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
NaPoWriMo

Crimson Red

Weather is dripping
from your tongue.


White of the clouds
is the calm
the calm you carry around,
the calm I lack,
the calm world needs.

Love?
Love is the crimson red;
of all the times
you have died
because of
your complexity,
For never fitting in,
For never being understood,
For never having been loved.

They say war is an opportunity.
Red tears are
a substitute for poppies.
But
how do you know
the colour of tears?
Who claimed it?
Who named it red, anyway?

This is an apology
to all the Colours
to all the shades I wrote about
without knowing
what a colour is.

Categories
NaPoWriMo

Art is Agony

The way things are,
I’m having hard time being okay with that.
They say- forever never lasts long,
HOW to be okay with that?

I see my friends turning to art,
Reading shit and calling shots.
WHAT is the meaning of art?
WHERE do I shoot my shot?

I’m afraid of asking questions
for all my WHAT go unnoticed.
The cat on my patio is purring unnecessarily
Is she afraid of living, unnoticed?

All the questions are hiding
hiding behind question marks,
Despite the endless possibility of no’s
All of us are looking for more,
Childhood wounds are surely popular
to leave marks.

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.