Wednesday, 29 May 2013


Painting : Bittersweet Goodbyes by Grace Morai

A subdued aura of emotions gripped the place,
Her eyes never gave away to the inevitable moment,
She carried herself around, as graceful as ever,
While her heart, were sewing groups of burning cells.

I watched her frazzled face glowing with the Sun,
Her words were inaudible with the moving flux,
She held my hand, tight, as if she was holding on
To a rope that may help her out of her gorge.

I never knew what her words conveyed, It may
Have helped her if I understood, but for now it
Floated around my head, but never pierced inside,
Like an artistic hunter, it was waiting for the right time.

She embraced me a final time, and it seemed clocks
Stopped for the love that she held, to flow gently
Onto my heart; I held her close, and with a stroke
Of pointless hope, I asked her, 'Will we meet again?'

'When the moment beckons, hearts meet here,
When you hold love that keeps brimming out,
Do not fret any long, like how spores from a flower
Fly all over to meet its destiny, we shall too', she said.

Now, the hunter holds his knife close to my heart,
The winter that my heart passed through, made me callous
The knife of the spy, was shifted into the pen in my hands,
And with its ceaseless ink I wrote my ruined story,
O, and I wonder, how a scrapped story got her adept name?!

Tuesday, 28 May 2013

The Reprisal

Ponytail by Last Exit

Her hair lost all help from its folds,
It calmly spread itself all around
Their heinous and voracious eyes.

She lost the magnificent art of her curls,
As she was being ripped apart
And chopped clean and bald.

Weeks on, she hid her from her own eyes,
Hours on, she buried herself in cries,
Each second, she loathed the ticking clock.

The hatred she braved grew its own hairs,
It ravished with each moment of her wrath,
It violently spread itself around all life.

She choked with its overpowering force,
All it took was a final pact of truce,
And she let it out with a potent scream.

They were waiting for her lustful gaze,
She provided them with enough charm,
That they never saw the poignant umbrage.

They smelled her like some meek dogs,
Like a python slithering around a prey, Her hair
Fervently swirled over their slothful frames.

Thursday, 23 May 2013

Nataraja | The Lord of Dance

Art : Nataraja by Satheesh Kanna

All the reverberations of the world nestled
In a tiny speck that glowed bright,
Like beads in a necklace, It united with
The mighty hands of a violent Lord.

The speck, moved along like a Cobra,
It wrestled to be released, A space
Overpowering, yet calm waited
For the Cobra to taste his infinity.

The Lord held the flames of wrath on his left hand,
He clutched onto it with a rage unmatched,
With it all powers shall crumble down,
With it all creations shall see annihilation.

Umbraged, liberated and fearsome,
The speck escaped his hands, Fire
Spread all around the Lords' head, For once
The speck was here, next it was there.

It encircled the Lord in a heavenly tune,
The frenzy uplifted the Lord,
His hands moved to push the flame,
Onto the circling speck.

In a flash of ambrosial light and sound,
The speck exploded and whizzed all around,
The Lord went onto a fury of power,
He felt his waist circling with divine force,
He saw his hands moving to the exalted hymn,
His legs making steps against ignorance,
He found the world pay prostrations as he,
The Shiva discharged his fury by performing the cosmic dance,
The Tandava.

Fritjof Capra, a renowned physicist in a search for connection between Eastern mysticism and modern Physics suggested a revolutionary idea, that Shiva's Tandava was a sub atomic phenomenon. I have tried to portray the beginning of the universe in connection with the Tandava. Here the speck is a point that existed before the big bang. The speck being seen 'here and there' marks its dual nature which is an exciting behavior of sub-atomic particles. Shiva is an image of a power that provides for the big bang. If any clarifications are required do ask.

Here is the extract from Fritjof Capra's essay :

"Modern physics has shown that the rhythm of creation and destruction is not only manifest in the turn of the seasons and in the birth and death of all living creatures, but is also the very essence of inorganic matter and for the modern physicists, then, Shiva’s dance is the dance of subatomic matter.  Hundreds of years ago, Indian artists created different forms of visual images of dancing Shiva in a beautiful series of bronzes. In our time, physicists have used the most advanced technology to portray the patterns of the cosmic dance. The metaphor of the cosmic dance thus unifies ancient mythology, religious art and modern physics."

For more visit :

And here is a good article on the Nataraja :

Wednesday, 22 May 2013


Art : Abstract Sunflowers by Janis Zroback

Why do Sunflowers face the Sun?
Is it for to keep them by,
Or is it what that keeps them right?

By the veil of a darkening cloud,
The light separated my solitary walks,
The truth I searched for was spurious,
Sometimes it led me astray, And I gazed
At these wild passel of Sunflowers.

For a diurnal spread of flowers,
The Sun ripen into the truth,
For a hard going, homo sapien
As nocturnal as a day-blind bat,
There is no conviction to endorse.

So, I say the Sunflowers face the Sun
To catch their stroke of nonchalant life,
The search for truth is truth indeed!

Sunday, 19 May 2013

Something About The Sea

Painting : Radiant Sea by Karen Winters

O, the vastness that spreads before me
Of countless waves being born and dismissed,
Makes me feel the ignobility of being me.

The sea is an overpowering poem,
Upon its shores I gaze onto infinity,
The waves crush me and my thoughts,
I shuffle between spells of admiration,
And fear of nature's brute.

A gust of wind uproots me from the Earth,
The boats in the horizon seems closer,
Slowly now, I feel I am merging
With the commanding power of the waves,
I feel one, I feel flight,
O, the vastness of the Seas.!!

Friday, 17 May 2013

An Ode to a Falling Bud

Photograph : Child Fighting Cancer
Courtesy : The Deirdre Imus Environmental Health Center

An ode be to you, my falling bud,
You fell onto a world of famished calm,
Ignored, tortured, and in darkness' helm,
And still you remain,
In a world of silent dreams.

In your dreams you see the bloom,
Love that fill your fragile mind,
Hopes blossom, life shines,
And colors all around.

But all your dreams seems plucked,
You hold your fragile petals, now dry,
Before they ever tasted the Sun,
Before they ever felt the dew
And its sweet lullabies.

Yet the garden of your dream,
Hold birds, butterflies and light,
Its valleys are brewing
With scents thrown all around.

The ode be to you gentle one,
Lost in the fury of a grueling life,
Yet your dreams take you
To a place where you dance, In a shower
Of unperturbed bliss and lasting springs.

Tuesday, 14 May 2013

Swing on Around

Photograph: George Eastman Collection 1908
Courtesy : Sepia Saturday

Days when the world seemed flat vanished,
Is it knowledge that made the world go round?
I would think it was the decay of the bones,
Now the body wrestles to budge, I find
My mind in a nostalgic loitering,
And in its lonesome walks I reach a past
Filled with an array of amazing sights.

The world is no longer round,
It is in fact, gracefully upside down!
Beside me are friends, quite a bunch,
I find my grips going tight, I wish to stay,
Is it the mind that ceased to grow?
Or is it the body that has greedily overgrown?
I feel tired looking back now.

Before I close my eyes, I want to do,
I want to lift these torrid years of existence,
Upside down, downside up,
Swing meticulously, cry out loud
In a happiness that gives no bounds,
Maybe I would grow too old for all these,
But my mind shall love the time!

Prompted by Sepia Saturday

Monday, 13 May 2013

Sail on Along, my Friend

Art by Benfoster

As you lay nestled besides your fears,
Like a surprised saint when he tastes truth,
Do not fall into a fret my friend,
Cause all stories begin from nothing,
All empires rise from pure debris,
And all dreams begin from a whisper!

Still your soul wishes to march down?
Well, then my hands shall embrace you,
Like a sail that guides a loitering ship,
I shall keep your life aright amidst tides.
While you search for new shores,
I shall hold you safe, come what may!

Take your life with you, do not forget,
Cause someday the sails may snap,
Sans doubt, swim to the nearest shore,
The sails shall float in salt and sea,
And surely reach for, when you need,
Then we shall build a new ship, and ride!

So get back up my friend, To rise
Time inevitably strikes opportune!
Walk, run, sail and never stop,
Surely now all fears are yours to conquer,
All sorrows yours to slaughter,
And we will ride, come what may!

 Written for Carry on Tuesday. Prompt was “Come What May".

Sunday, 12 May 2013


So all stories melt away like snow,
Before the heart finds its abode,
The body has played out its show.

It is not often we find truths,
It is not often we find paths,
And it is not often we live.

In a trance between life and death,
We float in the chambers of hope,
We live to let live, We live to let climb.

The steep stairs of faith narrows,
The road ahead seems dark, with time,
It is then you rekindle your fire.

The fire was born with you,
He lived all his life with you,
But do you know his essence?

The ones who knew found paths,
The ones who knew radiated shine,
The ones who knew kept it burning.

A story is meant to melt,
With a bit of fire rekindled,
It melts quicker, but burns brighter.

So all stories melt away like snow,
Before the body has played its show,
Let your heart find the abode.

Saturday, 11 May 2013

The Search For Beauty | Dedicated to All Mothers on this Mother's Day

Painting : Quench by Katie.M.Berggren

O, beautiful world,
What grace and love do you keep?
I walked along your coast,
To find a shore of charm,  
But came back with nothing at all.

Abashed, destroyed and polluted,
The world belongs in disarray,
No song is sweet,
No flowers are bright,
No beings provide delight.

Amidst my falling hopes,
I stumbled upon a moving view,
A snuggled baby in a mother's arms,
And two bright eyes providing shade,
Solace and eternal love.

In those arms rests the comfort of all,
In those eyes remains brightness paramount,
In those beats, hidden, is love beyond,
In her heart reside the beauty I searched for!


Young Woman Picking the Fruit of Knowledge, 1892 by Mary Cassatt

Winds no longer blew her hair astray,
The last bout with medicines stifled,
She stared blankly at the side walls,
White, clean and ominously uniform,
She too was an overgrown part of it.

Tranquil, frail and solaced; she lost hope,
Scavenging away tears made her suffocate,
She felt the comfort of death in the air,
She felt its poignant lips kiss her,
As she closed her eyes and breathed.

A relief from the toil seemed afar,
She always held two glasses in her hands,
One was filled with the tears she shed,
The other held the nectar of faith,
Both tasted pathetic now.

But with a final struggle of life,
Her blood raged with an animosity,
She threw away her glass of tears,
Her sight was redeemed with light,
She could feel faith burning, though
Unlike before, she could feel it sweet.

With a brewing desire at life,
She smiled, she laughed and chased butterflies,
She danced, she sang and made others smile,
She dreamed, she hoped and loved all,
She rose, she lived and kissed the skies.

The Shooting Star

Credits :

A grimaced star shoots forth light,
In the enchanting shades of the night,
It traced a path of unconquerable might,
Yet alone it is meant to fight.

I pitied her as I looked up at her flight,
It slowly drifted away from sight,
Unknown worlds are caressed more,
A regime of enveloping darkness 
Which gets calmly devoured.

I laid my head close to the ground,
Shooting forth is my home too,
Unknown, unseen and uninterrupted,
In the euphoria
Of painful lives and painless deaths.
 Life is miniscule in the infinity,
Darkness is the law that nature built,
For light to reach and stars to shoot.

Seconds shift
To take light to the dark,
To take flight along the tide,
To take might in leading the fight,
To take my thoughts in this wintry night.

Friday, 10 May 2013


 Photograph : Lost Childhood by Enko on Devaint Art

Broken bangles, a half crushed toy,
A childhood lost,
Yet carefully preserved.

A spell of thought of moments begone,
Heartfelt laughs, truthful tears,
All a part of distant past.

Songs sung years back,
Words lost somewhere in time,
The tunes etched in the mind sustains my life

Days of daunting quests,
Climbing stairs, riding bikes,
And ending up on mother's lap.

A tale of being with the Earth,
Feeding birds, poking cats,
And pawing the Earth to end up with dusty hands.

The clock on the Wall did turn fast,
All I do is look back,
With eyes wet and sad.

Oh those broken bangles, that half crushed toy,
A childhood lost,
But preserved forever.

Wednesday, 8 May 2013

Vagabond Dogs

Artwork : 'A Distinguished Member of the Humane Society' by Sir Edwin Landseer

It rained last night too,
Streets drenched, air cool,
Her fur kept me warm,
Tired, wet, but she was calm.

I awoke to her failing beats,
Beautiful she, like a poem by Keats,
I stroked her head,
She never budged.

Thirteen days she stood by,
She still had enough heat last night,
To keep me by,
And maybe change my life.

I am a thief,
Hungry and running,
The only good I ever did?
I fed her once,
A vagabond dog's gift to another!

A Burning Poem

 Google Images

One hand of his held firm,
While the other was let loose,
With which he glided
A moving pen.

Like every drop of life
Pouring out,
Ink from his pen caressed
His paper.

It held his life,
It held the pain,
It held the strife,
It held the little joys.

A pitied paper held
The beatings of his heart,
He took a match, lit a flame
And buried it in his
New found claim.

He felt the fire burning,
He felt his pains fading,
He felt the mind healing,
And another poem flaming.

Monday, 6 May 2013


The ache of subdued dreams
Disrupted my walks,
Nights spent amidst fears and tears
Drove me in paths of insanity,
There I lost the sense of life,
And gained the pleasure of torpidity.

A guide in the path was a silhouette
Figure of a man who seemed dominant,
Between the trivial drama,
He gave me a gun
And told me to shoot.

The head he asked for was colossal,
It carried the weight of torrid ideals,
My hands were dirtied before,
He swore he would make it clean.

The bullet from my gun never missed,
Target was found on the first shot,
The feeling of meaning was slowly felt,
Though the dirt in my hands remained
Even after.

The assassin inside me was free,
Free from pain, free from tears,
He was free, even from numbness,
He could feel the rope on my neck
As I choked!

A Jailed Insect

Seconds pass, destined to make me numb,
Coldness swipe through,
A drenched cotton cloth, separates the cold air from my skin,
A narcissus in the yard leaves me in spells of rue,
Delicately, he hides his face from my lifeless smiles.

A worthless insect roams in and out of my cell,
Upon a world of freedom he remarkably fell,
Free he is, clean and graceful,
In a place stinking and suffocating amidst all.

I saw for a second a younger me,
I saw the spotless smile, that with her, you see,
I found a wedding car replaced by a funeral pyre,
I saw the spots that night when I looked up at the moon,
And a gun dropped down stained with blood,
I heard the cry of a hunter, for lust he was born.

The insect in my cell was crushed underneath my hand,
Blood, sans the stink of iron, spilled along my protruding nerves,
I licked it, in the light of the rising Sun,
As it passed through my bleeding tongue,
I felt the taste of crushed freedom,
All for the second time.

The Den of The Snow Lion

The Snow Lion : Unofficial Flag of Tibet
Courtesy :

The valley remains enveloped in snow,
Cold and dark as always,
A mountain; high, large and powerful
Stood erect between them and the Sun.

Rivers which ebbed on never held fish,
Fruits from the mountain never came,
The valley rotted on and on,
Though the people survived,
As if by a miracle.

A saint foresaw a better day,
He besought them to relinquish the mountains,
And reach out for the skies up high,
So they did one day, so they soured.

The mountain's grip was never crippled,
It held the valley from kissing the air,
A valley beneath the mountains
Was forever meant to rot.

The elite beyond the seas pitied,
'What absurd notion of flight', they satirized,
The saint was tried for treason,
For shouting out lies, and radiating false hope,
So the story ended it seemed.

But he was deported
Into a land where his religion was born,
He found light and his spirit remained unworn,
He held the Sun and rays emanated,
From there he laid plans for another flight,
To lead a valley onto light.

The rays poured hope to the people,
The mountain was strong, but they could fight,
The rocks that blocked the lion's den
Were taken out and destroyed,
And a bright white snow lion roared out in freedom.

The poem is about Tibet's ongoing struggle for freedom. Here the valley is an image used for Tibet, mountains represent Chinese supremacy over Tibet, the saint is Dalai Lama who was deported to India, and finally the Snow Lion is the unofficial flag of Tibet used as an image of freedom.

A Lost Love

Artwork: Google Images 

The calm of morphine kept fading,
By little I found the pain brewing,
While the untamed heart kept pounding
Much like a blanched pigeon
Freshly caged.

Days were lost in hours of pain,
Weeks passed as I couched
Sans the strength to speak out,
I gave a whisper one day
As lightly as a fading song,
I asked the doctors about her health.

Spells of hallucination always struck,
I remained in a hospital bed
Looking at the monitor echoing my beats,
But a moment after, I am in a car,
Racing at knots at the rage of opium.

In a moment my life became white,
Her hands were clutched onto mine,
I looked into her eyes and a paranoia rose,
Is it the morphine that flows through me,
Or is it the opium that makes me high?

The doctors claimed she had died,
But then who sat beside me last night?
Drops of tears concerned my vision
I felt her as real as the flagitious doctors
Who raced around me like wild hyenas.

A white veil separated me from life,
The car drifted on wildly,
My veins were clogging with opium,
I stared blankly at her eyes
Which appeared cold in fright,
I loved her, I assumed she knew,
I would have said it too,
But the screech of breaks
Blocked my speech.

I woke up once again,
I never felt motion,
Nurses rushed to pick my state,
In a touch of visible distaste,
I asked again about her health.

They spent a few seconds in tumult,
And assured she is safe and great,
I breathed, I saw light,
I saw her hands reaching out for mine,
I saw the monitor going blank.