Categories
poetry

Sanity is not a Statistics

Life is a journey, they say.
In search for words
in the corners of the world,
It seems easy.
Unknown vernacular is scattered
on the long forgotten floor.
Mist from long lost feet echoes-
A language of ancient times.

Memory is nothing but
a forgotten language.
No one other than you can speak it.
No one other than you know it.
No two people in a memory
remember it the same.
We often hear ourselves asking others,
“Remember this, remember that”?

Memories written on the skin
are lethal.
How do you describe a touch
that no longer exists!
Existence is a whole other thing,
let’s not go there.
But
everything exists in a memory.




Categories
poetry Prompt poetry

Languorous eyes- Villanelle

Piercing gaze of pines;
So much life on the verge of dying but
Languorous eyes can’t save anyone.

We lose something everyday;
I’m calling us we, though
The Art of losing is really easy.Let’s try to see things as such;
Hearts overflowing with hope always end up as disasters.
Languorous eyes can’t save anyone.

Let’s try to see things as such;
Hearts overflowing with hope always end up as disasters.
Languorous eyes can’t save anyone.

Categories
poetry

Allegory

We talk about grass
the way one talks about earth.
You can argue that
it’s the same thing
but honey, it’s not.
Earth is the one who nurtures,
lets the life grow
out of it
and have enough strength
to support life.
Earth is a mother’s womb,
heart of a father,
The eyes of the couple won’t/can’t be convinced.
Grass is life.
It can’t grow on its own,
It can’t see
how green it is
or how beautiful
the world think
a vast, lively field is.

Categories
NaPoWriMo poetry

•To do list•

You see, we poets are ships
Lost in a sea,
there’s nothing to risk
and nothing to lose.
I could say you’re dying
to write the last poem, before dying
as if, death of poems and poets ever
mattered.
What matter, are the private affairs
printed on the front page of
sensational newspapers,
with uncertainty.
For it’s easy to blame the time.
Time, as always will tell us
who the best story is,
but stories are not easily told.
If you ask me,
I could narrate my story
but it’s not mine to claim.
Claims are to be made
when bets will be made
and you’ll find me there
trying to steal a piece of art,
For art recognises you.
Art will come knocking at your door
On rainy days,
days you absolutely hate,
for you can’t stay inside to write.
Writes will meet you halfway
in busy halls of empty buildings
trying to borrow words from the past,
bargaining with the future,
deciding present.
They’ll look for poets
But
All the poets are lost in a still sea.

Categories
poetry

Chemical Hearts

I failed to check the alphabets
and ended up writing about love.
Once you asked me
how to write a poem on love
and I’m still searching for words.
I was trying to know love and poetry.
So I held my pen tight
and hoped for you to see the ink flow
through my fingers,
droplets dripping from my nails
to the hem of your shirt,
but you stayed there,
without a word
for none of us was ready to speak.

Well now,
I’m looking at your hands;
painfully beautiful hands.
I’m trying to reach out
and hold you.
Your soft, tender palms
come crashing me down
like the fresh waves at dawn.
I recognise the hands
I never held,
like your fingers were
designed to fit in mine.
But
Neither of us is ready.

Each day feels like a product
product of last words.
Words are crushing.
We’re yet to learn language.
Both of us are
waiting
for the other to speak.

You already know how this works;
I let you hold my hand
when we’re crossing streets,
Neither of us is bad at it.
Neither of us is ready to let go.

Categories
poetry

Of Love and Worries

Maybe we’re just born to love and worry about the people we know, and to go on loving and worrying even when there are more important things we should be doing.

~Sally Rooney, Beautiful World, Where Are You


There’s this shade of brown
in your eyes
that make brown
more than just brown. You hate your eyes,
for the world
made you believe
Only blue is pretty.
And being a boy
you’re supposed to love blue.
Is what you’re paying worth the cost?
I worry about the way
your words form in your mouth
when you’re hurt.
I worry about the intensity
of your feelings and
I’m scared of the depth
with which you feel.
To tell you the truth,
I love you for the depth
in your emotions.
I’m afraid. Afraid
You’d leave
Am I investing too much?
Too much, too soon?
But I don’t know
how to stop.
How do I tell you
That I love you
and not act on it?
The world is on the verge of dying.
Age old civilizations
are about to fall.
From science to our faiths,
everything is shattered.
Everything is Sea.
Everything is land.
Sky is nowhere to be found.
And
I’m here,
Writing and worrying about you
While there’s a lot to do
To love
To see
To learn.
But I guess, this is what
makes us human.
Makes us, us.

(Image from Pinterest)

Categories
poetry story

Language of History- A poem

I met this girl who made me believe that earth is round and it indeed moves around its axis. I was looking through the tinted glass, rain pouring like flowers in spring air – utter melancholy, here and there.

She came to me, asked for what I want, that girl with blue eyes and purple lips; hair as red as sun and hands so pale, like she never knew light, avoiding the sun; the way lovers avoid trauma bound conversations.

History dripped from her words; a dialect I never heard of. For you, natural instinct might be to correct the pronunciation.
However, I kept listening to her. She showed me different types of coffee, and asked me to choose one, as it’s cold and romantic. I have no preferences in coffee, cold is a feeling that reminds me of life and romance? I’m a hopeless romantic.
I asked her to choose one instead, then she  assured me to be back with a coffee made by love for the lover.

I was still lost in translation, vernacular is bliss. Like love can only be described best in the mother tongue; her words seemed to be as old as time.
I am no philologist yet I’m stuck in time, trying to make sense of history.

She served me as-it-is: the words of generations, which she said her father had taught her, for her mother was too busy trying to birth a boy. The words which surely stay the same with tingling aroma of coffee.

Categories
poetry rant

Connections

“By convention hot, by convention cold, by convention colour, but in reality atoms and void”
  –  DEMOCRITUS

Conversations are tricky. It takes courage and tremendous conviction to initiate something without knowing how a person would respond. Our culture teaches us to be brave, to get up and join a group of people and be a part of the conversation; to be the tiny atom that makes this ever evolving universe. In other words, they say you’re only alive when you’re connected.

I hold on to the atoms within me and hope to see the world within my hands. Contrary to popular belief, world cannot be experienced in a particular way. I think it takes more than few words and couple of meetings to know someone. For some, it takes a lifetime. For some, lifetime is just one day. Sometimes, a day feels like a lifetime.

How do we connect? Will sharing what I’m feeling make anyone reading this my friend? Are connections that easy to build? How are people, people like you and me, are to survive this? How do we connect when we cannot even talk or lack the strength altogether?

Sketch credit: Bharath

https://ridiculousbharath.wordpress.com/

Categories
poetry rant

Shadows

How do you manage to keep going
without the urge to throw yourself
away?
How does it feel like hearing everything
but your own heart?
Does it really get better with time?
Do layers of skin mange to cover it all?

Tell me how you escaped the pit
of rusty flowers decorating
humnae need of art,
Is there a way to escape your shadow?
Have you made peace with it all?

Deep down, in your heart
does it shine bright like the day?
Or is it pretty like the sky?
If you smiled bright
and visited be places
Would it matter?

Tell me,
Does it get better?
Tell me,
Is there any way out?

Categories
poetry

Anything but Human -a poem

We are birds that flock together.
Hunting worms, blind to the nature of the ones we’re dying to feed on. We follow each other while pretending to know it all and end up with a worm stuck in our throats. We are not choking, we are not okay either.
We are birds;
blind, foolish and hungry.

Other days, we are mice, wating for scampering feet of cats. Instead of running away or hiding, we’re waiting for trouble to knock on our doors. We are not happy or afraid but curious to see who will live, who will fight, who will give up and who will thrive!
We know what is happening but we are the generation of blind eye.
To pretend not to see is easier than to see and suffer.

We are the sailors of dead sea.
Instead of coming together we are waiting for the other boat to flip over or run out of hope, we are waiting for the sea to choose a winner;
for it’s easy to blame on time and circumstances.

We are everything but human, yet human.