Evening has lit up
with a copper sunlight.
Southern breeze
kisses all in an infinite mercy.
The golden glow
spreads in Man's smile.
The frenzy of day
has reached his orgasm.
Soon he shall turn over
and sleep covered in night's blanket.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Friday, March 14, 2008
Awake
Tarry no longer my heart
weary and arid is this land
arise! this is the moment to start
come now take my hand
words are but trifles
meaning too deceives
Alas how it stifles
all that the ear receives
Why in the corner we hoard
thoughts that belong to the pyre
Murky footprints that have long trod
Ashes crumbling from a dead fire
There see the morning sun
the fresh breath of life anew
Dawn has come with the sound of One
The path is shown, open and true
Monday, March 3, 2008
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Prose on a cold dark night
I'm a poet trying to write prose
A blind eye that cannot see
I'm the lovely red rose
that knows just to be
What do you do, when your true love, the flame that burned in the solitude of your soul, goes silent? When you know all the notes that make up the most perfect music, but your mouth refuses to sing? When there is a river flowing in your heart...but she flows quietly on a soft bed of sand?
I have written, in pangs of desire, longing and sorrow. My heart was the sacrifice I offered to the idol I worshipped. In the dull light of hunger, I sat in front of her cruel form, cutting my burning heart and bleeding words to appease her. She never heard me. My thirst for love, beauty and truth grew coiled like the incense I burned. But the idol was silent.
Yet, I took a perverse joy in the whole affair. In bringing my heart to her and let it die a slow death in the light of her cold stare. I felt myself rising with each sacrifice. I felt I was somehow higher and more evolved compared to those who never saw the idol. I magnified my own dark shadows with the flickering light of my intellect and my imagination. I rejoiced as I saw them throw fantastic shapes on the walls.
And then, one day, the hot air from the plateau reached me. My heart stopped aching, and I was confused. I threw my idol in ager and shivered at the shadows on the wall. The sweltering heat fuelled my soul, making me sweat...beads of salty perspiration, pearls of truth seeping out from my very skin. I was alive. Alive but confused, like the newborn who doesn't understand that it has come to this world.
I had dreamt of this very thing all my life. To experience and to feel what I have seen reflected in the many words that I have read. To feel in my heart the light that shined in the heart of every poet and every lover. To see with my own eyes, what the eternal lover sees forever in the night sky. And yet, now that I had it in my hands, I wrote no more.
I always believed in a love that was blind. Light, the only teacher we have to help us see, is himself blind. To see like him, our eyes must seek blindness. And it is thus that my love came to me. But what I did not expect was that, truth is not seen by just blind eyes, but a blind soul.
I see now, everything, every single sensation that a man could experience in a lifetime. I'm at once happy, sad, thirsty, satiated; I'm in harmony and in chaos at once. What I see is not an overwhelming spectacle, it is a simple heart, that silences everything.
So, I bleed words lesser now. Is it because my love has been fulfilled? Is it because my muse has left me? No. It is because I do not write to impress, to tempt or to share, to bare. I do not write in the pangs of hunger nor in the joy of satiety. I put pen to paper not for you, my reader who is reading this; not for her, who makes me writes this; not even for me, who sees it all. I write with no intention of influencing. I write with no influence.
I write, because it happens. I write, when it happens. I write, like my pen - picked up when it is time and sealed when it is done. I do not imagine or create a world - they merely appear.
Like the rain cloud, I gather my nectar in silence and when it is time, I pour it all out. Like the rain cloud, I do not pour at the will of any God or man - especially mine. Like the rain cloud, I do not shower a drop of false water, even if the earth shrivels in drought.
When the idol is broken and the Goddess shines in the poet's every living moment, he speaks only truth. And most of the times, that truth is silence.
A blind eye that cannot see
I'm the lovely red rose
that knows just to be
What do you do, when your true love, the flame that burned in the solitude of your soul, goes silent? When you know all the notes that make up the most perfect music, but your mouth refuses to sing? When there is a river flowing in your heart...but she flows quietly on a soft bed of sand?
I have written, in pangs of desire, longing and sorrow. My heart was the sacrifice I offered to the idol I worshipped. In the dull light of hunger, I sat in front of her cruel form, cutting my burning heart and bleeding words to appease her. She never heard me. My thirst for love, beauty and truth grew coiled like the incense I burned. But the idol was silent.
Yet, I took a perverse joy in the whole affair. In bringing my heart to her and let it die a slow death in the light of her cold stare. I felt myself rising with each sacrifice. I felt I was somehow higher and more evolved compared to those who never saw the idol. I magnified my own dark shadows with the flickering light of my intellect and my imagination. I rejoiced as I saw them throw fantastic shapes on the walls.
And then, one day, the hot air from the plateau reached me. My heart stopped aching, and I was confused. I threw my idol in ager and shivered at the shadows on the wall. The sweltering heat fuelled my soul, making me sweat...beads of salty perspiration, pearls of truth seeping out from my very skin. I was alive. Alive but confused, like the newborn who doesn't understand that it has come to this world.
I had dreamt of this very thing all my life. To experience and to feel what I have seen reflected in the many words that I have read. To feel in my heart the light that shined in the heart of every poet and every lover. To see with my own eyes, what the eternal lover sees forever in the night sky. And yet, now that I had it in my hands, I wrote no more.
I always believed in a love that was blind. Light, the only teacher we have to help us see, is himself blind. To see like him, our eyes must seek blindness. And it is thus that my love came to me. But what I did not expect was that, truth is not seen by just blind eyes, but a blind soul.
I see now, everything, every single sensation that a man could experience in a lifetime. I'm at once happy, sad, thirsty, satiated; I'm in harmony and in chaos at once. What I see is not an overwhelming spectacle, it is a simple heart, that silences everything.
So, I bleed words lesser now. Is it because my love has been fulfilled? Is it because my muse has left me? No. It is because I do not write to impress, to tempt or to share, to bare. I do not write in the pangs of hunger nor in the joy of satiety. I put pen to paper not for you, my reader who is reading this; not for her, who makes me writes this; not even for me, who sees it all. I write with no intention of influencing. I write with no influence.
I write, because it happens. I write, when it happens. I write, like my pen - picked up when it is time and sealed when it is done. I do not imagine or create a world - they merely appear.
Like the rain cloud, I gather my nectar in silence and when it is time, I pour it all out. Like the rain cloud, I do not pour at the will of any God or man - especially mine. Like the rain cloud, I do not shower a drop of false water, even if the earth shrivels in drought.
When the idol is broken and the Goddess shines in the poet's every living moment, he speaks only truth. And most of the times, that truth is silence.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
The house of words
Through the many doored house
My song walks through,
One
door
at
a
time
It knocks on an ivory door
and opens it with laughter
A word comes out of it
Pleasure.
It knocks on a silver door
and opens it with a smile
A word comes out of it
Wisdom.
It knocks on a sandalwood door
and opens it with pride
A word comes out of it
Elixir
It knocks on a golden door
and opens it with silence
A word comes out of it
Truth
It knocks on a glass door
and opens it with tears
A word comes out of it
Love
It stands in front of an open door
Laden with all the words
No word comes out
No
word
My song walks through,
One
door
at
a
time
It knocks on an ivory door
and opens it with laughter
A word comes out of it
Pleasure.
It knocks on a silver door
and opens it with a smile
A word comes out of it
Wisdom.
It knocks on a sandalwood door
and opens it with pride
A word comes out of it
Elixir
It knocks on a golden door
and opens it with silence
A word comes out of it
Truth
It knocks on a glass door
and opens it with tears
A word comes out of it
Love
It stands in front of an open door
Laden with all the words
No word comes out
No
word
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
The unstrung bow
Timid thoughts, do not be afraid of me. I am a poet. - Stray Birds, Tagore
These silent thoughts,
ruffling behind my closed eyes
like pretty feet
running behind closed doors...
Where do they go?
Whence do they come
What do they say
in their footsteps of silence?
How do they stand
and stare at the sky,
while i scratch my head
in the grind of the night
How do they dream
of dreams and sleep,
while i stroll along
listening to the street lamps
How do they run
over the hills; under the dale,
while my feet stay
grounded to the clay
How do they speed
arrows to an unknown target,
while my mind lies
an unused bow
Arrows have sped.
The bow lies on the ground.
These silent thoughts,
ruffling behind my closed eyes
like pretty feet
running behind closed doors...
Where do they go?
Whence do they come
What do they say
in their footsteps of silence?
How do they stand
and stare at the sky,
while i scratch my head
in the grind of the night
How do they dream
of dreams and sleep,
while i stroll along
listening to the street lamps
How do they run
over the hills; under the dale,
while my feet stay
grounded to the clay
How do they speed
arrows to an unknown target,
while my mind lies
an unused bow
Arrows have sped.
The bow lies on the ground.
The valley of dreams
Illusions are sometimes the most safest of refuges. A refuge which we would never move, if only reality did not pull us away, like an angry mother pulling a child away from the delicious earth. Like a play acted out behind closed curtains, they unfurl, the dreams...in different colours - red passion, white love, saffron games, violet fears. And in all those dreams, there is a single thread. The crystal thread of hope. Hope of a union, a touch, a look. Hope of you.
Perhaps these dreams are mere aching of the limbs; chemicals in the veins fuming at their inability to vent. Perhaps these dreams...are mere aching of the heart. Emotions raging through like a kid lost in the fair. Or, perhaps these dreams are mere aching of a soul. The thirst of the simple joy that one finds in the unspoken word. Perhaps, these dreams and the pain of separation can be explained. But then, the chirping of the sparrows, too could be explained.
Love is an enchanted forest. Today I have lost my way in the chasm of separation. With closed eyes I hear, the murmur of dreams, a stream not faraway. Sometimes, in these dreams, I look back. I see the distance that spans dream and reality. It is the width of an eyelid, but what a chasm lies between the two. It is two inches between the hills of hope and death, but if the valley stretches to infinity under them, would you jump?
Perhaps these dreams are mere aching of the limbs; chemicals in the veins fuming at their inability to vent. Perhaps these dreams...are mere aching of the heart. Emotions raging through like a kid lost in the fair. Or, perhaps these dreams are mere aching of a soul. The thirst of the simple joy that one finds in the unspoken word. Perhaps, these dreams and the pain of separation can be explained. But then, the chirping of the sparrows, too could be explained.
Love is an enchanted forest. Today I have lost my way in the chasm of separation. With closed eyes I hear, the murmur of dreams, a stream not faraway. Sometimes, in these dreams, I look back. I see the distance that spans dream and reality. It is the width of an eyelid, but what a chasm lies between the two. It is two inches between the hills of hope and death, but if the valley stretches to infinity under them, would you jump?
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