Wednesday, November 30, 2011

Say something anything/
I have said all that I had to/
I have lost my voice/
It feels like trying to talk/
While I'm caught in a vortex/
Words seem to rise up/
Filling me with a hope/
That they will reach you/
But then they get captured/
Entangled in spirals/
And fall down/
Along with me/
Towards the eye of the hurricane/
Empty shells of former words remain/
Say something anything/
Like you used to/
Complete my sentences/
Like you used to/
Answer the questions/
I never needed to ask you/
Say something anything/
Or have you lost your voice too/
If not say something anything/
If yes, then smile, just a smile would do/

two halves make one fool

Tuesday, November 29, 2011

Monday, November 28, 2011

Upside down


I'm lying down/
On the ground/

Look what I've found/

As I look/
Up above/

I wonder how/
All these buildings/

These bean-stalk buildings/

Have turned into these things/

That make the vast blue canvas/

Up high/

Look a little less/
Like the endless sky/

And a little more/

Like pieces of a puzzle/

Looking down pleadingly/

At me/

For an answer/

To all their troubles/

And then I think/

Of a time/

When I used to look up/
At the sky/

And imagine/
If only I could fly/
I would be up there/

I could get away/
That's where I would stay/
Make myself a home on the clouds/

A home with puffy doors/
And breezy windows/
I would open them/
And stare at the sea/
Turned up-side down/
With no shores/
There my sore musings/
Would be made light/
They would take flight/
But now instead/
As I lie down/
On this asphalt bed/
I find myself/
Staring at the sky/
And it staring back/
In an eternal moment/
Stretched further/
Into a pregnant quiet/
Each waiting to hear/
Something/
Anything/
From the other/




the labyrinthian inverted

the labyrinthian

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

suspended

pilgrimage

Happiness does not come easy to some. To a few it never comes. This is about those few.

I say about and not 'for' because to these few it doesn't matter. Nothing does. Only their prolonged existence does and that too only because it bothers them. It gets in their way. They are travelers. Traveling where, from where, with whom, how and why, are questions that they never ask and expect no answers. These few are at peace with following a broken dusty trail and knowing that they will not come across anyone, anything, along these forgotten paths, perhaps these paths don't even exist for the rest. They are bound by destiny to traverse these paths. Alone. Miserably. In pain. Alone.

There isn't anything good or bad about that. Things one has no control over can hardly ever be measured in terms such as good or bad. They just are. Nothing one can do about it. Nothing one can do to avoid it. It is that; unavoidable, a preset collision course in a loop. All one can do is move towards it and even that moving towards it, is not a choice. This is what these few, these travelers do. Move towards it without the consciousness of moving towards it. It is just a call they need to answer. An instinct they need to follow. Something growing inside them, the roots of which need to be found. Only, even these roots can't be seen, only felt, their mere existence, their rationale questioned by many but believed completely by these few. They are pulled towards it. And they cannot but allow themselves to be pulled towards it because without this they would be lost. Following these maze like, unending paths is the journey and the destiny. No food. No water. And no miraculous oasis. They wouldn't let themselves believe that there could be or would be one. No, this journey is not as frivolous as chasing a mirage. A mirage is something that seems to be, this, what these few chase, is. It is as real as them. As real as their beating hearts and throbbing heads. As real as their aching feet and broken backs. As real as the cries that put them to sleep and as real as the salty grainy residue on their cheeks when they wake up. It is real. Most can't see this. Most won't see this. Most will choose not to. But for these few it is the only reality that exists. The only truth worth pursuing. The only feeling worth following. Unquestioningly. Irrespective of where it would take them or lead them, even if that "where" is nowhere.

It is like a journey of belief that millions undertake. A pilgrimage. But the kind that is not done with feet and eyes and bodies alone. But one done by the soul. One where the body can be left behind. One where the body is left behind. It is like the craziness of a child running after a kite. It is that belief of getting to that kite before it gets caught in a fluttering, unsure branch of a tree and gets torn or hits the ground and gets trampled upon. It is like standing for endless hours in the rain for those two moments which will last forever. It is like listening to a song and becoming the song, becoming the words, the notes, the lifts and the falls. It is like standing in front of the graves of the ones you love, unblinking, talking and hearing them talk back. It is like dreaming. You never go to it. It comes to you. Every night, unfailingly. You don't get to choose it. It chooses you. It decides if you smile in your sleep or if you sweat with fear or if you curl up and wish for warmth.

These few know they must go on. No matter what. These few will go on. They don't know what else to do. No, they do not go on to find happiness so that they can claim it. They know that it has turned its back on them. They need to go on, hoping that one day, only if fleetingly, they would be face to face with it. Then perhaps they would be able to ask the one question, the burden of which equals the weight of restless days and sleepless nights. Perhaps then they would be able to look at happiness as they briefly cross paths and ask, "Why?" And then go on again. On those
paths. Even if alone. Miserably. In pain. Alone.

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

drown

somewhere at the end of this world
there is a shore
I stand at the edge of it
this is where my destiny will unfurl
like the sail of a ship

memories from the past emerge and vanish
like illusive dolphins
I take a step forward
with a hope to get closer
If only I could touch them swim with them
dive to the depths with them
if only I could surround myself with a silence
that numbs the ache
perhaps then from the clatter of the present
and a lurching tomorrow I could escape

I stand and stare and the waters stare back
with a golden glare
right there on the edge I lie down
the icy cold waters and the shivering sands meet
I can feel their building passion underneath

a different me gets up and looks at me
smiles at me takes off the shirt and walks into the waters
ankle deep knee deep waist deep chest deep and then fully submerged
this me breathes more freely than ever

happy that to the rest of the world I have drowned
holding a dolphin's fin I go deeper
and look at all the mementos lying scattered on the sea floor
the ones that were lost and are now found


right then in the womb of the sea
one with waves as tall as ladders touching the sky
the raging sea within calms down and says goodbye

Matrix

Monday, November 14, 2011

misconstrued

there is a dark thick veil of mist/
like moldy curtains in an abandoned mansion/
with cobwebs as dense as your thoughts/
clinging to the broken chandelier/
reminiscent of times forgone gothic/

from behind that veil emerges a beast/
one that epitomizes brobdingnag/
your first reaction is to shout as you shudder/
but that scream is lost in the hollow of your throat/
as if your voice has been solidified frozen/
and your skin burns with the fever of fright/
ready to turn molten/

the ugliness of his face shows as disgust on yours/
you take a step back and stumble across your own shadow/
looking for anything that would act as a barricade/
to put some distance between you and this one creature led vile cavalcade/
you think of god and divine intervention then/
this nefarious creature has made you a believer once again/
you maunder broken trembling monitions/
your weak warnings of stabbing the beast to death do little/
as he continues his march towards you/
your face twitches you raise the dagger and face the inevitable/

after a looped moment that feels like ages/
you no longer see the beast's manic rages/
stabbed in the back it lies slumped inches away from your feet/
its arm outstretched like a half uttered plea/
the drumming of the drums of dread in your ears cease/
but the distortion on your face stays/
right then you see the beast for what it is/
right then you know that something was misconstrued and now lays felled/
right then you know in the one standing the inner beast remains/

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

Beneath Us

late into the night/
creep out the bastard children/
falling out of the crevices of this city/
like a million others/
many amongst them almost went under the knife/
the ones that survived look up/
with a hope to see the starlit sky/
as a compensation for the annexed daylight/
and all they get to see is us/
moving around in our staged pompous fuss/
we never had the courage to look at them/
looking at me and you/
we feared if we ever did/
they would spit on our faces and tell us/
the only thing left with a soul are your shoes/

hüzün

The despair of a muscle pumping with ragged beats

Against the chest it thumps raving to get out

Suffocated confused deluged with delusion

One moment tenderness the other fire it spits

Give me away no don’t give me away

It rants its feverish chants

Rest of the body held hostage by the string

Left of center the center of the circus’s ring

A meditating soothsayer

Behaving like a lunatic master puppeteer

Unleashing the stampede of a million wildebeests

With a new found taste for gambling

Setting rational madness and irrational beliefs scrambling

Trading an ounce for an ounce

Greedy only to give away be ripped out and find peace

At the moment of its seven pounds

Sunday, November 6, 2011

threadbare

my once able-bodied humanity/


now stripped of it modesty and humility/


lies warm in sheets of silk and muslin/


woven together with threads of gold/


and laughs at the shadow of its old humble soul/


threadbare and shivering out in the cold/

Friday, November 4, 2011

With books as with men

That old book lying in the corner/
Ignored, invisible, gathering dust/
Calls out, hurls out words and then hoarse whispers/
Pick me up, dust the dust away, please you must/
Turn the page over/
Look closer/
There is a story dying to be told/
Names, people, places, in there, growing listlessly old/
Dreaming the dream that someone would give them
their eyes/
That someone, late into the night, would softly narrate their lives/
That someone would set them free/
Free them from their hard bound captivity/
Even if just for a fleeting moment/
Starting from the lips to the heart it may be/