this vulgar handiwork of time

 

the cigarette butt gets charred in his fist,
his belt sneaks out of a loop
penetrating the orifices of the wind.

she complains of the food not cooked well,
to hell with the homie, since the mad uncle of
KFC is so hypnotic, handing out lollipops,
but not to the random connoisseur sitting
at the roadside, muttering abuses of
disproportionate shapes and sizes.

where there is sanity, there are decapitated
fingers tapping on lurid screens, lapping to
the other side 5 kms away, 100 meters are
too desperate, after all.

who wouldn’t want to suck the lactating nipples
of this evening, and
bite into the rhetoric flesh of silence that
encloses this open-to-all soirée.

we are not indelible, nor are we buttressing unsaid
fetishes in our guts, so why bother about it,
shadows won’t question, lights would, but for that
we are left clinging to these lampooned lamp posts.

there is always another evening, let’s keep our end
of the bargain after all,
there is always another evening, let’s stay desolate
once more.

.
Linking it up with Poets United

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a story circles seeking an end

the rise and fall of a dog’s paws as it leaps

through the night, beneath the chill settling

on the shoulders, the summer drawing to

a close, an ending of all that enraptured

my thought, the fire extinguishes again in

the pinch of my thumb and forefinger, time

seems to be turning on my path again, I

can smell its perfume, a plot of my dreams

a movie seen on the TV one lone morning

the past tingles my skin and I wink, repeat

the steps once traversed, crumbling beneath

soon the land will run out and a trench formed

and a true end that be, the black dog heaves,

my feet take me to places unknown (yet known)

ubiquitous eyes trace all that happens, that is,

the fates die by my touch, diffusing into the blurs,

I turn into an Effigy, the moon howls, dreams sleep

.

Image source

The writer has the right to tell his tale in symbols.The reader has the right to see through those symbols as a part of his own tale.

Bird’s Nest

a bird made a small nest

in the shade of staircase,

with easy access to

the outside domains,

.

I saw it again and again,

as I traversed through

the straight stairs,

rare chance that I missed,

.

my eyes never blinked those

sometimes I stood

in a sort of trance,

my hands limp by my side,

.

those straws and pebbles

would give rise to goose pimples,

as I pondered over this

clever crude creation,

.

it was my secret and still is,

to believe that it hoarded jewels,

diamonds and rubies,

ripe with a sheen of knowledge,

.

it was a basket for me,

full of wonders of many kinds,

I was a kid then but much

hasn’t changed today,

.

i have no memory of

when it was that those feathers

and twigs were swept away,

reduced to nothingness,

.

and now when I gaze at

that dotted starry sky,

I see a new constellation,

shape of that long gone nest,

.

even though I can’t recollect

much of what that time was like,

I just wonder at my wonders,

and wander as I close my eyes

.

* For Sunday Whirl Wordle 129. Also submitting the link for Poetry Pantry # 170. Also, this has come out to be the 701st post here.

Photo source

A Visit to the Spare Room

that day a while ago,

that day eons ago,

I went up there to the spare room,

it wasn’t bare

but just unlived,

left alone in its solitude

with grungy furniture-

an aged bed with dusty mattress that squeaked,

a couch of horrid colors,

small fridge empty but for a pungent smell;

.

I open up the wooden gate

of the wall almirah,

a portal through time,

swept away from that moment

to days past-

there I found the books that

were read by my mother

in her college days,

I picked up one of them-

hardcover,

opened the first leaf and

began to contemplate over,

those old brown pages;

typical for me,

a little complicated for me-

the language I am bonded with for life

but not being so in contact with,

I read through the first page

and then the second-

tells of a story of a widow,

miserable, lonely,

with no sense of direction but

the only thing in mind, to be of service

to her late husband’s memories,

a drama, first act-

she lost in sweeping the floor

but mind thinking of so many things,

when she is asked for her hand

to be yellowed again and her brow line

be smeared with sacred red powder,

a marriage proposal from her brother-in-law;

a little too sappy for me,

I closed it and replaced it at its abode-

that stack of other books, its comrades,

now that the war is over,

bereft of any duty but that of

making us realize of their presence

from time to time;

.

I sat on the old worn out bed sheet

and thought of visiting old acquaintances-

I opened up the furtive bed-chamber

to find all those childish play things,

same as always, fragrant of ignorance,

I dare not touch them, they would come alive,

I fear them, looked at them with dewy eyes;

.

too much for one day, I thought

and retreated back

to the modern coercion,

plugging back to what life is

like on the ground floor,

leaving behind that room

which floats in thin air,

ever ready to fall down.

.

* It was a bad time for me, when I tried to shy away from the world by visiting that room and it was after quite a while that I did so. It was different. Now, I am sort of an irregular visitor there. In the last month, I once went there to read and another time to write. The room beckons me; it is magical for me. It is symbolic for me. I am submitting the link for dVerse Poetics.

2nd Blog Anniversary

ann

Last night, I got a message from WordPress, informing me that it has been two years that I registered on WordPress. Wow! That is such a brilliant feeling. I remember that first night faintly; I know I wrote up my first post that day which was quite absurd, which many of my posts still are. And I updated my introduction page that day and it is the same as what you see as the first paragraph in my ‘This is me’ page. I haven’t changed it but updated it twice, depending on the situations prevailing in my life.

But I am so happy to be a part of WordPress community. These two years have just flown away like that. Sometimes it feels as if I started just yesterday, while at other times it is as if I have been blogging since forever.

The truth is this blogging domain saw the major change in my life as I lost my path and went downhill. It had seen those days when I tried to make a decision of the path I want to step on, once I had lost my original one. I have shared such posts on this blog, which you would not want to read… which I would not want to read ever again. I don’t want myself to lead to that situation again.

This blog has seen me through the times when I was estranged from life to the time when I accepted its presence and it all went bad for me… this blog has seen me through my battles and struggles against an evil, which still comes forth to dominate me from time to time… but this blog has also seen me take my writing seriously, spreading my words all around and be the person who I am today. May be I do not accept myself.. I do not like what is going on with me… but the WordPress community has always supported me.

I have had so many bloggers who had come in my life through this domain and leave it as well. I miss them for their support but I know that is wrong on my part. They did all what they could do for me. I am thankful to all of them.

Now before you get tired of my sentiments, I must say I adore you all. You all are special to me. And I hope I have been or I will be able to make my presence felt.. even a little bit of it, in your hearts.

Present

The present moment is something one must not forget. But one does, because one is in the habit of not fretting over things which seem unimportant but it is not so. A moment is everything, a moment is a a part of oblivion, a moment can save lives, a moment can bring about the very end.

Now when I think of it, the present doesn’t make any sense to me but for the reason that I experience it because I am conscious. The present moment is present for me because I can feel it. I can feel the second ticking in the flow of my blood. I can feel the whirl of the needle like the pounding of my heart.

But what if I was not conscious? What if I did not have knowledge about what all exists before me and around me? Would this present be of the same significance then?

Present is present because we are present. Time is time only when we can realize it.

If I die this very moment, it all would lose significance. It holds importance because we are alive, making it alive.

Such notions seem absurd sometimes but they are not so because these aspects of the universe help us in knowing, in understanding the significance of us, as well as the nothingness that we represent in the greater of things that are alive this moment.

This moment, I can feel it.. I am alive and so is this moment for me.

Present

* For Five Minute Friday.

penance

Woman in white of face withering

away with a wane look in eyes

pleas for penance for less than pensive

attitude towards the plight of

those who suffer seams of stress

time and again same as ever

 

she traverses, travels for that time

when she’d understand truth after all

she drowns and drenches in ditches

of the pure waters, drink for relief

from her callous crimes that cause

her infinitesimal catastrophic pain

* I tried.. for dverse Form for All. At least there is alliteration.. <<innocent>>