On 9.02.09, I wrote the below poem. I try and think why I wrote this. I don’t know. I can’t remember. Just like that, I am reminded of the frailty of memories. Yesterday, I was talking to a beautiful friend of mine. We ended up discussing some of our travel escapades. We laughed when we
Another poem I discovered in my Gmail drafts. Writing poetry can be cathartic and therapeutic. I must have written this poem in anger probably more than 10 years earlier. But in a strange case of deja vu, I can say that it echoes every thing I feel right now as well. History keeps repeating itself.
A friend of mine sent me this link in the morning. It’s a beautiful page and was just what I needed. On Being is a “social enterprise” with a radio show at its heart. It looks at questions that we wonder about but are always scared to ask: What does it mean to be human,
My life has been the poem I would have writBut I could not both live and utter it. ———————- HD Thoreau. ———————- And how much would I have wanted the poem? And how much the life? Life brings poetry, or poetry brings to it life?
Day turns into the corners of my mind,Tuning to the whispers of its underground. A tramp was I. Passing lit corners untouched. Meeting roads endingCaverns closed to every creviceShutting every door Against the echo of a flight.Is loving illusion a flight? Swooping through every moment of time’s passing, Etched in the mind’s marble,Merging its presence
The walls are whiteLemony in their warmthThrough the windowsStretch cement blocks of loveLabored testimonies that we humanscan build walls faster than friendships My bed stands erectits sheets of gold aching against a dim sunArch my feet against the leather backed chairThe repose for my buttThat sits here day through day These walls are not wallsThey
They call me weird. Freak. Crazy. They call me mad.They call me weird because I talklike the truth is not mine to hide. They call me freak because I sayI value my self just as much as you They call me crazy because I meanwhat I say and do as I say. They call me
When the fingers of the nightMoved up my bodyI felt not a tremornot an itchnot even the touchof mortality But when the fingers of the nightcrept up my souland clasped it tightnever letting goI felt the touch ofimmortality In the morning I woke upand found the sun was outthe milkman camethe newspaper fellthe crow raspedthe
I woke up to a sea of mirages,Morning dewed andHappiness slewedThrough the dense foliage of a mindThat knows not what it seeks. A desert of waves,A chasm of moodsThat seek their wayThrough blind wordsThat play their tunesOn music that hears it not. I lost. Miserably. Despairingly.Lost the power of loveLost the laughter of magicLost myself.
Circles of sandpaper trail acrossAll the pieces of life I ownThe yawning gaps ofChurning memoriesLeaving their scars Across the internedRemains of the soul. Thousand forms of duskPart brittle tender husksMellowed in wine of the pastAnd cherished in the seed of hopeThrough the dark jagged riverFlowing green through my mind. A mind that runs its walkOn