Posting here, hoping that it'll stay forever.
I wonder if strangers visit this blog of mine,..
In case you are a visitor, I thank you for stopping by and can only hope that you like what you find here :)
I dont remember, whether I was sleeping or waking I sure was struggling somewhere in between. I don't know if you've ever been there It's a place where you can see... An orangish red ocean, like a curtain drawn behind your eyes! Three white spots I saw sinking in this red ocean Glaring at me like those of a camouflaged monster stranded somewhere amidst that vast red expanse!
The eyes grew bigger And scattered the red back into a black hole. These were white tunnels that seemed to pull me in, I wonder if it was A bright light that lead me to a resurrection, Or the dreadful monster Sharpening his claws that can rip apart my flesh and skin! Whatever it was, I opened my eyes and woke before I could tell. I'm left to think about it over and over... Until I secretly wish that the white tunnel Had just swallowed me in And not left me here to brood over and think.. And so,I lie awake these days Waiting for that red curtain to be drawn And for those mysterious spots To visit me again And take me to this place I've never been And unveil a secret that was hidden from me!
Bring me a rose, And pull a chair next to me Now lower your face, such that I can fit in a little whisper into your ear... I hope it doesn't spill out For the walls to hear... Now here are the things I'd never tell you otherwise, And listen to me closely For I let go of my pride that used to infatuate me And you do know, that this happens not often but very rarely! Here, are the answers you seek That I hid under my pride The answers that can fill every curious rift in your mind But here,they are for you to uncover Wrap your arms around it And gather all that you can For I won't offer it another time Not quite so generously... You taught me to love For I knew not what it meant You had read and researched it so immensely... I looked down upon how you dictated of a love A love,that I thought you'd not felt but just read And yet you spoke of it So very passionately I love how you hold me by my shoulders Once I've closed my eyes. You gently spin me around to yourself "Open those beautiful eyes of yours and look at me Here's all the hope and the love you'll ever need!" And you laugh into my ears... You laugh so loud, It silences all those sobs and tears! You sleep while you talk to me At times, you dream a dream in a minute And wake up to narrate it to me I've seen my little cousin sleep like that And thanks to the sleepless nights I have I have watched your childlike face sink into that pillow, and wake for a few seconds to bless me with a smile And then fall back asleep! You amuse me, When you have no complains Little grudges you hold against people Only speak of your callowness Which I wish I could've shared with you Like those grapes and nuts you crack, To feed yourself and me.. I like it when you see me in the little birds in your balcony, "She's tiny,just like you... And yesterday I saw a cat, who looked at me like you do..." The birds,they make you feel less alone, But I've found nothing that'd quite replace you...
Your face I trace out with my fingers I do that because I wish to trace myself back to you Even this poem of mine, Will stay here for me to come back and find you within these words and the little spaces amidst them Find me a bird or a cat would you? But until then, sit next to me on this chair And let me whisper all this to you Do listen to me patiently...
Am I writing this poem? Or is it writing me? Which is what And what leads me to it At times I fail to see... But either way It seems to me... That once I write I own it no more. It takes its form and breathes its unique intensity, That may then be endowed by a kind reader to me! What remains of me then? I'd be like one of those toymakers Who'd collect the rags and scraps of metal To make a toy that's only worth A few moments of whimsical childhood Then broomed away to be left in misery... For even these lines of mine May rest in a crumpled paper Thrown in a box that labels its worthlessness... But,even then am I Obliged to write. For,I needn't be aware but believe that this poem writes me well... Way better than I have written it or any other. For it's not just the words on the paper that I see, But a transparent medium that allows me A glimpse of myself! And through it, I do see and can breathe in an essence of my reality! But here's the sad truth, and it hurts me to tell... This poem does perish once it has written itself, and plucked a few buds of life for me! As for me, I callously allow it to rest in my old diary... Waiting for a reader to come my way, And share with it some meaning That might bring it back to me...
The grandmother, she came and sat on the same bench It was green and stood under an aged mango tree. Her knitting tools were gathered in a blue cloth, That she knotted with a learned patience that only a sixty or so years could teach! Every day,she would spend time here, Knitting little sweaters and socks Once she knit a little hat with a bright orange flower placed at its centre. When she'd finish her work, She'd spend an hour bestowing upon it a perfection, Only to please herself Which was then expressed in a gracious wrinkled smile... Surely, you have an image of her, Yes,she wore sarees in subtle colors And wore spectacles that rested on the tip of her nose At times she'd lift her gaze from her work Tilt her head backwards to get a better look at the teenage love birds.. Who'd scurry to find another corner and escape her! This one day, She came with a little toddler, Who held a bright red ball in hand, She placed him on the tender grass And he sat there holding the ball in a curious manner Looking at it and then his grandmother, who untied the blue bundle and threw him kisses in the air. He reached out, entwined his fingers in his soft round curls "Search the kisses...for they are stuck in there", she chuckled, as her needles clicked together! But then, the toddler hid beneath that bench, She placed the needles on her lap And paused to look around The bright red ball became a symbol of dread! For its little owner, was nowhere to be seen She got up and gasped... The needle and the yarn dropped down near her feet "Where is my child"?, she mumbled with her shaking hands rising to her chest! There came a little hand from under the bench It held the yarn of wool which was followed by a peeping head The grandmother bent down to pick him up Rested his head on her shoulders and dusted him well! She kissed those curls a million times And moved ahead taking long strides. The yarn,the needles and this part of her life, Was now forever left behind... For I've never seen her since that day I imagine,she's throwing kisses in the air at her little toddler To while her time away... I would like to know she's still knitting And momentarily thinks about this park, the bench and a stranger who came to look at her everyday!
I want a man to dress me up, I'm curious and wonder how that'd be... I wish to assemble all kinds of attires On a table, lit with the subtlest of light. And then, I'd ask him to have a gander At this naked woman, Ordinary or alluring, I secretly hope his eyes to mirror that for me! I wonder, if he'd pick the bright blue cloth and just drape it around me, Well why blue then... Because its warm and gracious And most likely the color that soothes his vitality. Or would it be a red, Because he sees in me a Lolita! He might dress me up in it... And stare at me for a while, And then decide That some bright lip shade would be required, To bury that innocence I'hve dug out from my childhood days To keep myself alive.. Or would it be a yellow, Because he's had a sad day. And the colour might just brighten up, His dubious ways that are about to let him sink, Or because it pays homage to that glass of red wine That's there to sooth his soul and help him forget that forlorn day! Or would it be a pink For of course, to him That's just more feminine... He might ask me to let my hair loose Such that it falls down to my waist, The cloth he'd drape such that it'd allow him a glimpse, A glimpse of my womanliness That keeps ablaze his virility... Whatever colour he picks from that table I'm quite sure, It wouldn't hold even the faintest reflection of me... For that'd be a drudgery He's sure to evade, And instead he'd like to build his fantasy.. For he's a man, And haven't you heard? They've always been the builders, the painters and the sculptors. And hence, they tend to build and sculpt whatever it is that they wish to see! Oh, do not blame them For they sculpt a woman with nothing but 'love', And believe, it's what she would like to be!
I want to live in a pumpkin house I'd have to get used to those orange walls And light scented candles for a variant smell I'd sit next to a carved out window, And stare at the same tree everyday My door, I'd decorate with crystal shells and yellow bells!
For breakfast I'll have a pumpkin soup, Lunch will be pumpkin pie with pumpkin juice For dinner I'll have pumpkin gravy and rice And that would suffice my appetite! At times I'd have some friends over. They'd talk about their cucumber and mango houses, "Cucumber house is better in summers", one would tell... "The mango house always smells nice before the winter spell". One would tease the yellow bells "You should have stuck to orange... To soothe the mind, camouflage does help..." But,I'd still have the yellow bells and wouldn't have a mango scented candle, Even for its smell! Cucumber peels I'd have as curtains Just to appease my orange walls...you know, A plant I'd grow near my window and water it, to sit and watch it grow... Would you like to pay a visit then? You're welcome with your friends... You could see my little plant and the orange walls, Feel the scent of my lemon grass candle And admire the crystal shells and those yellow bells... Or maybe you've felt that you live in a similar house as well? A house,that remarkably pleases you, but no one else!
Only if...you knew it's bliss to sit for sometime and just blink, Blink for it might feed you a sense of being alive, that might console you at such a time! Amidst all that juggling You should have paused, Paused while you carried a coffee mug to that car, Or rushed into that bus pushing someone aside, And impatiently breathed into that telephone! You should have learnt To build your mind fort Where you'd stay and maybe grab a drink with yourself... Made stories about that bald guy with the grey eyes Who you'd pushed aside, And make a song of how your dog licked the coffee in the mug! And followed you around with a coffee breath! You should then worry a little, For your edginess over that call Maybe you should have closed your eyes, taken a deep breath, smack your lips and said, "Yes miss,take your time, For I'm still here... Trying to catch my breath and sound all clear!" Only if you'd built a mind fort... You'd have felt fine. But because you didn't You can call yourself sane, And the whole pandemic you do blame! But it's been ages since my mind has been quarantined. And at a time like this, I'm sorry ,but I feel fine... And here's a funny poem I haven't written in a long time!
I know, I complain And forgive me dear, As an overwhelming feeling of disdain does cloud my judgement, Time and time again... But I wonder where I'd hide... And if I did, would you try and seek me, Once you begin to fathom this colossal misery You see, as this,'thing of beauty'! Who is it then, that you see? It surely must be someone, who only holds a faint resemblance to me. For if you really saw how wretched I could be, You might have to envision A new sentiment towards me... Now that'd be difficult, dear You say you love me now... And,we know how that has been a denouement, You were trying to evade! For love used to scare you And now that you've embraced it You must hold it near, And assume that it's for me... I'll let it be that way Until the day you decide to awake And notice everything disarrayed! I'd like to know then, Would you still embrace your love... Or would you hold on to me 'Me'...this object of affection that only you could ever see!
At times, I find a corner of a room And crouch there, My knees bent to my stomach, My chin I rest amidst my breasts, I then, take a deep breath in... "I am, I am", I say to myself As a sour spice of my being Tickles my nostrils And a sweet aura of my womanhood I sniff and immerse myself in... Something in me awakes I'm nothing but this smell A cluster of cells That might shatter and break Like a droplet that contains the rainbow hues Sprinkles out into a million transparent dots And leaves nothing but that soapy smell! There's something, rather intimate about a smell! As I crouch here, Amidst all this chaos, distanced from me, by a door... I become that little space I crouch upon, I become that smell tangy yet sweet, Like that coconut mist I rub on myself, This is all me I am...and will be only this, For nothing more do I wish to be...
It must have been the same road then, for it held those familiar boards and bends... The hospital signboard was crooked as always, The 'o' in it's name was missing since our graduation days! The footpath sheltered the cigarette stubs, Callously thrown around by the amateurs to the nicotine buzz.. Gigantic faces, awaited at a distance, Wry and rusty... They were faces with limbs that I barely could see... They mirrored the stern glare of the sun. Although, anchored to these little limbs They now seemed to move or rather, they lumbered, in the attemps of a run... An unhurried recognition now dawned upon me. These faces I knew As they knew me... But never did they pause or greet Instead they stumbled,but moved To escape that intense glare from the sun! And if this ambiguity, That drapes this poem of mine Hasn't yet warped your mind, I'd ask you to wait And bear with me, As more have I to write about the things I did see... These known faces begin to melt, Fragments of the discolored, rusty, gigantic faces... Slowly faded into a mushy fluid that made clumps and moulds They rolled as pebbles and settled in the crevices of the tarred road! And me, Was I even a participant here? For I felt nothing, And yet,I moved ahead on that turpid road.. Each step of mine, placed on those pebbles and clumps of clay, That now disintegrate to merge with the dust that flew away... And now, dubious figures await me Hollow structures,still unformed Gaze at me from down the road, Where am I headed, or who are they Will I now be A clump of clay? As I stop writing, I question myself... Was this a dream posed as a poem, Or a poem dressed like a dream? Maybe neither... I might have just said goodbyes to old friends, And seen their hollow remembrances... In the ones I'm about to meet...
Here, I visit everyday And more often than not, I wish to transfigure, into that wooden chair, this table, or even a leaf that's here to stay... The lamps light up, when the light is scanty. I know, For many evenings have I spent here. The lamps have aged along with this place, And so have I, wishing to be molded into their frame... The floor is concealed, By the mango flowers, That we dust off our shoulders on an autumn day They seem to clamber back on the branches For I have to pluck them off my hairs The very next day... A wooden windchime Hangs on our old mango tree, it swings at times, But no sound have I heard. Nevertheless, it's younger than the tree And my old soul, Which pays hommage to it's silver bells That sometimes, grace me with a glimpse... from amidst those branches... Is it absurd.. You tell me, If I wish to be molded into or transfigured Into that lamp or the tree. For I wish to stay here, as long as forever!
So, here's a request I wish to make Would you be so kind, To pour me into that lamp frame Or hide me in one of those branches, like that windchime that momentarily glances?
Do you want to dive, into a nectar bowl? You might even take a dip here, If that is what you wish for... The nectar at first, won't make you dizzy But yet, you might hold on to the edges If you want to stay afloat... Close your eyes, while you're here, For you might feel a quiver at the nape of your neck, As the nectar entwines and knits your toes together. Your legs bound to each other Your hands must you rise and submit to the expanse of the bowl. The dense palatableness, Will slowly slide down that collar bone You'll gasp and hold on to the dear bowl As it edges towards that hollow bend in the collars And waits for you to sink Sink in the beatitude of the exhaustion it caused... And while you're there You dress it on your lips And drink it until a blurry conscious resides in your mind When you awake, Give it a little thought... Did you relish the dip Or were you devoured?
I want someone to write me a love poem He should have a pencil,a paper And a lit cigarette to smoke in hand. This person needn't be my lover, For every lover does become a writer And there isn't anything extraordinary about that! This could be a stranger I spoke to, Who hasn't read or written poems But I want him to take a pencil and sit, Sit cross legged on a rusty iron chair. He should chew at the pencil's end And ruffle his hair Beat his fists on the dingy table.. And take an eraser to clear up the blank paper, That helplessly stares... Hours should be spent Scribbling down the words and erasing them... And then he should decide to nap, And dream a dream Hoping he'll wake with a blurred vision of a poem! On waking up, He should let go, Let go of the ordeal of writing a poem! But that paper and pencil He should bring to me... For I can run my fingers through the blank page trying to trace out the imprints of a word or a phrase written and then erased.. And then can I tell him He has a poetic soul For I could trace out a broken poem And no one could write A better poem When they have found a muse in me...
I know a boy who sniffs at my poems And so I should write him one. For or about I can't quite decide, As I have known him well. Nonetheless I will write And let my poem tell.. He had his regards for Pound and read deep into Ezekiel's poetry. He thought Byron to be a better romantic.. Ofcourse,far better than Shelley... He wouldn't watch anything that didn't have a Kubrick or Godard label A clockwork orange he's both read and seen.. And mentions when he's asked about his preferences in the movies.. He frowns upon me, On finding me with a copy of 'Norwegian wood'. "Why would you read Murakami It's a book that everyone reads I haven't read and never shall read" This he said as he stubbed his cigarette Holding his gaze with me! And so I write these lines, For I know for sure He wouldn't read... But,I willingly agree with him for once, As anyone can knock up a few lines together And dare to call it poetry.. About these lines I'm not very ambitious And unlike anyone, I rather not call it a poem The words or the rhyme I have casually skipped, And a poetic idea I have none Although the few who read this Need to know.. I have a friend who sniffs a poet Even before he has read one.. And I guess,I scribble down these lines As an ode to this sleepless night,my boredom, And a dear friend who's not forgotten!
It was an ordinary sunset, But I must acknowledge the hues of passion, It generously shared with me. And even with the sour and salty notes of the breeze I crouched in the sand to soak the colours into me... Broken beer bottles lay idle with their bodies dug deep in sand They were remnants of a hazy evening, That now meant nothing Or perhaps were remembered for the sake of the sea banks... Or the beer they held in hand..
Golden foils of chocolate,peanut skins and crumbled papers that once held roasted chickpeas They're all inhabitants of this seashore Only at times are they tossed Or swept into the sea...
And then there were those orange shells I pick them up to see Crumbled peels of an orange Roast into a crimson shade A crisp crimson that an artist's palette might crave They rest next to my feet..
I pick one up, Curled it around my toe It made a pretty ring... I slyly slid it into my pocket And hence here's an apology.. An apology to the seashore, "For I'm sorry, but I like to carry my crimson memories..."
Itwas a monday afternoon, Warped up in an inertia Now so familiar.. And me, I chase the motion of a wheel like a helpless hamster in its cage! You know he runs, And yet,he stays where once he had begun the chase. A bald torquoise head now appeared Torquoise like the water that thieves the shells His eyes Rest diagonally on that bald head Hollow yet shimmering Like dews that rest on a dry Anthurium petal. Slowly he pulled the strings of the wheel... And here I wither away My hands and legs All tethered by a string were now snipped away... Pick me up,I pray and put me in a bowl like one does to the beads that fall and go astray.. And patch me back ,like a voodoo doll And in that monstrosity will I rest For now,when I see a turquoise head, I'll stop the running, pull my strings and stand erect!
