Poetry

Swallows, untamed (a repost)

There was a place,
where the fluttering swallows hid,
in the stories of the dragons
and demons that always died,
in the memories of the girl in a blue dress
who played coy but never smiled,
in the fights for who gets to bat first,
in the echoes of the deserted swimming pool,
resonating with the simple thrills
of irresponsible abandon untold.

There is now a place,
where the catatonic swallows hide,
waiting to fly with the wings of restraints,
mourning the loss of the simple thrills,
the abandon sold for better frills,
lost in translation or just the commute,
a fortitude, a facade or an attempt to efface.
Headed for the inexplicable at an inexorable pace,
mourning the loss of the simple thrills and
living to forget the girl with the blue frills,
there is always a place surreptitious
where the restless swallows nest.

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Poetry

Innocence regained


I. The Origin

I have always existed, they tell me,
like a shapeless infinite
or an idea of eternity,
soaked in timeless wonder.

Weakened limbs and fledgling wings
dipped in a blue blood – the water
that still carries the primordial cries
of unborn thoughts and unsung civilizations.

An unwanted evolution
that carved me into a mirage,
a reflection of origin, of truth,
and also of something grand
like the vision of innocence.

II. The Ocean

The story unfolds
in the folds and wrinkles
of the great unyielding rock,
aging and decaying as it breaks
reluctantly into small rugged images.

I, like my peers tried to battle the flow
holding my ground with ingrained roots,
a tenacity borne of sediments of time
under the waves, nurturing and violent.

Unaware of the erosion of my doubts,
I winced when the weak drifted to the dark
and then rejoiced my fortuitous survival.

Polished to a shine, I danced, frolicking
under the gentle caresses of mother,
a god of tides on a shore of consciousness.
Lapped in her breath and feeling loved
I remained in bliss, my conscience burnished.

III. The statue

Why then did you create the grounds
I asked the god, mother who let go of me,
a world beyond my world and its hands
that smelled of reason, of sweat and war.

They plucked me from the pristine embrace
and guided me towards an unquenchable thirst
for knowledge and a discovery of innate evil.

Bruised, probed, and examined for years,
scalpels of right and wrong and
chisels of science and art
gave me a shape, a rigid form
as I transformed into a man, standing alone
at the altar in the middle of nowhere,
a statue in the town square.

The center of attraction and deference
I stood discerning the facade, vying for a glance,
for an unassuming love, a kiss of fleeting interest
and on lonesome nights I looked up for a sign
waiting for rain, or even a few dewdrops to hide,
a bolt of destiny that might shattered my anguish,
as I mourn the loss of innocence.

IV. A reincarnation

It didn’t burn like my ambitions did,
it didn’t break the way ideals always do,
just vanished, like an angel in the clouds,
with wings made of white nothingness
and the feather it dropped is probably fantasy
as on the vestiges of my loss grew tendrils of
a few insipid dreams, fragile as a tentative faith.

The bliss I search now is not in ignorance,
or despite the despotic logic that refutes
and mocks, it’s not in my dreamy escapades.
With a unfounded resolve I delve deeper
into the excavations of the lost cities of innocence.
Nothing deters me, not the aches of a lost limb,
of the lost wing that once carried a purpose, of life.

At the end or the beginning of another origin
a reverberating voice speaks, to me,
speaks like me, rising without pain
from the ocean within, piercing the
stone that is now the rational heart.
Continue to read on Olive skins

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Poetry

A reincarnation — Olive Skins


My poem got published in Olive Skins, an initiative by the surreal poet and one of the poets I admire a lot Devika Mathur.
Do check out other writers and posts on the site.

This poem is a part of a longer poem that I wrote, that I will publish shortly.

It didn’t burn like my ambitions did,
it didn’t break the way ideals always do,
just vanished, like an angel in the clouds,
with wings made of white nothingness…181 more words

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Poetry

Guest Writer: ESP (esprambles)

My poem got published in the Sudden Denouement Collective as a guest post. The collective is a group of exceptional writers, and I say ‘exceptional’ because of their concept of divergent literature. Do spend some time reading the posts on their blog.

Sudden Denouement Collective

brooks-louise_05

[photo: Louise Brooks]

A flight for another day

Equipped with the wings
of love, freedom and justice,
the Icarus in me flies towards the sun
ignoring the wax and the flimsy threads
that keep my faith and sanity together.

The wind whooshes past my ears,
deafening, drowning the wise voices,
of a grim father and a solicitous mother,
of everything that I have read or have known.

Eyes water as drops of my past leave me
and the future appears as a mirage
flickering beyond the clouds
which I know conceal much more.

Riddled with doubts,
taking refuge in my doubts,
I feel safe as I cannot tell
tears from the blinding raindrops.

You who block my flight, questioning.
You the judging one, would you resist
not swimming towards the horizon
of your thoughts, of the vast expanse that is you,
of your relationships stretched to eternity.

Would you in…

View original post 296 more words

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Poetry

The inescapable curvature of attraction

Every love story starts
on a meandering path,
among the red spires
of antiquity, pickled with
dragons and veiled ladies,
or with a surprise swipe
towards the right,
guided by a profile
with a proverbial picture
that minced no hashtags.

The numbing tangent
that usually ensues
feels like a daze
without the chemicals, of course.
Towards the end however
every story longs
for a convex arc
to make it real,
for something true,
reminiscent of all
that we once were.

Everything curves
and coils back, they say,
riding on not just
the seductive words
but also the body of an
ophidian paradox.

Even gravity is borne
of the space time curve,
gravity of your thoughts
and actions are dictated
by the space and time
of your life’s transcending arc.

The circle of life may
seem broken at the tangents,
following love, family or dreams,
going astray on singular tracks.
Each may digress beyond us,
beyond logic but always
looking back wistfully,
they recount often
about how it began,
and of the curve
they originated from.

They teach us to follow dreams,
to aim bigger and better,
to be relentless, preserving faith
in ourselves and in others.
But when you see ethics bent
for building the arches of success,
what attracts are the curves
of rectitude that when aged,
ride not just our senile backs.

Attraction needs
a better explanation
than that of following a curvature,
for we know the truth
of our coiling wishes,
and the recoils of
a resurgent conscience
every time the elusive line
we think we are following
curves back to where
we started from.

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Poetry

June weddings


As the sun goes waning
after another June day,
I find myself waning too,
in the park alone having taken
a detour that doesn’t make sense,
wondering about June weddings,
about things not making sense
because not only logic,
they seem to be governed
by space and time
and by stories with no ending.

Just when the missing humor
is about to try the cloak of sarcasm,
I hear laughter sounding
like it lacks a reason,
made of freedom which comes
only from abandon, of a child,
who is surrounded by family,
each casting a shadow
in the tilted sunlight,
like bars of a prison
guarding the laughter
along with him.

He tries to escape
but is dragged back,
each time with a different
but seemingly caring hand.
They look at him and discuss plans,
for him, I wonder,
each taking their turn
to lift him for assessment,
to caress him with love
or just engage by shaking their heads.

It looks like a performance,
a song and an act
performed in unison,
a perfection that
he is not interested in,
for unlike me
he must have watched it before.
Instead his eyes go back
to that one direction
which I follow
to an abandoned football.

One last dash with all his might,
one last attempt finds him
in the arms of a bigger male,
and he looks at the ball
with dejected eyes.
The laughter fades into a yawn
as the bigger kids come
to fetch the ball
and kick away his
hopes without a care.

I watch the setting sun
as expected of a poet
and wonder how
this child would grow up
to face another
such June sunset,
and see the merits
of the prison he grew up in,
laughing at why life and
it’s stories without endings
makes no sense
like the faraway June weddings.

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Poetry

The clouded judgement

magic in his finger tips,
in his wallet
and those perfunctory puffs,
a wand, white,
that conceals a poison,
only he would know
what it takes
to conjure these
clouds of pleasure.

losing the battles
against his thoughts and time,
he inhales a sooty relief
with a countenance divine,
to soothe the losses
his wearisome woes,
only he knows the price
his darkening soul pays
to indulge these lethal
clouds of convalescence.

closed eyes that betray
an obsession in introspection,
an excuse to shun the world
to explore the universe within,
you may not enjoy his acts
but would imitate when put on the stage
for insulated minds never realize
that all it takes to rise and reach the sky
is to shed the weight of the self
and feel others in the nascent
clouds of compassion.

Written in response to Clouds and World No Tobacco Day

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