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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
blog anniversary gratitude

285 days.

Hey! Hi! And Hello!

I am still counting days? Well, I think I’m good at it. How I missed being here and how I missed my 3rd year anniversary here! Anyways I’m trying to be back and feels good.

It’s been long and I’m kind of looking forward to it, this time (again). I have read all the mails and I have noticed many of you coming back here and reading previous posts. I’m truly grateful for this affection and trust.

Let me know how you all have been. And I know many of us don’t like to say that loud in comments, so you’re welcome to share this via email.

Be well. I’m yet to catch up with a lot of people. I’ll be writing here shortly, 1 post/week for the time being .

~🧜‍♀️

Categories
short poem

Moon

We were together from the beginning,
Him and I;
He smiles down at me
And here I am,
Helpless. Bewitched.
By an unannounced law.

His blinding aura
follows me whenever I go
Omnipresent;
So, I just smile at him in response
and like a drop
keep going with his flow.

Says I’m the only one for him,
only one capable of life.

Categories
short poem

Summer

What is summer if not the
excitement brought by
fragrance of spring
tangled in cold wind,
running through the hills
desperately,
to reach the soil blooming
in plains??

The sun shinning over trees
The source of light and heat
curing blues of winter patiently
and the pearly clouds around
playing hide and seek.
Doesn’t the Sky feel dreamy?

The enticing aroma
of fleshy mangoes
is scattered around the
spring dominating branches.
Birds, now and then
take shelter in curled
lively trees.
Life is blooming everywhere.
Life is inviting me to live.

Categories
Prompt poetry

Beloved spring – Poem

It was just yesterday
That I wrote a poem
to the early spring.
Blooming flowers in my garden
soothe my heavy heart,
every bud glowing green;
Spring is a work of art.

The hollow earth
beneath my feet
is now as lively as a new born,
Sometimes I feel I romanticise
spring too much
but, I am not willing to unlearn.

It’s April now.
It’s sowing in the hills
and plains don’t know
what to feel about that,
Maybe because the world
isn’t over the beauty of winter
yet.

In return, spring gave me
early rains
Humid winds came knocking
on my window,
Altostratus clouds are hovering  over
and the spring wrote, “to be continued…”

I have lost my train of thoughts.
It feels like my ‘self’ moved on
but my shadow is still there,
In the snow
And everywhere.

Categories
short poem

Dictionary

Life is a dictionary of things.
Most come and go.
Some make us home
others are at a distance,
But none of them are lost.
Like tears, they remain,
always a part of us.
With a few bold decisions
they say
“You can take anything you want.”
But, what about the things that
don’t belong to us?
Is it ethical to run and cry
for things?
Or do we just choose
“Suffering” and look for “sacrifice”?
What exactly is life? A collection of things? Or a thing?

Categories
poetry

30 of 60

Most foolish act is to break down a minute. Time seems to be the most visible truth, unbiased and irrational or it’s engulfed by the past yearning for tomorrow?
For half a second, I’ll let the grief leave and try to look for good, for they say, you find happiness when you look for it. It can be true. We all want good. When we find it, we embrace the shadows and hold on to them, tight.
But grief? It’s not that hard to find it, You see. It’s always in the air as there’s no place for sadness in the bones. We hurt ourselves to merely fool ourselves, by building this wall of ‘soul’s pain’. We pretend not be bothered by whatever is outside.
But, what’s the point of killing pain with pain? Point of killing 30 of 60 seconds over what will always linger after another 30 of 60 (seconds/minutes)?
Every second I feel myself engulfed by the second that passed and the one yet to come, I’m stuck in time.
Is this what we call living!?
What if we were built this way? All of us? Can desire justify it or do I have to look for the synonyms of ‘escape’?
Desire is like air, it’s always there.

Most of the times we are unaware. We’re all stuck here, who said life is fair?

Categories
poetry

A City of heartbreaks

My being is hanging out with the thought of being myself at almost all the times and the urge to be anything but me.Thought is an act of violence. The urge to be somethingbut me, is the violence against what I am. The urge  to be nowhere but near you.

Is it possible for a person to be envious of a place?

To be honest I’m tired of writing about you, tired of writing about writing about you. Whenever I am about to ditch the thought of writing, a desperate poem about how your city is covered in broken hearts, start screming in my lungs. Is your city drowning in broken things or running on it?

I hope the next time you cross a mart, it snows. I hope it snows to the extent that your cold city start shivering, I hope you get a taste of what you’re serving. For atleast 12 days I want the snow to stay there (beauty deceiving hearts), for 12 days are the maximum amount of time you’re capable of loving someone and your city is cruel for 12 months in a row.

Tonight, after reading this, when you’ll call me, I’ll miss 11 of them but pick 12th, for I know you won’t call after 12th. Even though, I promise myself to be better and be me, I lose myself to your city.
A city of tall buildings.
A city of cold hearts.
A city of you.

Categories
poetry

My Poems

My heart is a building/
memories blow/
like the wind/
Seekers shall find
home in my bones/
My skin shall always
relive the moments here/
even if I go blind/

I draw hearts/
on the glass/
that shelters dew drops/
for love is all I know/
And to embrace the pain/
is no weakness/
For You shall grow/
only when You know/

In the hallways/
wander hearts/
romanticising pain/
In the name of art/
~Ignorant~
you don’t have to turn blue/
everytime/
to know that you’re alive/
Art is apposite/
soulful/
And a smile/
can work wonders/ too/

My poems/
doorways to melancholy/
Past those/ hides/
a happy me/

Categories
short poem

Wonders

Don’t just hear,
listen
what one word
whisper to other,
Here, all the words are
adjacent yet far
how they managed to exist,
I wonder.

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