Skip to main content

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!

Comments

  1. i am glad that despite his beginnings he found live...and enough to share...and the words....the words they def help us find our way through things as well....

    ReplyDelete
  2. Great poem, writing helps us during difficult times.

    ReplyDelete
  3. such a difficult path, but it makes a great poet.

    ReplyDelete
  4. A very impressive tale. The ending was perfection.

    ReplyDelete
  5. Thank God for writing, which gets us through the hardest times. This is beautifully written and shows the strength we have to survive - and thrive.

    ReplyDelete
  6. Those who have suffered have empathy , more love to give and better insights. We have stumbled on your poem...not strided upon it..no-one is walking on your lovely poem.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Well, I agree about the 'empathy' part. And striding upon the poem is not a bad thing, its like you (the reader) and I are making a travel together through the poem. :)

      Delete
  7. i like how you've used the image of 'a crushed chrysalis'....... very well crafted.....

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

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 c

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 whi

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 verg