You know,
you are a fragrant description
of my tired eyes,
that you without fail,
succeed always,
in not being the person you are
while you sniff the air for assumptions,
fish the newspaper from beneath the carpet,
and sit quietly, unperturbed in the pillion seat,
singing by my ears.
no,
you are an entirely different someone when you write.
a bleeding truth,
a frozen rage,
some sweetly versed protests,
some ephemeral metaphors,
and longing
under a gallimaufry of names.
you are unheard of
in a tiny room in the back of your mind
with mirrors for walls.
oblivious,
intoxicated,
sorcerer,
a spinning dervish who
just touched me
and away he went
or perhaps
left a poetry in the wake.
Monday, January 30, 2012
Sunday, January 29, 2012
the diary of a romantic- II
It doesn’t follow any set instructions. Does not come with a user’s manual, or a warrantee for that matter.
some days you are a tough cookie with the world fastened to your shoelace and on others you are a soddy piece of muffin, friable, out of place with the slightest touch.
all of it comes with just one certainty, JUST a single dogmatic certainty—It gets ugly, at SOME point. Time and again.
so there I was in a self-inflicted oblivion, and no doubt charmed to my toenails, counting on to what was for sure promised on the cover. It always is, by the principle of a Gaussian curve forsooth.
I had seen people cower, deny, lie, cheat, escape. They in essence made me sick to my soul, but when faced with such a probability I couldn’t help but be vulnerable myself.
BY the usual protocol, I start questioning my choices, cower, lie, and cheat. No, I don’ t escape, at least I think I do not . Until one day, it all withers away on its own.
the same old vicious circle.
I’ve had my share of tears, to an extent that I barely cry now.Its pathetic.period.
Dry eyes can be such bitches.
so what now..
what’s this?
shared passions? Astrology? Food ?
“what do you think is the matter with the 0.1% bacteria that dettol cannot kill?”
“I don’t know, he’s from Rajnikant’s spit??”
“have you read Aatish Taseer by any chance?”
“I LOVE HIM!!”
“*sighs*”
“The beatles, Leonard Cohen, Frank Sinatra?”
“Geeta Dutt, Gulzar, and Celtic folk songs…”
“we aren’t really cheesy are we?”
“Oh baby, we sure are not..”
“*ahem* I don’t share my food, NOT even the omlette”
“sure, I’ll have the tomatoes then.”
“flirt around please, you look so happy when you do..”
“my sole says hi..”
*wiggling toes at the screen* “hiiiii!!”
You are hell bent on being your old garden-variety-pessimist, what with 10,000 miles and a tiny plastic blue sword.
, and suddenly the shuffle picks ,
“maybe there’s a God above, but all I’ve ever learnt from love,
is how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya,
its not a cry that you hear at night,
its not somebody who’s seen the light ,
it’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah ‘
which leaves you wondering,
just like before,
the rains that you somehow could never love,
the unexpected winters
a few more unexpected gifts life has had in store,
fights over photographs
, crossword dates,
and one pina colada too many.
that rock-solid fact.
you keep on mapping out your destiny,
waiting for miracles to happen
but life doesn’t give you miracles ,
it gives you chances.
and this,
is the only one
So you clasp your hair into a neat bun,
put on your reading glasses,
and finally,
wait for that call.
some days you are a tough cookie with the world fastened to your shoelace and on others you are a soddy piece of muffin, friable, out of place with the slightest touch.
all of it comes with just one certainty, JUST a single dogmatic certainty—It gets ugly, at SOME point. Time and again.
so there I was in a self-inflicted oblivion, and no doubt charmed to my toenails, counting on to what was for sure promised on the cover. It always is, by the principle of a Gaussian curve forsooth.
I had seen people cower, deny, lie, cheat, escape. They in essence made me sick to my soul, but when faced with such a probability I couldn’t help but be vulnerable myself.
BY the usual protocol, I start questioning my choices, cower, lie, and cheat. No, I don’ t escape, at least I think I do not . Until one day, it all withers away on its own.
the same old vicious circle.
I’ve had my share of tears, to an extent that I barely cry now.Its pathetic.period.
Dry eyes can be such bitches.
so what now..
what’s this?
shared passions? Astrology? Food ?
“what do you think is the matter with the 0.1% bacteria that dettol cannot kill?”
“I don’t know, he’s from Rajnikant’s spit??”
“have you read Aatish Taseer by any chance?”
“I LOVE HIM!!”
“*sighs*”
“The beatles, Leonard Cohen, Frank Sinatra?”
“Geeta Dutt, Gulzar, and Celtic folk songs…”
“we aren’t really cheesy are we?”
“Oh baby, we sure are not..”
“*ahem* I don’t share my food, NOT even the omlette”
“sure, I’ll have the tomatoes then.”
“flirt around please, you look so happy when you do..”
“my sole says hi..”
*wiggling toes at the screen* “hiiiii!!”
You are hell bent on being your old garden-variety-pessimist, what with 10,000 miles and a tiny plastic blue sword.
, and suddenly the shuffle picks ,
“maybe there’s a God above, but all I’ve ever learnt from love,
is how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya,
its not a cry that you hear at night,
its not somebody who’s seen the light ,
it’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah ‘
which leaves you wondering,
just like before,
the rains that you somehow could never love,
the unexpected winters
a few more unexpected gifts life has had in store,
fights over photographs
, crossword dates,
and one pina colada too many.
that rock-solid fact.
you keep on mapping out your destiny,
waiting for miracles to happen
but life doesn’t give you miracles ,
it gives you chances.
and this,
is the only one
So you clasp your hair into a neat bun,
put on your reading glasses,
and finally,
wait for that call.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
humor me
Today, I crave for words,
words, which burlesque through the dark recesses of my mind,
that tap, knock, bang on the walls of my head time and again.
Words which are conveniently forgotten, only to be reminded of their absence later.
Old teakwood flat patina top family heirloom words,
muffled giggles, teary eyed, backyard conspiracy words
Schneiderian doctrines, Lutherian catechisms,
hammered beliefs, twisted psychology words.
words with those tiny sounds in between,
the anticipatory, (albeit) intrepid hisses , those tiny two clucks of disappointment
exiguous, relieved tiny exhales , throaty firefly breaths of words.
words that miraculously sit everywhere,
on the floor, walls, roof of your mouth,
only to bounce off on touch,
fading lukewarm mischief, and silent twinkles of words.
Say all that I need, for all that I want
let them creep inside my eyes wide shut,
lyrical prose, nonsensical poetry,
oxymoronic jargon, part-truth, part-noise words
words, which burlesque through the dark recesses of my mind,
that tap, knock, bang on the walls of my head time and again.
Words which are conveniently forgotten, only to be reminded of their absence later.
Old teakwood flat patina top family heirloom words,
muffled giggles, teary eyed, backyard conspiracy words
Schneiderian doctrines, Lutherian catechisms,
hammered beliefs, twisted psychology words.
words with those tiny sounds in between,
the anticipatory, (albeit) intrepid hisses , those tiny two clucks of disappointment
exiguous, relieved tiny exhales , throaty firefly breaths of words.
words that miraculously sit everywhere,
on the floor, walls, roof of your mouth,
only to bounce off on touch,
fading lukewarm mischief, and silent twinkles of words.
Say all that I need, for all that I want
let them creep inside my eyes wide shut,
lyrical prose, nonsensical poetry,
oxymoronic jargon, part-truth, part-noise words
Thursday, January 19, 2012
and we shall
That we shall,
live our tales
and pickle our words in them
only to find each other drenched
in each others’ voices
when we aren’t watching,
see, you always had a penchant
for dreams carved into phrases,
phrases strummed into whispers,
whispers carved into poetry
and poetry seeping in
through cracks in the door,
the sheer curtains
and parted lips..
didn’t you
live our tales
and pickle our words in them
only to find each other drenched
in each others’ voices
when we aren’t watching,
see, you always had a penchant
for dreams carved into phrases,
phrases strummed into whispers,
whispers carved into poetry
and poetry seeping in
through cracks in the door,
the sheer curtains
and parted lips..
didn’t you
and we shall
That we shall,
live our tales
and pickle our words in them
only to find each other drenched
in each others’ voices
when we aren’t watching,
see, you always had a penchant
for dreams carved into phrases,
phrases strummed into whispers,
whispers carved into poetry
and poetry seeping in
through cracks in the door,
the sheer curtains
and parted lips..
didn’t you
live our tales
and pickle our words in them
only to find each other drenched
in each others’ voices
when we aren’t watching,
see, you always had a penchant
for dreams carved into phrases,
phrases strummed into whispers,
whispers carved into poetry
and poetry seeping in
through cracks in the door,
the sheer curtains
and parted lips..
didn’t you
Thursday, January 12, 2012
the mud soaked sock
speaking metaphorically, the road less traveled, wasn’t the one less trampled upon
it didn’t have a gallimaufry of stubborn vegetation nor the nuances of a lone melancholy poem,
puddles, bundles of them and boot shaped, huge,hideous and distinct.
they had life growing in them, in the murky waters they contained,
and they were hard to miss,
easier to step on will be more precise.
but on the contrary , they carried something the surrounding virgin earth didn’t.
they had stench of determination,
the stains of hope
it was as if you could just see in the waters,
by the burlesque of light
that these happened to be tread upon with fearsome courage,
no, not wrath, not rebellion,
just some eccentric, unusual courage
enough to send shivers to my spine,
to send me running back to my safe shelters of mediocrity.
see, That is what’s wrong with these such roads,
they leave you with filthy feet as souvenirs..
it didn’t have a gallimaufry of stubborn vegetation nor the nuances of a lone melancholy poem,
puddles, bundles of them and boot shaped, huge,hideous and distinct.
they had life growing in them, in the murky waters they contained,
and they were hard to miss,
easier to step on will be more precise.
but on the contrary , they carried something the surrounding virgin earth didn’t.
they had stench of determination,
the stains of hope
it was as if you could just see in the waters,
by the burlesque of light
that these happened to be tread upon with fearsome courage,
no, not wrath, not rebellion,
just some eccentric, unusual courage
enough to send shivers to my spine,
to send me running back to my safe shelters of mediocrity.
see, That is what’s wrong with these such roads,
they leave you with filthy feet as souvenirs..
of drapes and smoke..
Of late I crumpled stars into a fist,
and wore a delirious wisp of smoke on my mane
long gone is the time when I was a fugitive in your land
but my fingers still smell of stardust
and your whispers trickle down my head..
your fires burn in the little behind my neck
they keep me going even in hours of distress, hours of chicanery, and hours of rebellion.
so IT IS impossible to leave this land.
this land of yours where dreams are traded for puzzles,
where solving the labyrinth of life is an addiction.
and why not,
I see those tiny questions crawling under your skin when you are asleep.
those tiny questions that light up your face,
that make you beautiful to me,
that makes me want to steal you from this world of yours.
here is where your quest has led me to,
as a hermit in this strange planet
of what lies in those clenched fists,
in a delirious slumber by the sheer turquoise drapes..
and wore a delirious wisp of smoke on my mane
long gone is the time when I was a fugitive in your land
but my fingers still smell of stardust
and your whispers trickle down my head..
your fires burn in the little behind my neck
they keep me going even in hours of distress, hours of chicanery, and hours of rebellion.
so IT IS impossible to leave this land.
this land of yours where dreams are traded for puzzles,
where solving the labyrinth of life is an addiction.
and why not,
I see those tiny questions crawling under your skin when you are asleep.
those tiny questions that light up your face,
that make you beautiful to me,
that makes me want to steal you from this world of yours.
here is where your quest has led me to,
as a hermit in this strange planet
of what lies in those clenched fists,
in a delirious slumber by the sheer turquoise drapes..
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