Friday, 27 December 2013

Memoirs

'Life is but a collection of memories, grouped effectively before death.'

A silly child, who mocked and rejected
the meaningless musings of a world
that ebbed into enduring autumns and
dark winters, came to sit beside me.
With his hands ridden in mud, but without
the roughness that life would grant it
with, he asks me to cherish the purity
of his words and the radiance of his smile.

Replacing the child is a lad whose shine
continue to whisper what the child shouted,
He hid emotions somewhere inside his eyes
which seemed to deepen into an oblivion,
Where fragile thoughts were shattered
by awkward words. With a pace that guides
his motives, he wastes no time to point
my senses onto his frank smiles and a
relentless heart.

A person who looks more like me could
be seen, experience (rather torments) of
living has smothered his eyes and haunted
his mind. His hands seem weary, legs tired
and through the long walk, his head stuffed
up by useless ideas, inflates like a balloon.
A prick made by memories finds him
bursting and swaying meaninglessly.

I see my own reflection beside,
I see him write the words with earnestness
and desire, though his legs grew stiff
and immobile, his pen masters all unfathomable
heights. He counts the faces he sees,
He asks them of their well being,
He forgets all goodbyes and struggle
onward for the rest of his life.

 I see a future (distant but sure), maybe
upon the corners of my side, where I remove
my temporary hide, and make a perpetual ride,
I see myself galloping forward in time, and
taking siestas with infinities wrapped up in
each passing moment, perhaps then I shall
write again, not for the world to see but
for me to remember!

Notes
Inspired by the Malayalam poem 'Anyan' written by sir O.N.V.Kurup, this was written at Ernakulam (where I spent the better parts of my childhood) on 26/12/2013.

Tuesday, 10 December 2013

Hamartia

Hamartia - the flaw in character which leads to the downfall of the protagonist in a tragedy

When my mind thrust all its vigor
Into the nerves of my framework,
I crunched with envy as the villain
Of the unfinished novel in my attic
Slowly brought himself on the threshold
And barked violently, I noticed how he
Looked upon with lust at the glorious
Image of her. And how as a pigeon
Watches a crumb of bread, she kept
Her gaze firmly fixed on his silhouette.

He never held her, he never promised
A life in the folds of my imagination,
He was thoughtful with each word,
Cunning with his vivid expressionism, and 
Roguish at every act of love. With
An overwhelming force of pain and wrath
I first gifted her the pangs of my torture.
She wept the whole day, while I took
My pen and disfigured the villain's face.

Soon, she took her life away from mine,
The promise of never separating from my
Anxiousness was shattered in front
Of my realm, but to weep is not a man's job,
The hate brewed, I made the protagonist
Desecrate the villain in more ways
Than I could hope for, in the pool of his
Wretched blood , I watched the reflection
Of my cold face genuinely portraying a smile.

The protagonist disappears into the horizon,
The seas of pain he inflicted remains in
My mind, I watch the deserted scene and
A sense of sympathy arise from within,
Before it builds further up, I dismiss
All thoughts and search for the miracle
That would pull down the novel and
Restore my blatant life.

Sunday, 8 December 2013

An Act of Love

Courtesy : The Mag 197

By a sweep of unison,
They waited for her to
Take her first bite into
The offering made in
Part delight and mostly
Love.

After her humbled beaks
Quickly closed on each
Other, a sound, not
Of the crunch, but of
Waves of shared cries
Were heard striking
The bare and rocky
Shores.

Amidst those cries they
Danced wildly, encircling
The divine rendezvous
As if casting a mystic
Splendor which transcended
Slowly.

All the while her eyes
Grew moist with affection
And the hand that fed her
Swayed with the wind,
It were guided carefully in
Between.

And when they bid the hand
A final farewell, no
Words were shared, but it
Moved steadily towards
Those eyes and removed
A drop of tear. Cause after all
It was the only thing they
Cherished.

Saturday, 7 December 2013

Déjà vu

'Ocean of Dreams'
Courtesy : abstract.desktopnexus.com



Wave after wave of constant ordeal,
And it took her a dream
To let herself dissolve
Into the narrow corners
Of her surreal field,
Designed thoughts
And immersed strife.

There she met the comfort
Of sharing griefs,
Of planting love
And hanging on shoulders
When the walk became
Tedious and long.

She met a comrade,
A loving creator of her destiny,
Who danced to her appraisal,
And granted all her minimal wishes.
She felt life.

She paced to find places
Where her memories could be planted.
When her swivels cease
The only life
Worthy enough to be thought about
Is the life in her dreams.

The dreams capsized one morn,
She woke up with her mind torn,
Her laughs echoed from within,
But her lips never curled with joy,
In the world, sans the spread
Of her wishes, she struggled.

The darkness was blinding,
The silence was deafening
And the moments were stationary.

She drifted along in space,
Particles, unlike her,
Waited for the meeting,
With time, her déjà vu shall begin!

Thursday, 5 December 2013

Madiba - A Tribute

“I have walked that long road to freedom. I have tried not to falter; I have made missteps along the way. But I have discovered the secret that after climbing a great hill, one only finds that there are many more hills to climb. I have taken a moment here to rest, to steal a view of the glorious vista that surrounds me, to look back on the distance I have come. But I can only rest for a moment, for with freedom come responsibilities, and I dare not linger, for my long walk is not ended.”
 - Nelson Mandela


In life, when I faced odds, the image of this man always helped to recover my hope. Having spent most of his lifetime in jail, he never came out with vengeance. Rather he had a saga of forgiveness to be prophesied and a life filled with sacrifices to give for a struggling world.

The skies turned mild gray,
My mind remained rustled amidst,
Hopelessly I gazed at the setting Sun,
A million prostrations were paid,
As he slowly disappeared into the sea.

Just then a dove circled around,
She flapped her tender wings
With rejuvenation and grace.
I found her to be moving towards
The horizon, where the lights
Of the Sun still blazed.

From there she dived
Into my tormented mind
And showed me a vision
Her life was destined to show;
A land where lights remain, and
A path that lead towards the land.

With the bludgeonings of time,
The dove faded from my memory.
And took flight to its abode, but
The vision lasted forever in my eyes,
And the gentle flaps of her wings
Continue to reverberate in my ears.

Madiba will always be an inspiration, his walks shall never end. He will always transcend hope and shine gloriously like a light that shall guide all lives from darkness!

Wednesday, 4 December 2013

Revolution is Home Made

"You can cut all the flowers, but you cannot keep spring from coming" - Pablo Neruda

 -

Tonight, my mind shall not let the torridness
Of sleep torment my senses. Keeping together
My thoughts become violently difficult, words
Like a gust of formidable vengeance pour all
Over my perpetual lethargy which until today
Shackled my intellect with visions of peace.

Tonight, my legs shall not give away to exhaustion,
For it shall march, left leg after the right, into 
The indomitable resting place of my contained
Rage. The nails of the coffin which with it
Was buried, under layers of contrived emotions,
Shall be pulled back with my bleeding teeth, and
Along with the taste of blood that shall drip,
I shall know the taste of its colors too.

Tonight, my heart shall not sink into its
Calm tedium, but seek the exasperated
Sentiment with which the revolution, that was
Planted somewhere inside my thoughts sprouted
Into a self-sustaining spring of red flowers.

Note
Inspired from the Indian (Malayalam) movie, Left Right Left which went by the motto 'Revolution is Home Made', as you see, I used it as the title of the poem. At this instance I pay gratitude to everyone who laid out their lives in struggle to change the existing atrocities, you may be gone, but your ideas shall live forever.
'

Wednesday, 27 November 2013

Vision

Opening the doors, that spent all their life gently serving
My feeble egoism, though taking none of my gratitude.

Eyes were then training to devour the flash of light and
To define the tangled threads of a motherly nature's love.

The light seemed offending at first, but my search for
Miracles found me hopping merrily behind the granter
Of  joy, an old lizard! As I searched the sparks of my
Vision, the moments were summed up by the words
                      I discovered myself

Sunday, 24 November 2013

The Partition

I dedicate this poem to all Pakistanis. You are all as much a kin to me as Indians.

One of the many images of partition that moved me emotionally. It was also
the cover photo of  Yasmin Khan's book, The Great Partition

 The second column of Muslims passed,
Not a soul in our side had the strength,
To shower them with our words; cursed,
Along they passed as silent as us,
Drifting with the hot and wild wind,
That very often burns our face,
As we cut through this desert; wretched.

O lovely dawn of freedom,
while you showered purple and gold,
half of us never knew what future held,
Singing and dancing beneath the relentless sun,
we hugged and kissed the conspirator's arms.

The line drawn that sliced Punjab,
The surgical tool that dissected Bengal,
Never seemed more poignant,
Till it ripped us apart from Lahore,
And made us to savor this journey.

Guided by a false pretense of safety,
Moving onto a false notion of liberty,
Living on the narrow verge of insanity,
A humanity was displaced into sheer poverty.

O, the world we left behind,
The luxury and beauty of Lahore,
The exotic parlors, the crimson sunsets,
And vast field of wheat that stretched on and on,
All of it replaced now by the creeping bareness,
Of the Thar.

All my journey was guided by two eyes,
Eyes of a child, barely ten,
That never showed a tinge of skepticism,
While we were in spells of rue,
His eyes were curious for more.

The child's father died last night,
Another victim in this great fight,
The column never stopped,
The child with eyes that moved me,
Were left behind all alone,
Everyone were fighting their own war.

There were no time to turn back,
The column should move on,
Cause terror echoed with the fresh gust,
The desert shall turn into a tomb of dust,
And somewhere along we will face,
The men armed with guns and swords.

A plane dropped of some food today,
One slice of bread for each stomach,
In the desert it were a piece of gold,
And in the pain it gives us hope,
Away form The Promised Land we move,
Onto an India away from us,
Mentally and physically.

The third column of Muslims passed,
They pitied us and our flight,
A word of caution and inspiration,
Someone even gave us a bottle of water,
The thought of it makes me proud,
We are brothers after all,
We will remain so forever and ever.

Nearing an India we never saw,
What we left behind could never be sought,
And what we want can never be bought,
Memories of Lahore still burns,
As we enter into a land of ruins.

God bless India, God save Pakistan,
And I even pray for that man who gave us water,
When shall the countries give each other the same?

Many of us are settled, many of us died,
Those who lived on still muse over the world,
What insanity?! What torture?!
To have brothers ripping each other apart,
And eating on the others' heart.

Many still pray for the countries,
True we are brothers,
We are seeds that sprouted in the same field,
Yet overgrown and often alone.


Footnote
A poem I wrote some time back. Though not even my parents were alive during the 1947 partition of India, I gathered all the info though books, mainly The Great Partition by Yasmin Khan and Freedom at Midnight by Larry Collins and Dominique Lapierre. I also thank an aged friend of mine, who helped in narrating what he witnessed during those troublesome years. For any more info on the partition, here is what wiki has to say : Partition of India

Tuesday, 19 November 2013

A Poem Colored Red


The sober winds of a rather warm November
Blew steadily towards the East. From the seas
They traveled, and the people they subdued
Under their severe show of power, they also
Took a brief moment to share a poignant story:

'From the fields of a nation where red flags flew
With sparks of gold radiating from its corners
In passion and unwavering ecstasy, we speak of
Puerile minds who were offended of being
Abused by destiny which kept them hungry
Each morning, while we (the winds) ate their
Fragile (yet tasty) homes and drank their sweat.

Is it offending to be favored by birth? Anarchism
Proliferated among them, their withheld bodies
Ached for freedom and the legend of a man, who
Cut though winds in his motorcycle, gave them aid!
To be stupid and to be outraged is a mortal sin,
And it must be said with sadness, they paid!

How do you define a common man? What is it
That makes a man uncommon? Is it the luxury
That keeps him lie down in comfort, or is it his
Machiavellian tastes to be wealthier that inflames
Men like you? Whatever be it, all it took was an
Uncontrolled show of disgust which turned
Common men into exalted martyrs, and many
Granted us the blame for blowing their lives away.

We must say (in disgust) that the bearded saint
Is the one who deserves the blame, he rode
Them along in his travels through socialism,
And dropped them abruptly in burning fields
Of hysterical idealism, which was fed upon
By his fervent addition of a long lost hope.

So, my friend before we bid you adieu, we
Can show you the fate of bearing the potent
Ideals that they carried, for you to know.'

And then through their vivid gust, I saw a painting
Made by my concealed mind, in reverence.

The martyrs slept painfully in their red painted
Coffins, their hands were locked by the weight of
The Earth, their mind clogged by the blocked flow
Of blood, yet their spirits flew like the saint on the bike,
Out of their lifeless bodies, I heard his reverberations,
'Kill me coward, you are only killing a man!'

Notes
Inspired by 'The Motorcycle Diaries' and what I see everyday in my immediate surroundings. I dedicate this poem in reverence to the idealistic views of Ernesto Che Guevara who still lives and inflames the hearts of the oppressed with revolution and hope.

Sunday, 17 November 2013

Chrysalis

Chastity of the world rose like dead fish and
The smell of un-cremated emotions stealthily polluted
The waters that flew patiently beneath the core.

Feeling the warmth of the decaying carcass, the poet
Laundered ceaselessly his stained outfit presented
By his mother at the revered hour when poetry was
Implanted in him with the surge of 'bili' lights.

He never slept again, waking up with a start,
Forgetting the jaundice which killed his better half,
Which continued to haunt him when he tried to move his limbs.

A stammer never escaped his speech, but his poems
Overflowed with the love that his mother lacked
When she left him alone with the blue lights, which
He revived unerringly, each time with a silent disgust!

On a day when apathy crept through his quiescent half,
He found a crushed chrysalis in his garden, he looked
At it and wrote the poem which you have just strode on!

Saturday, 16 November 2013

Being a Legend | Adios to Sachin Tendulkar

Somewhere I have read a banner that said about Sachin Tendulkar, 'Many compare Sachin with God. I mean he maybe great, but not as great as Sachin'.

Having left the field for one final time today, I try to pay a small tribute for everything this cricketing legend did for the country in the past 24 years of his career.

To my audience who may not know of him, I must say, he is more than just a cricketer, but truly the most loved person in India. And that indeed is the reason why he was awarded Bharat Ratna (the highest civilian honor in India) and also became the youngest person (at 40) and the first sportsperson to receive the award.

When Sachin showed up in the cover of the TIME magazine


Along the unfathomable walks through
Streets that overwhelmed my vehement
Desires to keep track of the moments
That a nation forgets to take a breath,
I found devotees of a God that proclaimed
Neither of the miracles he performed, nor
Of the souls he led onto salvation, but
About a prodigy who could inspire lives.

Fasts went on till the final images of him
Shown on their old yet priceless television sets
Brought (perhaps egoistically) to steal the sight
Of a person who became their lover, brother,
Son, and friend. Even the scurrying rats of the thankless
Slums spread faith today (rather than epidemics),
As he took the final lap of honor.

I felt blessed to find his face etched forever
In my memory, to hear the chants of his name
Reverberating louder than prayers of a 'holy'
Nation, to feel the rhythm of the spell with
Which he envelopes the devotees with his
Wooden stick, to find my eyes disturbed
With an unguarded sprout of tears.

What happens from now? Where shall the
Countless worshipers go to seek peace?
Whom shall they consult during adversity?
Who shall guide them onto light?
Men may come and go, shouting hymns
And planting hysteria, creating God's
That are reduced to the boundaries of a
Lifeless stone and charmless shrine, and
Dissecting lives ever more, but a legend
Shall rarely come by again, to heal the
Mind and ensure credence, very unlike
A shooting star, but rather like an assuring Sun.

Footnote
I remember this one time when the Indian state of Maharashtra was having a communal violence which was organised by a 'political' group called 'Shiv Sena'. They hunted down a number of non-Maharshtrians and expelled many from the city of Mumbai. Anyone who stood against them was dispelled from the pleasure of living. Sachin Tendulkar made a brave statement then that, "Mumbai belongs to India. That is how I look at it. And I am a Maharashtrian and I am extremely proud of that but I am an Indian first"
And this is probably why the last stanza may sound a bit odd when talking about a sportsperson, which obviously is not the only thing Sachin have been.

Sunday, 20 October 2013

Alter-Ego

I.
It is a clock, a clock as old as the antique hotel,
Which ascertained the abominable fact that
Two certain hours stood before me for sunrise,
I searched for Earthly motions, for a rustle of bats
Or the incessant chirp of a sleepless cricket, but
The blessed streets of Benares remained in a world
Filled with dreams, desperation and divinity.
In an hour where even Gods in the temples
Took a nod tired out of their daily chores of
Hearing swears and prayers, I stepped out of
The hotel that remained as dead as my thoughts.

Feathers you find on wings of pigeons were falling
From the skies, I shivered at the thought of dead
Pigeons flying around for salvation, a suspicious eye
Searched for answers of a meaningless sight,
My body ached with the rush of adrenaline, my
Legs found the pace that it forgot after the genuine
Rush of hormones during an unforgettable youth,
I ran where my feet led me to and dismantled all
Directions pumped by a frigid brain.

II.
The clock in the alley still show five hours to sunrise,
I woke up, leaving my memories to sleep peacefully
On a delicate bed. Passing through the streets of
Benares which chanted their final prayers of the day,
I felt urged to sing a swansong before the destined hour,
Deep Gharanas and un-cremated bodies blended into
A classical Hindustani tale, salvation begins here.

My thoughts, immune to seeds of rage now boiled
With a fervor unmatched, untamed, it inflamed my
Body and senses. It burned the veins, and boiled
The blood. With a spew of hatred I launched all of
My physical existence at all life nearby who mocked
At my tranquility, who laughed at my innate nature
Of transforming into a man-eating, blood sucking
Aghori. I walked home with a group of paralysed
Humans, and caged them along with my pigeons.

I went back to my bed and threw my head straight
To the wood of the cot. A pain rushed through,
Which reached my brain faster than the noise.

Notes
In the context of the poem, Gharana is a Hindustani style of music which originated in Benares and  Aghori is a fanatical devotee of the Hindu god Shiva.

Wednesday, 16 October 2013

Artist

Each passing second of a prosaic life
Showered me with scorns for not stopping by
At abodes where dreams flew like feathers.

I'm an eternal traveler now, through orbits of
Dreams, on top of balloons made out of canvas
Stitched tight with threads of noxious hope.

An artist was born amidst, he pricked the balloons
With a pin, taking out the strands of hope,
And sinking my life on seas of random celebrations.


Notes
Prompted by Kim Nelson on Verse First at Poets United . The noun artist ended up with celebrations.

Monday, 14 October 2013

Religion and Addiction

This is an old one, written probably a year back. Sharing it now. I always believed that the problem with an average Indian is his addiction to alcohol and exhibition of religion.















A hungry stomach burned,
The drop that sustains life
Remained mutilated,
Smog hid the Sun
From a weeping slum.

To feed her child,
A mother unbuttoned her gown,
A covetous mosquito flew about,
Sucked the mother's last drops
Of blood with pride.

The child stood alone in the hash,
He gazed at a world up high,
Amazed at the sight of flight,
An eagle soured to greater heights,
The world of clouds he caressed.

His father wriggled in at night,
One of his hands held the drink
That ceased all earthly strife,
The other grasped faithfully
On a jade Buddha,
Covered in pure gold and fat,
With lips that forever sneered.!

Sunday, 13 October 2013

Thank you for the Memories

Rahul Dravid a.k.a The Wall : Indian Cricketer
He retired from cricket recently


Since the time when I developed the intelligence to count, I remember counting the balls this man has guarded off during his selfless workmanship that many adorn by the meager word 'batting' in cricket. And to think that I would no longer see him play again shatters my heart. I know the heart is no longer guarded by the Wall, but, I am sure the memories shall live on.

Back when the motto of the days
Where fun and endless hours of
Undisturbed attention on the screen
Where men clothed in whites or blue
Would be seen submerged in a crusade
Against falling chances to salvage
Pride, I saw a man who looked
Behest with faith. Sometimes, the
Moment you remember forever is not
The one that made you cry,
Nor is it your last smile, for me
It is when I realized I found a person
Who could lift me up whenever I fall.

His battles where won and lost
Within his mind, his skills proved
Paramount, his glory echoed along
All corners of the miniscule globe
And his prowess induced fear in
The minds of the foe. Yet his
Smile entertained my lonely heart
His unbowed head made my soul
Leap further than all possibilities,
His unending selflessness built
An aura of supreme devotion
Within my wavering thoughts.

To forget the times is beyond
Possibilities that he taught me to
Climb. To bid adieu takes strength
Both from within and form outside.
Here I am alone again, the Wall
Shall remain as a silhouette guarding
My emotions as he did with the stumps,
And I know that with time all moments
Become memories, but I shall live
With you in my dreams, and you
Shall have your bat raised to new heights.

Sunday, 6 October 2013

Afterlife

This picture is drawn and painted by my friend Aishidha Rajeev.
Thanks to her sincere efforts I could pen the poem which almost came as an inspiration from the painting.
Kudos to her and her subliminal effort.

Killed once and dead thrice, pain is no longer
Rushing through my frozen veins, it has stopped
Somewhere between the terribly broken heart
And the viciously cleaved head. Thinking out
On the torridly lonesome after-life, it is not
Hatred that comes into the unscathed nerves,
Which still relay protected feelings of coming
Back to a human abode and living a new life,
Rather it is an ethereal passion to forgive and
Thank the destiny which made the evenings
Longer, days calmer and feelings narrower.

The worlds I travel are distant, the people
I meet are few. I searched forever on the shores
Where dead souls come to see rare cosmic
Lights that for a moment bring colors from
Earth, but never found a single face that
I laid upon in my disturbing Earthen times.
To die is indeed a moment's job, but killing the
Time after will take an eternity's patient wait.

Being born again is not my wish,
Violets smell in this suspended world,
And maybe the love of them keeps me
Bound to the vivid specter of minds passing
From the other world to mine. It is a promising
Sight. When dreams are now a part of nostalgia
And life is a word thrown around by depressed
Souls that wander forever, I still wait for
The cosmic shores to bring the color of you,
And then I will close my vision and the image
Shall drown inside my eyes and settle
Peacefully for all the eternities to see.




Friday, 4 October 2013

Metamorphosis

Artwork : 'Metamorphosis' by Cris Vector on Deviant Art














People pass beside me with an imagination
Drowned into a shallow pool of vestigial thoughts,
Induced emotions relentlessly fluctuate in their
Illustrative faces which when colored by lies
Gives you a mightier weapon than camouflage.

I see proclamations of fake monsters beside me,
I stop, look and fall apart as a worshiper of evil,
I utter profanity that the hero was always a coward
Who grew devoted to the laws of an insane world,
And destroys the monsters before they break away
Both from within and outside the unbearable inertia.

Keep moving along and the scent of flowers, grown
By a thankless woman who puts her uterus for sale
Every once in a year, greets me back to Earth,
Where stories mix evenly onto the air like the
Unmistakable melancholy of the forgetful scent.

People complain when the innate depression
In their shallow pools are brought onto the surface
Buoyed by my nonchalant allowance of truths,
Maybe it is hard to die away from your pools,
Or maybe the skepticism of my theory is what you
Regret now, whatever be it, the change is yours.

Sunday, 29 September 2013

Pilgrimage

The Mag 188
Photo by Mark Haley
Duty bounds all men with a rope
That pierce the flesh and plants
The seeds of labor. At the end
Of it all what we see is a light
That spots the faint dis-beliefs
We had in ourselves. The glory
Of life is when the light fails
To capture even the smallest
Prowess of dusty grooves in
Our limitless soul. A path to
Salvation is a walk we make
All by ourselves, without the
Pride that carried us around,
Without the happiness which
We hunted down, without the
Momentary discomforts that
We regret all along. A walk to
Meet the savior of all human
Souls, and the conqueror of all
Worlds which exist within us.

Friday, 27 September 2013

Happiness

Happiness, An Abstract
Credits : www.bidorbuy.co.za

What is happiness but a touch from
A word that calms your soul, when
You want to weep sorely on words
That forever remain unsaid.

What is happiness but the tricks of
A clown that jumps you off
With laughter and fills his starved
Dreams with a hope of life.

What is happiness but the magic
That fills the air from a masterful
Hand, and creates strokes of mystical
Finesse which made breaths and smiles.

What is happiness but the thoughts
Of a philosopher which resounds that
'Happiness is a shadow that creates
A blackout in our miserly memories'

Tuesday, 17 September 2013

Breath of Life

DEDICATED TO PINK FLOYD, A BAND THAT OVERPOWERED MY HEART


I was listening to 'Coming back to Life' by Pink Floyd (video above) just now when this poem came into my mind :


Here, where the bleeding rose overruns
The boundaries of a garden nurtured in
My limitless infinities of imagination,
I am thrown into a stupor by the breath
Of life that emanate from his firm voice.

The dark rains, that followed me since
The day I took my path away from the
Nomadic followers, slowly eased into
Oblivious chants of support that the
Singer got from the deep stretches of
My solitary existence.

Standing on a land that smells of
Blood and unaccounted 'sarin',
I heard cries of battles I never fought,
I saw lost lives that I never known,
They danced frantically along with me,
Death may have liberated them, but
Music have granted them salvation!

I kept walking, I kept running,
I made pace onto the gravity that pulled
Me towards it, like a child hopping
Behind a lost balloon, I found my feet
Make frivolous jumps to catch the tunes
That were being thrown around for me.

In that faint seconds lost in towering eternities,
I knew I am not alone until my ears go deaf,
And I am not sad till my hearts shuts the doors
 To the divine tunes that floats around.


 A modern recreation of the artwork made by George Hardie for the album
'The Dark Side of the Moon' by Pink Floyd released in March 1973

Saturday, 14 September 2013

Friendships are Personal

Picture taken during our college trip to Goa (India) last week

When I look back at the 20 years of experience I had on living in this lone planet which is found to harbor life, I find a lot of images passing by like a moving picture. Some faces stay on longer on my memory screen, I prefer to watch them forever.!
This poem is dedicated to everyone you see in the picture, and to anyone whom I find staying a second longer in my memory. Without you life seems a lot less colorful.


A melancholy poem of loss got stuck
Between my pen and paper last night,
In a vain struggle to untie the knots
That choked my words, I injected
A dope of fresh prompts, quite
Unaware of the loneliness that slept
Undisturbed in my rusted mind.

Without knowing the reason why,
I wrote, 'How shall you describe friendship?'.

Just as a faithful dog whines when
A master dies, my pen made a noise
Which killed seven different powers
That blocked me from my words,
I wrote about seven seas and infinite stars,
I envied the path of a frenzied quark.

Though I never added much to the question,
'How shall you describe friendship?'.

Feats of enchanting fleets from fights,
And tales of untamed heights of joy
Passed by my mirrored mind, where
I saw a part of me surrounded by
Hordes of faces I loved seeing beside,
The haste of passing images never took away,
The smile that sprouted from my heart.

With the same benevolent joy, I faced
The question, 'How shall you describe friendship?'.
I knew then, that some things are better
Described when you experience them.



Thursday, 12 September 2013

When you look out through the window, what do you see?

Credits : abstract.desktopnexus.com


You shall surely see the grace of a bird in fight,
But I see a mother's desperation to fly home to her hungry young-ones.

You may then praise the art of the setting Sun,
When I fear the fading shadows that unite stealthily with the night.

You laugh at a running saint being chased by a 'mad' dog,
I cry for the dog, cause he shall face the wrath of a mindless 'God'.

You shiver at the howl of a wolf, magnified by the silence around,
I smile with the symphony which gives me an illusion of company.

You see the moon rise steadily in the East,
I feel its webs of attractive aura making me walk into it.

Now, do you see a lonely poet juggling with words and missing many?
Because he sees you like a classic painting, while I continue the scrawl.

Monday, 9 September 2013

Salvation

Before the days of customary depression,
Joys of nature blossomed secretly like
A garden which was gifted with hard-work.

Credits be to the cycle of existence, all
The passions of youth merges finely into
The senseless devotion of adulthood!

We search for keys to happiness more
On the outside than the inside, as we step
Into an illusion of inflicted feelings.

Boarding a vehicle that guides you
And leaves no option for choice
Makes me think who is making the travel?

Is the path left to us? Or are we followers?
Why do we prefer a visit to the zoo,
More than a survival at the deepest forests?

Answers that float like an unguided missile
May breach any of our insane limits.

Between the momentary thoughts that pour,
A glance at the unleashed power of nature,
Left me in a state of chronic awe.

Notes  
A poetic rendering of thoughts that sprang on into my mind during my visit to Jog Falls, Karnataka yesterday. Standing underneath the falls and looking straight up, you see yourself and your life as a miniscule part of something that is too extraordinary to be explained.

Jog Falls, Karnataka

Sunday, 1 September 2013

Gifts of Servitude

Artwork by Jeanie Tomanek
Courtesy : The Mag

Angelic psalms of care often deprives
The pleasure of waiting for your God,
A noble crime is to forget the divine,
And rest assure in a miraculous drive.

It is sane to wait outside, when ghosts
Of hungry men waits to rape even after
Their lust has broken down into fine dust,
There you cradle your fear and drink
The burning blood that drains through.

Yet with a misplaced anklet that adorned
Her one leg, she swung upon branches,
(An image of love flew for the ghosts to see)
She left herself for the heavens to free.

Measured glances of hope dripped her
Fragile face, she was a daughter, a lover
A mother, a saint and a believer,
She planted herself onto the tree
And sat forever with her bare basket,
For the ghosts and the Gods to see.

Wings of faith were never too large
To lift her off, crowns of thorns
Were never too sharp to keep her down,
A bird which ceased the desire to fly
Now gave her adept company.

No mirrors were born out of the tree,
Which makes me wonder,
Is the bird I see a part of her?
Or are they both a part of something else?

Friday, 30 August 2013

Jealousy

Image : 'I hate humans'
Courtesy : bendragon.blogspot.com
 

Buried in a self created grave
Where the world lay in deep sleep,
Between undiluted wrath which
Pours pangs of targeted grief,
Our habits are allowed for torture.

What we retrieve as memoirs are
Uneventful days of passionate dreams,
When Eros flew around to spread a
Golden weave of lust, to entrap
Our innocent thoughts and poison
It with a dark potion of grudge.

As the poison spread, we fall
Into a trance devoid of charm,
Which we later coin as a slip
Towards the gorges of love,
But what the mind let pass,
Is the slow death of a comrade.

Can we cipher the unwritten
Words out of our past?
Could we pen it down like
A poet? Maybe then we would
Glimpse the grave where we lie, and
Rediscover our thoughts before they die.

 

Sunday, 18 August 2013

Conversations with God

אחד


Dear God,

It is not that I need to say,
But my heart is not giving a way,
You are the one who knows it all
(Cause after all you made it all),
Meager is it to converse on me,
When you are the architect of
Each and every one of my cell.

Sometimes whilst I sleep, I see
Lights that blind me with radiance,
I feel my head shake with violence,
I hear the sounds of an ebullient bang,
Then I see me flying like a drop in the night,
A whole world of people join me,
We settle near our homes in a bubble.

Like all dreamers, I wish to know
What it meant? Hope to hear a reply.

With love and account,
A fellow born out of your hand.


שנים


Dearest God,

It is only after I ceased the anxious
Spread of words last time, I realised
I never knew whom to send to
(Never have I known where you live),
This is why I kept it beneath a statue of Christ,
Which I am sure you would have got.

It is to be noted that I never got answers,
Maybe some answers are best when unsaid.

I searched for you in the church,
I hunted you among temples,
I even slithered beneath Buddhist caves,
But all I found were images without life.

Sometimes when I get afraid,
I stubbornly call your name,
But no mountains moved on my word,
Is this because I love you less?

I find truth unfurling like rising dust,
The more it shall rise, the lesser you see.

With love and intense account,
A fellow who loves you more and more.


שלושה


God,

Days where I waited have gone,
Yet, the pursuit for truth continue,
I met people, I saw lives,
I heard unanswered prayers and
Dying saints.

I blaspheme now,
Why do you spread hatred?
Why are people fighting each other?
Why do souls haunt even after death?
Why do they drink and fill their thirst,
Out of the Earth's chopped breast?

Beliefs are meant to change,
And some truths be left unsearched.

While you are asleep behind a fading image,
I shall spread the search onto my mind,
I hope to find you cold and dead,
Cause it is I who made you with my fear,
And I am sure I killed you with my sense.

With the last drops of love,
A fellow who failed to find you.

Four


My dear mind,

What distances should I traverse to find you?
What toils should I receive to taste your essence?
Within the arduous lies you create, I wept
Within the boundless happiness you showered,
I fluttered on unafraid.

When my search for you began I was afraid
Of not finding you, I was afraid I may end
Up monotonously settling back onto normality,
When I tasted your faintest scent, the fear turned,
I was afraid of my cynical knowledge finding you,
Conquering you and crushing you with all its
Idealistic irreverence. But then you stood firm.

Oh, heavenly it is to know little,
My dear dearest mind,
You made me taste the bitter tastes of spree,
Now take my body and possess it,
Devour it with your insurmountable force,
Alter it, rattle it and then kill it.

Thursday, 15 August 2013

The Path to Freedom - My Thoughts on India's 67th Independence Day


India celebrates her 67th Independence Day today. But for me, Independence is now reduced to a word. We are still bound by rules that makes us dependent on a government which cannot be even termed democratic. The great Indian Parliament has forgotten the days when it functioned properly. States are struggling to be split apart. Some struggling to counter natural disasters, even more waiting to be falling into the list. Curfews imposed in various parts confuses one with the mere notion of freedom. And then we have a group of politicians accusing each other and campaigning for a distant election. It is true we have made flee the British on this day 66 years ago, but still a long way to go for us to be free.


Independence is a state of mind,
It is challenged on counts of thought.

Brought about by an Eastern notion
Of scurrying the Queen and her zest.

Like a married Indian woman, freedom
Is forced to remain silent. To remain unknown.

Break out of the thoughts that hold us,
Shatter the images of living out of a government.

A provocative struggle is what the father
Wanted, not a passive resistance.

Indeed we can live without being afraid,
If we live the way bureaucracy wants us to.

But why live unafraid? Why reduce to being caged?
When we can live in the wild, roam, eat and revolt.

We are independent, but there are miles to go
Before the state sinks in to our thoughts.

Freedom stays away till the last person feels that he/she is the country, and it is he who should make his rules. Till then, we are still not independent.


My thoughts though march towards a distant past. A past where people stood up in defiance, and were not shadowed by leaders. A time when India was a colony, but the Indian was free in his mind.

 
Chandrasekhar 'Azad'


Subhash Chandra Bose : A forgotten hero



Newspaper report on Bhagat Singh and Batukeshwar Dutt. They bombed the assembly while also making sure that no one got hurt. They were later executed.



The trio which were hanged on the same date.
Mahatma Gandhi : The man who inspired a nation


'My name is Azad, and it means freedom'
The man's eyes glowed in passion with each word,
By the irony of his birth, he was caged,
But with the might of his thoughts, he was
As free as a drifting hawk.

Men like him could never be ruled,
They could never be smothered
From taking off. They crave to fill
The world they live in with the
Freedom that unsettles their poignant
And struggling minds.

They face deaths with a blatant smile,
Face bullets with an ease of mind.
They are driven by courage and
Not with the terror of fear. They
Live, smile and die. But the ideas
They shared shall never pass onto dust.

With a modest appearance, they are
The heroes that no soul hails,
No praise garlands their stubborn resistance,
They hold no glitz, they hold no skill,
But their spirits could never be contained.

It is this a country wants,
Freedom is bridged though thoughts,
When thoughts frame our acts,
We live to be free. When our actions
Unite with the world, everyone
Shall live independent.

The hope and prayers of this country rests with its own people. If they could idealize these individuals who have laid their lives for what they believed in and also to emancipate a nation from the grips of torment, changes could be made possible.


 With a heart that beats for all,
I bow to you, my motherland,
Within your arduous love,
All of us remains united.

When we embrace each other with love,
It is your tricolors that sanctify us,
When we release the charms of duty,
It is your soul that ignites our body.

I bow to you in respect

JAI HIND