread your wings.
You may break
And tell me that you told me so.
You know they say it is better to have loved and lost,
Than never to have loved at all.
You say it's a cliche.
I say it's a classic.
The world is Schrodinger's cat.
Look up possibilities in your dictionary.
Forgive the past, and look the future in the eye.
An awkward poem to convince you
To come out of your nuclear shelter.
We can battle the modern dragons together,
And break into the corporate castles.
Defeat the plagues and the witches together.
Claim the entire world for our booty.
Maybe I can be your bubble-wrap instead.
Maybe we can walk off into the beautiful sunset together.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
He adorns his past self unselfconsciously
And not just see it through sepia-tinted glasses.
Unlearning the weary world's diktats,
He rediscovers the happiness of half a myth ago.
The grass has been losing its green over the years,
The crick in the neck thus not pure sentimentalism.
Rendered necessary by an age that he did not understand,
Or an age that did not understand the likes of him.
These journies are conducted everyday behind countless glazed eyes,
The witch Memory assists with her protean charm -
Wiping out the unnecessary and repressed,
With as much ease as putting up blow-ups of the happy and peaceful.
Unfortunately, the frequent trips -
To and fro,
Past and present,
Come and go,
Live and relive -
Spoilt the time machine...
And now he hangs in a limbo,
Trapped in his own head.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Sunday, July 18, 2010
A dried up rose in the pages of a dust gathered book
Few unshed tears
And fewer misplaced memories
These lie in a road left behind.
And for the traveller who stops for his cigarette break,
Come back to him with every hazy grey of smoke.
And die as the miles-weary boots stub the end.
And life goes on.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Traversing the forest of forgetfulness and displaced memories.
Travelling on alternate frequencies,
Multiple universes couldn’t prove the truth of the matter.
Reporting from a different galaxy,
The voice of consciousness was broken, distorted.
Truths were shaken inside the box…
And the dice rolled out unexpected numbers.
Trying to make sense,
Trying to carry the truth from the Atman
And not shuffle the equation.
Multiple colors, and the never fading black
Warring/Waltzing in my mind.
Reality is overrated.
Truth - overestimated even more.
Kaleidoscope of purple lights and yellow bits playing out their parts.
The wait, the anticipation, the premature hatching of a fragile dream…
Crushed by Miss Cinik and Master Thisbè Leaf.
‘You’ wrapped up in a consciousness of a few words, or a million epics…
Moving the further from the centre, the harder you try moving towards meaning.
Oh yes, ma’am … very surreal. But wait until the end of the show to analyze the truth of this show.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Friday, April 23, 2010
Froze her fluid essence,
Caught her in one of those moments
You and I pass over -
Every day. Silently.
Now, after two eternities and a half
When they put that frozen statue under scrutiny,
They mark the broad expanse of a battle-worn forehead.
The pool of black
Crystallized into a glittering scorn.
Two balls of fiery ice -
Medusa's paralyzing gaze.
They wrote her off -
No work of art, this sculpture.
She had mothered her ice age.
Her ice age had mothered her.
It was just one of her protean shapes
In which she got stuck.
Now - brushed clean, gilt-framed and hung up
Before the yellow eyes of critical aesthetes,
She belies her origins -
Of faulty prophecies and misguided diagnoses
In her own ice age.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
The angelic smile cracks once in a while-
A temporal tear in the flawless gossamer.
The glowing halo hovers awkwardly over the heavenly locks-
Like forcibly thrust into an inhospitable aura.
Human colors hidden behind a manufactured fairy fairness.
It longs to tear off its wings and ooze red.
If heaven were grace, it would gladly fall from it.
It just was not cut out
To be a beacon of hope
Processed out of god's own factory.
Light and reflection
High cheekbones unadorned by the love blush
Shadows on the proud forehead, tracing arrows of past wars
Eyes that open no doors to the seven seas
One tear journeying to
Silent lips, virgin pink
A face that launched no thousand ships
A face pregnant with a hundred tales
Monday, April 19, 2010
making boxes of love.
Measuring the width
of wooden promises.
Checking the length
of varnished vows.
Perseus flies by
on his winged steed.
And Daedalus too,
on waxen wings.
Troubling her perspective,
Lifting her gaze,
As she sits there
making boxes of love.
Someone beside hugs a tree.
Another poetises it.
Yet another replicates it on their easel,
There's one who philosophically untrees the tree.
Then again, another wonders what to do with the tree anyway,
While she sits there making boxes of love.
Two semi circles side by side,
and a right angle joining them below.
A perfectly symmetrical heart shape she devises
To put on the boxes as they grow.
Beautiful miniature boxes,
each hatching in it one lovely dream.
The goblins pass by with pots of gold.
Fairies reveling in the firefly dusk,
And she sits there,
making boxes of love.
She asks Sisyphus,
"What is the time?"
But he has no time to answer back.
She just smiles, shaking her head.
She makes boxes of love.
he wanted to drown in
The shower of ephemeral scents
he wanted to bathe in.
The ebb and flow of her lips
melted his concrete
Her gentle rhythms
diluted his core.
"Let's meet in Donne's little rooms," she said.
But he wanted every drop of her.
How do you contain infinity in a ceramic jar
you bought from the convenience store on sale?
The moon had nothing to do
with the high tides and the raging storm.
The weatherman never anticipated it.
The weatherman always expected it.
When dawn caressed her the next day,
The sun saw -
Broken pieces of a ceramic jar,
scattered on the virgin shore.
Soft colors of an artificial night
Burning in my eyes
Keeping watch for my soul
Lest those lurking demons come claim it
I know they hide behind the shadows
And they wait for a moment of inattention
Bells clang – clang – clang –clang!
Winds whoosh – whoosh – whoosh – whoosh!
My night, my beloved solitude is raped!
I hate, I hate, I hate the light!
Penetrating gaze of a heartless judge …
I don’t have the witnesses and the proofs to prove my case
They cut out my tongue, I can’t speak.
So scared, so worried, so paranoid –
Let me hold myself tight and protect myself from me
Let me sing me a lullaby, let me rock myself to sleep
And while I sleep, I’ll stay awake and guard my precious myself
From the lurking demons, hiding behind the shadows –
So that I can have a sweet dream …
I am inside the whole.
This iris shaped hole is black.
This black hole is the eye, that sees no more-
The difference, the opposites, the distinction.
But the oil floats on water.
And i float on the reveries.
And i drown in the reveries,
For the reveries are surreal.
And i am lost in the hole.
I close my eyes, and the hole is whole.