the undertaking that a poem is

who saw that slithering liaison in the bushes?
it creeps forth as the moonlit sky grows dubious
of the possibility of its own virtue,
slyly, the sun peeks from the edges of a sight’s view,

a cuckolding cockerel rises and crows, an arrival
of a distant beam breaking the sweat of a dark cloud,
and a nice plumage hovers in the air
brightened by the prospect of that tantalizing warmth,

the stomach heaves, the chest sinks, and the velvet
dimension vibrates with that noise yet again,
there’s movement, there’s a curtain swaying
desperate now to be flung apart, and show the scene

of this instant, this momentary lapse of that beastly
no-man, clawing across the white that pervades
on my page, small prints emerge, the purity fades
and from nothingness, a poem springs forth, clinging

to the nature’s call, go on, go on, ask again, see again,
die again, but for a word that memorizes the soul,
and there’s light, and there’s lethargy in the voice
of that fiend, perhaps it’s the end with a final dot.


Linking it up with Weekend Mini Challenge at With Real Toads and Poets United.


Swallowed by Self

Pablo Picasso- Facing Death

a pseudo thought lulls the mind,
(a plausible artifact of decadent body)
release of reason, of ground reality,
I am the man of flair, a jackal
to create chaos out of this order.

I’m struck with a unison of doubts,
flogging the rope of struggle, I
am a hostage to light, to dark,
I have an erection of infirmities,
I lick gravel down my falling feet.

there is that verity shoveled down
my throat, bound by the cable of
dexterous dreams asphyxiating me,
hanging by the arch of a house of
callous cards, still swirling that
thought of misery, enclosing me
from my own voice, I thus grieve.


Linking it up with World # 42 at Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie.

the many sides of me

tumbling down, to the bottom of the hollow,

where nothing is such that can distract

me, finding myself surrounded by

my many sides: polar, dual, multilingual,


I meet up, with all my fragments at once,

so many, diverse, contradicting, insane,

and I discern, how complicated I am,

the whole lot I do, comes from them


acting it out for me, all these different traits,

dwelling in the same flesh, blood and bones,

combating for and against each other,

in a conflict of their impeccability and worth,


wanting to be an effective voice in my deeds,

I can not sprint away from them, from

these apparitions brought up within me,

sustaining inside me, being a part of me,


something I could do is assemble them,

into a single piece: befuddled, messed up,

ridiculous, dumb, strangled by the knots

of the properties tied of each into a bundle,


or I could arrange them in a queue,

beckoning the one I need at a moment,

restraining others, by my craft, from disrupting,

and invading the progressions of my mind,


but I doubt it would work out, for I am but

a slave to my instincts, and not the ruler,

and that is why it happens, that I get entombed

into doubts, fighting off with my identity, with myself


Well, this is the poem for 5 November for NaBloPoMo. I have also joined up with Rarasaur‘s team, Nano Poblano, as I venture into posting thirty poems in thirty days.

Also, I am linking it up with the Trifecta challenge, where we have been asked to use the word, craft, referring to the skill in deceiving to gain an end.

Image source

Writer’s Cookie

He was turning out to be the person he wished he would never become. He was terrified of the boredom he was experiencing daily. It was as if he had nothing to do.

“The last book, I wrote, was five years back,” he told his close friend.

It was never published. Truthfully, none of his books were ever published. He had written a few books, some of them he could never convince himself to send to the publishing houses and while the others he had sent were kindly rejected, though he didn’t know because he never got a reply and he forgot it all with time.

“It is alright. You have a few ideas in your mind, right?”

“Yes, I have but they mean nothing till the time I start working on them. They have to come to life to mean something,” he desperately put forward his agony.

“Then work on them.”

“I can’t. Whenever I turn on my laptop and open a word document to type out the words ready to pour out of my soul, I end up typing not even a single word.”

“Why is it so?”

“It is because I feel doubtful either about my ideas or about my capability of working over them.”
He sipped his tea but didn’t pick up the almond cookie, even though he wanted to and rather just looked at it with a morbid sincerity.

“You are no longer enjoying your writing, are you?”

“I haven’t been writing. So, how can I tell?”

“It is okay. Take some time. And may be then you can join a creative writing class.”

“I am old now and there would be kids there.” He finally moved his hand towards the cookie to pick it up; it had lured him into a desire to consume it.

But his young friend’s hand was swifter and she picked it up and gobbled it down and his hands remained in an awkward position. It was the last cookie.