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 :)
Once, I thought I heard someone... Someone surely called my name! I paused, A shiver in my knuckles, crawled up my finger tips. I heard my sister chew and fold the chocolate foil, 'Crisp' ,the sound oozed off the edges of it's folds And yet,I heard nobody call my name. It now feels so strange, because the shiver was one that crept out of a spring of content And shook me to life. So tell me, As I need to know... Wasn't it you who searched for me... Wasn't it you, Who spoke that word, That word that contains this cluster of a million memories The word, I dread But if you you ever call I'll smile and raise my head, And maybe say a 'yes'!
Your hair, It tickles me near the nape of my neck, When you sleep with your head rested on my shoulders. I try to balance the luxury of your comfort And sit upright, not moving an inch! You shrug, and fall into my lap, The black and white characters on screen, Seem to move at a faster pace now, The white incandescence falls on your face You frown and bury your face towards me. My fingers draw patterns on your scalp And your soft hair, cushions them. You are fast asleep, And these are the romantic movie dates, I await..the black and white screen With your sleeping face rested on my lap And your face ever so serene! So tell me, When would you like to visit again I'll keep my father's movie collection here You can pick one out And fall into a blissful sleep
I remember the hardened face, It was seen, but not felt Or rather felt, but not seen Was trying to hold the dream in a bubble, When it scattered into a million rainbow hued sprinkles. Tried to seek myself in it And here am I, I am that minute prism of light Through which scatter , rays of uncertainty.
Do old poets write better poems than young ones And is it because they have more years in their pockets... Or a grey old beard to stroke! Or maybe because they've known the vacant feelings wrapped in little giftboxes, ones that escape like the scent in the box that begins as a sweet fragrance But holds nothing more than your room dust and the laundry smell Once it has been there for long...
Or is it because their old heart belongs to the past And in their poems they can pour in bits of it, People and acquaintances wiped into ashes, And all that stays is only a rhyme of the words... That still clings on to those old grey cells That has outlived them all!
Or perhaps the present is what ripens a poet's soul The sentiments haven't collected a layer of dust And are plucked while there's still that throb in the pulse And that creative rush...
And either way, whoever writes a better poem Is a futile thought For haven't you known Nobody reads these poems That are only good to be left as fragments of somebody's soul.. Old or young, It's all the same... But I'd like to think they stay around For no one to see or know But unable to be destroyed or restored, They'll turn into dust...and stay...and stay...and just stay... For they refuse to be alone.
At times..at certain times, I'm not hungry but I eagerly await the cooker whistle to let out that steam and hiss... You know, it helps to closely listen, Listen...when your mind is sneaking out of your head, And the whistle can let your ears sting But pull back, that chunk of your meandering mind.
At times...certain times again I watch my neighbor fix the light, And I secretly hope, That he stays on the ladder for a while... Why...for it brings back memories of a lover, who once climbed down a ladder in defeat And coyly suggested that the candle flame holds more romance than the roses, And maybe we should let it flicker all night. And then again...at times, I dip my head in a bucket of water. And in my mind I see myself, sandwiched amidst the blues of all shades wrapped up in a single wave... I'm quite sure I smile, Until I lose my breath and pull back holding on to the round edges of my bucket, And stare down at the tiles... But rarely do I write down a poem To confess that there are such times, And to convince myself that it's okay to collect them And jot them down as a few lines, For as incoherent and absurd they do seem On a piece of paper, it all settles and breathes fine...
It might sound like an exaggeration And even as I'm afraid that's true I feel, I've nothing left to see or loose, I've met everyone I ought to meet And no one else do I wish to know... You might ask me Why it's so... I feel so old already Can you spot those wrinkles around my eyes? Even at this ripe age of twenty two I feel there will be nothing to perceive and take me by surprise... I've met and known my friends who'll stay A woman like me Will only polish her old pearls and would'nt replace them with new beads... For I've also had friends who betrayed And taught me to part ways with companions who then become acquaintances to strangers who are soon forgotten... I've also known male friends who preached feminism and Beauvoir! But seldom lent an ear to any opinion I dared to share Amidst their disputes and debates... And needless to mention their countless infidelities and affairs Of course, women are too complex, Unlike Beauvoir who was simple and they liked to read and discern... I've had good teachers Who taught with a passion that made me learn, I've also had ones who made me question life... Their or mine, I now fail to remember! I have known a love... and convinced myself that it's not here to stay, Like a paper boat that wobbles in a bucket lake And then fails and lies to rest in that little space... I have been desired by an older man, Who tried to get closer and touch my hands I can't remember his face, For an image of a green reptile now clogs my mind A reptile creeping up my arms I shrug and dust it away... I have failed my parents and myself And seen failure, jeer and mock at me I have had sleepless nights with yellow and red pills by my side Singing a lullaby filled with lament Trying to put myself asleep... I have known the temporary trance that a success can endow while it smirks at my face And makes me the fool... who is left alone to gape at herself...
I've also felt an ecstasy, in feeling every touch,and stare and even a friendly gaze I've shared I 've also felt the urge to rip apart that little throb in my pulse And close my eyes to a red that'll blind me and put me to an eternal rest! And whatever is to come, could it be very different from what I have felt or seen? Similar people would I meet, Ghosts of friends,lovers and family. 'Uncertain life', full of twists and turns... I throw my card on the table, Why don't you throw yours and play this game with me?
Mother says "shush" When I address you affectionately with that name One, that I rendered you with the warmth and devotion of a daughter's love, But mother worries the others won't understand And think of me as a flippant child A situation, she'd highly dislike! But you know better, As you've grown used to it, At times you only respond to that childish nickname! And that you're my father, needn't be confined to a tradition that demands me to address you that way, For any observant person who'd see daylight... would know, that this little woman with her oblong face and a book in hand Shares a kinship with you. And mother knows this well, Why then, does she say "shush" You must ask her that... At times you look at me and frown with disgust It's something I hate to see... I am like you and built from you! I then, hate to think that you might frown upon yourself For I have always seen myself as an incomplete reflection of your benevolent soul!
You say I read people well, And hence I'll always have good friends This isn't quite true... And I must confess to you, For anyone who has mocked you in the slightest manner, I've refused to recognize... Relations begin and end with you And of course, this is a fragility I would like to keep aside! Your childish grin, You're very conscious of it But it always does add a pinch of brightness to my day, For that smile does spread across your face, And reaches your eyes that hold all those guileless sentiments together And always does give you away... You're suspicious of men who talk to me, For you haven't seen anyone like yourself! And so you tend to protect me in this man's world that is a metaphor of vile sentiments and elements contrary to your innocent self! I like it when you're protective, For it gives me a pride in being your daughter! But do not frown upon me, and believe in yourself, For you've always managed to succeed, And you just can't go wrong here, In fathering a little insane, a little broken But yet, a child who loves you so immensely!
I think of you quite often Brunelle, Is it strange that you still linger in my memory? We only met for a few hours, But a part of your life had you shared and I attempted to do the same as you were a foreign traveler in my land! And you looked at me with such eager eyes That spoke of your curiosity! I remember your eyes Brunelle Grey in colour old and tired, and yet they held the fervor of a traveler's soul Short blonde hair, fell to your shoulders in curls it was fading into a grey... the shade of your eyes! You wore your spectacles, when you took out your phone and showed me many pictures of home Such luscious strawberries grew in your backyard.. "This is little Joseph", you introduced your little grandson His cheeks like they were brushed with the nectar squeezed from those strawberries! You asked me to share the pictures of my home It's all so...varios, you said to me "Italy is a small land, not as big as your country!" I showed you pictures of the mountains of the north and the seashore from the Southern parts to where you were flying You promised you'll come back Brunelle, Come back to India, to explore each hidden trove Enfolded in its mysterious bends and curves The deserts, the mountains and the waters, "I'll be back to see it all", you'd said. I hope you're still there, with little Joseph playing in the backyard, That your passions and love haven't submerged in this pandemic Which, I hope is soon restrained! For those hidden troves await you Brunelle, And so does my country await this traveler... who saw nothing but beauty, wonder and allure even in its spices and the scents! "Ciao", you said your goodbye, A strange feeling now lurks in me... I wish you hadn't said a 'Ciao' But something, that could assuage me at such a time, Knowing that your memory isn't the only thing that I'll revisit in the years to come And the hopes I keep! Dear Brunelle... Do you hear me?
