Poetry

Words (a repost)

 

Dazzled by the beauty,

they are failed by the words.

Recovering and in pursuit,

they keep their feelings veiled by the words.

Romance they indulge in,

but are curtailed by the words.

Entranced in love,

they forget the roses but are bailed by the words.

Instead of happily ever after at the end,

they listen to the silence of the words.

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Poetry

Path to redemption (a repost)

As the jaded emotions stir
letting out wisps of fantasy
vignettes from the past look glorious
fading vistas arouse feelings queer
entrancing thoughts make him trail
only to be nudged forward
waking him up with a familiar fear
tired eyes reluctantly open to find
multitudes marching on for a cause unknown
tremulous with highly strung octave.

Shackled with pervasive conceit
straggling at the desultory march
road to perdition seems long for his aged feet
a night of reckoning questions the
choices made, the resorted weakness
and the accompanying arrogance
a prophylactic catharsis
and the concluding dance.

How does he promise allegiance,
an unquestionable faith
with the doubts lurking in
every nook, every corner of the infinite self
an incomprehensible world
with its deceit, caustic and relentless wit
armed with nothing but an acquired intellect
it’s a farce to commit eternal love
when he doesn’t remember or even surmise
everything that happened in his life
for he was rational but never so wise.

The fickle abandon with flair
heretic if you tame the restive faith
the egotist seeks happiness within
romantic if you love without reason
judged and branded for living the sins
midway in the protest, he stops short
and finds his soul dance and rejoice.

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Poetry

The story of life

My poem got published on Sudden Denouement Collective. It is a great collective of writers and artists, each with a unique style and aesthetic, including me 🙂

The story begins
not in the present,
not with any intent,
but in the mind of the writer,
lost, perusing his tomes,
as he creates a new history
with words filtered through
experiences and such
prismatic domes.

Continue to read here.

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Poetry

Elements of a grand philosophy about life

The alphabet of life,
is a caravan of letters,
riding into the dusk of our thoughts,
each guarded by a sense of conformity,
surrendering to the fate
of falling into places,
forming words
to fill the empty spaces
of the grand scheme,
grandeur is just our wishful thinking
that the puzzle is unsolvable.

The phrases of life,
are a collusion of words
to find a common purpose
and create those ideas for redemption.
Nothing but fragments of the plot,
each carries an awareness
of what is missing
and of voids that need filling
with lesser brush strokes,
to create our universe
in a grand collaboration,
grandeur is the levity we seek
to believe that the design is inexpressible.

The statements of life,
formed with cabals of phrases,
masquerading as logic,
the notions and prejudices
repressed for association,
as a compromise is reached
to defend the thesis.
They fall into places,
in their ordained spaces,
reluctance subdued
by the grand revelation,
grandeur is just the ruse the mind longs for
to establish that its limits are unsurpassable.

The essay of life,
made of circuitous statements,
juggled with the adept hands.
A magic construed
with fancy flips of conscience,
conviction and applause
are driven by the the need for a facade,
to toe the line
and feel each other’s comforting presence.
The game is forever played
as part of a grand vision,
grandeur is nothing but the optimistic delusion
to prove that life is much more than what we live for.

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Guilt and persecution

There is water everywhere, imparting a sense of panic within. It is not that I am scared of water; on the contrary, I have always liked the sight, sound and even the feel of water on my body. Swimming in my opinion is the most exhilarating thing one can do when alone and want to be alone, erasing everything else around. The presence of a water body enhances the beauty of any place, I can spend hours watching the ocean play with the winds, lakes undulating under the morning breeze, even the muddy pools, those leftovers from a recent bout of rain makes me long for paper boats, splashing it on an unsuspecting passerby and such insipid, innocent fun.

But the water that surrounds me now is different, it’s unbearably blue almost as if I am looking at a summer sky, or maybe it is the sky. There is only so much that delineates the ocean and the sky at the horizon, here though I feel like I am standing in the middle of the world on a rock projecting from the tranquil pristine water pervading all tangible dimensions as if I am finally able to see eternity. This vision though calming when juxtaposed with my presence makes me feel like a blemish and the asphalt rock my darkened soul that is holding me steady. I turn my head to find the unchanging waters stare back at me from every direction and with such serenity that it blinds my eyes. I squint and peer at it for some deviation, some distraction in this aquatic perfection, only to discover that it is shallow. The limpid water even lets me see the bed of sand so clearly that I can make out it’s not sand, the surface is polished and possesses the same color as the vitrified tiles in my room. This realization strikes me hard, I could just get off the rock and start walking, these are not dangerous waters and there is no reason why I must get this feeling of extreme unrest, why must I accept I am some deformation in the perfect creation and scheme of things. But try as I may my legs won’t budge. Any movement or change from the state I am seems fraught with an ineffable danger, a danger of crossing the thin line that separates uncertainty and futility.

Thus I am left with no choice but to ruminate, not just on this particular situation and the internal dilemma but about everything that my mind with its limited abilities would allow me to ponder about. As soon as you do that, giving your mind a free rein to analyze a disagreeable situation the first thing it brings up is guilt. If guilt had a face it won’t be able to wipe out the smirk, or at least mine wouldn’t be able to. Is this some kind of retribution, guilt suggests, the smirk getting a chuckle for company. I have never committed any crime in the purview of the laws that qualify crime and decide the fate of criminals. But my guilt feeds on the many moral and ethical transgressions, I have; for instance, been cruel to the point of harming people who loved and cared for me. There were and always will be reasons and justifications for my actions, not of the usual namesake or the superficial kind either. I truly believe in them. This is what my guilt smirks at maybe, but do I care or do I act snobbish with my educated reasoning for the most disconcerting actions. I say disconcerting because it affected others in a way I cannot really understand, behavior of people who get close to you invariably end up baffling you.

Once you handle guilt with such high-handed dismissal, the next thing your mind throws at you is the feeling of helplessness, an enquiry into what is fair and what is not. Why am I being persecuted I start thinking. Why should I be in this absurd place, who decides the course of my life, is there any logic that drives our existence, is there a free will. If I was selfish and in the process hurt people, or to be more specific two people and probably a few more, and a dog, then somewhere in the grand vision of this arbitrary arbiter they would be found equally responsible. I don’t so much remember the details of why I broke up with the girls but I vividly remember the dog and the incident in the dark of the night. It barked for no apparent reason, I did what it takes to get it silenced. Also, I am not even sure if it was much hurt because it ran back to his compatriots, who looked at me in synchronized vision making me take flight. As for the people, they were much better off without me as I was without them in my life, so in a way in the bigger picture I did the right thing and for everyone’s good. So why am I stuck here; why do I still feel guilt; why am I helpless; unable to move.

The answers dawned upon me with a shock; an alarming shock to be precise, originating from the inconsiderate phone lying hidden among the folds of the bed sheet, or probably lying on the floor next to the bed kicked out during one of my usual subconscious acts that dramatically end in my waking up with a bad hangover. Dramatic I say because more often than not, after the nights when I ingest more poison that I know I am capable of digesting, I find myself waking up diagonally opposite and in complete disarray that it takes a few seconds to register I was sleeping, and the world is still sane.

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Poetry

Evolution of the artist

guided by an innate urge to please
equipped with senses exhorting doubts
in the cautious strokes of earnest endeavour
with measured traces striving for perfection
he mirrors the faces conniving with reflection,
unaware of the beautiful yet incongruous nature.

a stickler for structure, enamoured by wisdom
of saints, philosophers and the morbid poets
craft acquired over languid classes
adheres to the norms edified by masses
the cultivated symmetry is a far cry,
wasted on the serene yet erratic nature.

recurrent inspiration and elusive metaphors
laid astray by well articulated arrogance
cruises to far away hills undertaken with fanfares
turquoise sky reverberating on tranquil waters
make him search for witless romance in scrappy affairs,
as he attempts to embellish a graceful yet flawed nature.

the artist is born in affliction not by choice
jerked out of his space by circumstances tragic
for it’s only a devastated soul that transpires surreal magic
the flaws, fractured norms, his foibles now in sight
crooked rivers, errant petals, skewed trees and such once critiqued,
within himself now he sees as he takes the transcendental flight.

Next: Revelation of the artist

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Poetry

Maverick in the infernal tavern

pirouetting silhouettes

chiding the guides

minstrels sing spells

mutilating masses

in mesmerizing lights.

phallic philosophers

partaking paradoxes

belch benedictions

on genuflected generations.

a body nondescript

or a tavern lost in crypt

their netherly wine

tastes mildly of

a heavenly brine

sipping which the heretics

disdain mystics, religion

and such populist designs.

incarcerated souls fight

the reverberating

incantations galore

cringing, craving love

and a freedom promised

beyond the pearly door.

lacerated languid lovers

levitate on licentious lust

making agonizing agnostics

squirm as their prized

convictions go bust.

anguished metaphors

pilfer the reluctant poets

while paraphrasing scribes

pay the unrequited debts.

marveling at such

metaphysical manifestations

the maverick stops writing

this treatise of vice

imbibes the poison amidst guffaws,

and rolls another dice.

 

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