The Union

Towards the end of every sweltering summer, life on earth fails to keep itself pepped. Eyes go up, towards the heaven and hearts devoutly call for the tranquil drops to come down.

Monsoon, clouds and rain have always amazed us. From the petrichor pleasing our nostrils to the sober wind carrying it, to the rhythm of rain drops on the ground, the season has a different aura about it . There are multiple ways in which people relate to it. While for some, the bud of love gives way to a beautiful flower, for some it drags into mind lovely reminiscences to cherish and there are some who find it ecstatic enough to add to the rhythm , the wriggling of pen on paper .

Whatever it might be, monsoon soothes each of us, promising the revival of life, mind and soul and the coming of pleasant days.

I can’t stop admiring how beautifully Langston Hughes puts it in a few words. I quote, ” Let the rain kiss you, let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops,let the rain sing you a lullaby”

In the poem below, the earth and sky have been considered to be lovers whose rendezvous is obstructed by the blazing sun. But how their love mesmerizes every breathing body on earth , ultimately conquering the deterrent sun to reconciliate after months is what the strings of words carry. As the sky melts down to kiss his beloved earth, the Union sets everything at ease and boils what lies deep in the emotional well.

Eternal lovers separated by miles
Except for the horizon, which is but an illusion
Are to reconcile in minutes to come.
The earth insinuating her eagerness for the rendezvous
Emanates the fresh and fulfilling petrichor
That permeates in every inch of free space.
The sky, overwhelmed after every sniff of the musky aroma
Bulges a bit, darkens a bit, hangs down a bit
Only to be sucked by the obstinate sun
Which has long been restricting their assignation.
Distressed, the anticipating sky heaves a sigh
And sways every whippy being
Lovingly held and cared by the substratum.
The dusky grasses toss their heads
In sync with the wriggling slender branches
And the whistling and palpating window panes
While the intensifying petrichor dampens
The opaque walls closing in on people.
Everything under the sky wheezes
Whispering the song of love and hope
That soothes and etherizes the burning sun
Which reclines against the darkest cloud.
The sky, no more restricted, no more ashamed
Descends as a drop to kiss the tanned, sprawling land.
Gratified, yet thirsty to fill the void
Created by the precedent season
It sends down one more drop
One more, two more… three, four, five at a time
Some more, more and more and more
A thousand at a time,
For it doesn’t want to let any bit of its beloved
Remain untouched.
It desperately comes down on the land
That blissfully bares herself to the sky
Disregarding the pain inflicted
As the whizzing drops thrust her tender chest
Piercing , gaping wounds of love.
Quite unapologetic and unabashed of the
Noise released as it passionately smooches
The earth, the sky pitters and patters and clatters
On the ground to announce the joy of the Union
For it knows, the sound of love can be envied
But never hated.
Bewildered by the passion the earth and sky display
The world stops around them, amazed!
Tyres screech on concrete roads,
Men stop to take refuge under canopies
Women close the windows with curtains pulled off
Legs squeezed into their bosom with reminiscing eyes
Dissecting their misty wedding photographs on the wall
Swinging with the rhythm of love being played
Behind the same wall
While young maidens acquiesced in their hormones
Clasp themselves, fantasizing of being warmed
By their prince Charming.
Not to forget the soaked and sabotaged eyes
Camouflaging the tears with the dashed lines of water
Joining the earth and sky.
Behind walls and windows,
Waiting for the lovers to calm down
Occasionally peeping to glimpse the reinvigorating union
That is yet to conceive hope, life and resilience
Some grin, some recollect, some heal, some fantasise
While some weave another robe of metaphors
Embroidered with amorous verses shared by the couple
Quite esoteric to others
To be clad and consoled by in the
Desiccated, wizened days to come.

Yin and yang

“If we never experience the chill of a dark winter, it is very unlikely that we will ever cherish the warmth of a bright summer’s day. Nothing stimulates our appetite for the simple joys of life more than the starvation caused by sadness or desperation”

These lines have their roots in the ancient Chinese philosophy of Yin and Yang. This is based on the concept of dualism and it’s interconnectedness in nature. Good and bad, black and white, strong and weak, feminine and masculine, though opposites are complementary to each other. In a way, they actually define and give rise to each other.

According to the Chinese philosophy yin( Chinese for female or moon) is considered to be all those which are dark, cold , passive, feminine and receptive, while yang ( Chinese for sun or male) is the exact opposite. The choice of yin and yang pair varies for different situations. They are relative.

The crux of the philosophy is that, everything is interdependent. Each event is contingent on the happening of some other event. Therefore, instead of looking down upon terms like dark, cold, ugly, poor, it is imperative on our parts to comprehend their essential roles in emphasizing the existence of bright, warm, beautiful and rich.

The symbol of yin and yang, which I will be adding towards the end of the blog, has a lot to convey. It is half white and half black, with each part carrying a small dot of the other colour representing the fact that each carries the seed of the other. So, life becomes fulfilling only by embracing the dualities.

Here is a poem that tries to bring out the importance of dualism and it’s role in the better understanding of the interconnected events of the universe!

Because I worship silence, your tree bears the fruit of voice
Had you not suffered in indecisiveness,
What cure could have been brought by an apt choice.
No matter how much the sun burns to shine
Isn’t it obscure without the dark night ?
Until someday, you were momentarily blinded
I know , you didn’t notice the power of your sight.

What expounds your beauty
If not the striking concept of ugliness?
Busy, filling every blank space
Don’t you think, a cup, a pot, a mug
are valued only because of their emptiness?
What stokes your masculinity
Better than the gracious femininity
Without hours spent in the lap of passivity
What do you think can drive you towards activity?

You wouldn’t know how wealthy you are
Without the penury sprinkled on streets
Until you are ignored and walked out
You wouldn’t feel the necessity to greet.
Sometimes, because you grapple with your fickle focus
You breathe joy, as a book you devour
You need plates of insipid food
To intensify the pleasure, as a delicacy you savour.

They say, yin is all the dark and cold
And yang is all the bright and warm
But unless chaos wreaks havoc
Would you ever want to be calm?
On the land of juxtaposed dualism
Yin and yang are fertile bodies
Carrying the seed of one another
The quintessence of interdependence, each embodies.

Shed The Drops

When mind is crammed and heart sunken
But words betray and you fail to speak
Let your lashes kiss each other
And a drop of tear roll down your cheek.

Oh! What a blissful respite to feel
The lump in your throat, dropping through eyes
The heat of it, momentarily melting
The agonizing façade that you use as disguise.

How long will you hold them back
How long will you bare your eyes to the heaven to dry
How long will you swallow the painful chunk in your gullet
How long will you take to be ready to cry?

The Sun tired of its ceaseless glowing
Hides behind the swelling clouds without doubt
It screams, it roars, it rambles, it bawls
And shows up after crying its heart out.

The glaciers stifled under the weight of ice
Weep and weep till they give way
To a hundred gracile rivers and seas
Which blithely bicker and meander away.

Pluck a flower, the peduncle cries
Break a stem, and that does too
Axe a trunk, it oozes the juice of pain
Then why has crying been so tough for you?
To call your sorrow a sorrow
To wet your cheeks, don’t be afraid
If they call you ‘ weak’ tomorrow
Remind the humbugs, how they preach
To call a spade a spade.

When dolour stirs your soul
Set your tears free, to stroll on your cheek
When tongues are tied and minds bullied
Let the language of grief speak.

There will be wounds and you will be pained
That ‘it’s fine’, how long you’ll be lying
There was none who could stop you from bleeding
So there can be none who can stop you from crying.

Shed the drops as much as you want
Let the fluid valiantly announce your pain
Much better from silently suffering
Now, atleast some relief you gain.

As the precious drops vapourise
Coalescing with the thin air, from your face
Warm hands might not surround you
But you’ll certainly find cuddled in the lap of solace.

Just let them slither through the corner of your eyes
The comforting warmth on your cheeks you feel
As they touch every contusion on the way
See how they fuel the fire that you need to heal.

I know it’s been long you haven’t cried
But with dust laden heaps of woes, you badly want to
I know there have been none to tell you that you can
So I say today, that it’s absolutely fine if you do
And you can start now, if you really want to!

Senescence

The sagging flesh aches as the slightest of breeze
Nears to strum my skin,
So I flinch at the sight of leaves
Passionately brushing past each other, foreseeing
An impending agony.
As the crammed, fluffy clouds descend
To rest their worn bodies on my shoulder
I plead them to leave mine for I no longer can carry them.
Keeping up my pace with the hands of clock
Which never tires, I am knackered
Knackered enough to be shaded by an eternal exhaustion.
The leaking efficiency of my eyes and brain to communicate
Drips and puts out the embers of elation
Dimly lit.
To quench the thirst , I sip in
Few drops of remembrance , only to agonize
My already sore soul.
From framing the nuances of nature
On a square sheet of canvas, with the most coordinating shades
To cursing my inability to discern
The hue of the sky that plays peek-a-boo
With the voluminous clouds
From summoning the strongest of winds
To stab my supercilious skin
To not being at ease with the most humble zephyr
I’ve come a long way.
From dreading each atom with the wrath of my roar
To leaning against a speckled wall in my den
Longing to be served
I scuffle each day with my own self to decide
Whether to hold the grains of life fleeting from my fist
Or to just let it go.
As senescence sweeps in with audacity
Proclaiming its ascendance over my body
I feel ‘aging’ getting unmasked .

The rise and fall of the sun lose their meanings
For there is nothing to mark the inception or termination of.
Eyeballs rolling between the fathomless ends of sky
Seem to resonate with the incomprehensible
Abundance of hours which gush in.
Long hours of reclination throttles me
Makes me feel crippled, incompetent
And how distasteful it is to witness
The process of your own wilting.
I see the moon waning, thinning every day
Even the thinnest crescent
And I try to hold together the constellation
Of stars, connecting each of them
But fail
For I see the stars falling one by one too
People murmuring wishes into it
Not knowing how much the ‘ shooting star ‘ had wished
To stay in its constellation forever.
Rubbing the infant skin of a newly arrived
I sense the amalgamation of the star dust
Which had come off a star
That fell out from my constellation last night
While I see my wrinkles slowly crumbling back
To gleaming star dust
Bit by bit
Grain by grain
Everyday.
As I fantasize the springtide
My pragmatic mind tells me that in life
It’s winter that follows spring
And I know I set about on a linear path
For my journey
So there is no getting back.
Trembling in the biting wind
Every passing second
I just wait to succumb under the doleful winter sky.

Can poems written to be won, ever win?

As I scan through my Instagram feed
I come across posts bartering poems for shoutouts.
They read, “ The best entry shall receive a shoutout from our side”.
But I want to know, “ Can poems written to be won, ever win? “
For when I write, I write to be relieved
Of the obstinate gibber stone that squats
On my chest for long
I write to commune with my
Caged canary’s mellifluous but ignored song.
When the world sleeps and I
Wake up to suffer, I hold the pen
I hold the pen to let the words
Strangulating my diaphragm meander
Onto the paper, through the nib
As the pen wriggles on the sheet,
I hear a lullaby being crooned that rocks me to sleep.
They say, you need to be a poetry first
To scribble one.
But I doubt, am too plain
A poetry to be adored.
Am not always the dripping beauty
Of blossoms of mahogany in a spring
Or the gratification that a
Doting company is expected to bring.
You might not find me in the
Shades of smudged colours on chapped lips
Stenching of unfaithful men
Cursing, yet pleading and yelling for fidelity
Or lost between convoluted neurons
Trying to figure out why my mind
Doesn’t let sunshine to slither in.
Most of the time I’m just the rhythm
Of the clinking of my mother’s bangles
Or the abiding tears which refuse to be held back
When I embrace her, for its been long
Since she was last held.
Or may be I am the dust laden
Forgotten, abandoned cardboard box
And the reclusive, forlorn one
Out of a pair of socks.
I don’t know, whether being drenched
In the orange light of the morning sky
And smiling to let go of statements
That I know are a lie
Or repeatedly reminiscing the hurdles
That I’ve so gracefully overcome, to tell myself
That I am capable to be loved, by not you
Not them, but my own self,
Matter to you or not
But they mean the world to me
And I write only on things
That matter to me.
And I feel that my words easily
Carve their way out to the farthest corners
Of the hearts and souls of people and even writers
For I’ve heard that poets and poetesses
Have naked souls.
But I have never written to win
For I don’t know what it takes
For a poem to win.
And I want to know, “ Can poems written to be won, ever win? “

Obsessed with Golden Feathers

Because I could cope with the pace of racers
I thought I was meant for that
Jostling a lot that came my way
I was busy gathering golden feathers for my hat.

Nostalgic rendezvous turned down
Many a D-days I did miss
Fearful of losing that every second
I didn’t even stand back for my granny, who came scuffing to kiss.

Despite feeling the twinge in legs
I could never dare to rest
Impassioned to lead the ongoing rat race
I erroneously christened my Insanity as zest.

Little did I know, what I desired
Would gradually prove a mirage
What I believed would give me pleasure
Ditched me, being life’s prank of camouflage.

During the days I had prowess
I was never grateful of being able to fly
Like a moron I remained obsessed
For I only had to touch the sky.

I flew and flew as long as I could
And traversed a million miles
One day when I could try no more
I found my lone self amidst a hundred isles.

Reclusive, forlorn, gasping there
I could hear my conscience shout
Busy collecting golden feathers
I couldn’t notice my people falling out.

I had a sumptuous place to live
But nobody to share
I stopped bragging about my overflowing pocket
When I found no one to care.

Medals jingled in the breeze
But there was no one to be proud
I had the coveted name and fame
Yet I was lonely in the crowd.

Heaving sighs of utter regrets, I realised
It’s not always not too late to change
I would suffer henceforth, for that every time
My loved ones I did estrange.

I left the hands of my fellow trippers
I didn’t rejoice the journey as I scaled
Having conquered the mighty mountain
I grieve that in life I have failed
Now I say :
It’s never the name and fame
Or even the wealth you gather
It’s the number of people you have by your death bed
That tucks in your hat, the sterling golden feather.

I Wish

When you grieve for the waning moon
I wish, I could allure you with the galaxy of stars
Till the full moon day
And drench you in the song of hope
Loud enough, that you don’t hear
What others say.

When I dread seeing the sun setting
I wish, you could tell me
That it sets to rise the next morning
And clasp my cold hands
With your warm ones
To succour me to pull through the appalling evening.

When disquietude strangles you
And your eyelids oscillate between uncertainties
As you crave for slumber to creep
I wish I could croon a lullaby
Praying from the core of my heart
That could possibly rock you to sleep.

When you see the stone not cracking
Despite multiple strikes
And I bogging down with despair
I wish you could caress my aching body
Stoking the dying fire of patience
And brace me for the little more pain that I have to bear.

When I sense the lump in your throat growing
Your vision getting blurred by the film of tears
While you breathe unusually deep
I wish I could give you enough warmth
So that your melancholies meander out
And tell you that you will not be called weak if you weep.

When I stand wide eyed
Clad in the cloak of darkness
Frantically searching for light
I wish you could take it off
And pull me out with zest
To be soaked in the abundance of sunlight.

When you are drained out of verve
Feeling forsaken and detested
Thinking that you should try no more
I wish I could inoculate hope drop by drop every day
Loving you enough, shaking you back into life
And tell you that there still are people you need to live for.

In the cosmos, like debris and rubbles
Notwithstanding our identities
If we could stand for each other
May be
We could be a lot happier.

The Reply

Rabindranath Tagore in Geetanjali wrote it as an invocation to God
“Pluck this little flower and take it, delay not!
I fear lest it droop and drop into the dust.
It may not find a place in thy garland,
But honour it with a touch of pain from thy hand
And pluck it.
I fear lest the day end before I am aware
And the time of offering go by.
Though it’s colour be not deep
And it’s smell be faint, use this flower
In thy service and pluck it while there is time. “

God replies “ When I let you bloom my child
I wanted to have you in my garland though
But you gulped my light and sucked my stores
Yet failed to leave your bud and grow.
Inside the bud, shielded from tempests
You think you have been valorous enough
I let you bloom to conjoin souls
To spread the fragrance of love
But you stench of malignity , making lives on my bust tough.
And who did teach you on colours dear
I don’t remember tainting you
You downed my bounties, reflected back
And each appeared a different hue.

Kneel with respect, with love, with regard
Kneel to ask not take lives, fool ( The white police kneeled on George Floyd’s neck which ensued in his death)
I gave you a frame to help others stand
And not to use as a deathly tool.
If you are such a weakling dear
That you can do no good at all
Why do you dare to harm my toddlers
Aren’t you ashamed of your moral downfall?
I endeavoured to see my flowers
But woefully there are none but deadly thorns
Who rejoice tender flesh ripping apart ( The pregnant elephant was fed explosives, the fruit exploded in her mouth)
Don’t spare even the innocent unborn.
As my vision splits, trailing through tears
You express joy over the seven coloured rainbow
With a little of those colours, sprinkled on you
Why do you find it so hard to share a bow?
When I let you bloom my child
‘twas for my service I waited for you
But you refused to bloom, to be at my feet
For you wanted garlands at your own feet too.
I’ll hold the leash of time taut
I’ll not let the evasive time gallop
If I see you, my child, willing to bloom
I swear for the moment I’ll make the cosmos stop.
You need not be a gaudy flower
Nor with an ambrosial incense
Just be dappled with the hue of love
Just smell of care for others
That’ll be my most treasured essence.
I’ll pluck you not with the touch of pain
But it’s relief that I’ll help you gain
The day I see full blooms on the stem
My child,
I’ll happily pluck out all of them. “

A Quintessential Search

Monopolized by her absence
Having tranquilized my glee
I could find peace in none
Except being on a search spree.

Inside the crevices of cracked self love
Amidst the tangled mess of insecurities
I thought I would find her
Passionately struggling for parities.

I passed my nimble fingers
All through my sleek mane
I even sought my implausibly artistic eyebrows
But it was all in vain.

I strived to hear her in the deafening silence of loneliness
Mistakenly christened as solitude
I sincerely wished her to be
One of the tattered pieces of fortitude.

Strolled I for long
On the nebulous rift between anxiety and depression
I even looked beneath
The hefty and mammoth sheet of self oppression.

Neither was she amidst the labyrinth of convoluted relationships
Nor between the phrases of Sylvia Plath
I couldn’t see her oozing from the gaping wounds of masochism
Or fluttering between the grim pages of ‘The Grapes of Wrath .
Once while leafing through the rusty sheets of fairy tales
Swinging arms as I anticipated the exudation of pixie dust
I thought I got a glimpse of her
Dubious, yet I chose to trust.

And yes, I found her, I found her
Between messy hair and bushy eyebrows
Filled in bits in the acnes
And nonchalantly propelling all sorrows.

She was there in the sweetness of nectar
And in the avidity of the lithe wings of tiny butterflies
I could see her in the wondrous miracles of springtide
And in aspiring dreams to touch skies.

I saw her basking
In the pleasure of forgetting and forgiving her ownself
I saw her reclining in the patience
That a bruise takes to heal itself.

Between each transitioning syllable of uplifting verses
And in tiny dust powder in the ray of hope
She frivolously spun around
Embracing the changing patterns of life’s kaleidoscope.

She was in the bold repudiation
Of seeking obligatory validation
She meandered in the syringe of antidote
That would nullify in her the intoxication.
I noticed her in the courage
To renew a breached trust
In the recklessness to love
Completely consumed by wanderlust.

I found her in conviction, in compassion
I found her in vivacity
I found her in the blatant thirst to learn
I found her in the love and pride for her identity.

The search took a little longer
But it eternally set me free
After multiple cycles of vice and disquiet
I finally found the happy, little me.

A Matter of Few More Miles

May be it has been years
The sun in your life hasn’t shone
But don’t leave your hope in despair
Trust me you are not alone.

A thousand dampened eyes
Still wait for the rain
To wash off their souls
The very dirt of disdain.

But just stop for a while
Donate a couple of minutes
As you come to the end of this
You might just transcend your limits.

It might have been so
That you’ve given your flesh and blood
To love the people of your life
Who later, your joy, ruthlessly nipped in the bud.

It might have been so
That you’ve stretched your aching hands as rope
For a lot of people out there
Who callously pushed you down the slope.

It might also have been so
That you’ve been the silver drops in their times of drought
But when you needed them the most
They effortlessly fell out.

Now , as crestfallen you stand
With a thousand fingers pointing you
Let your persona defend you
And don’t point your own fingers too.

To love was not your fault at all
And neither believing was
The people you chose didn’t deserve you
All the mishaps, this did cause.

It’s not the right time to brood
But to embrace the lesson learnt
To discern the hundred unmasked trippers
Thankfully, quite early in your jaunt.

Stand before the mirror once
Find the fire in your eyes
That’s adept at burning all your regrets
Make sure that it never dies.

Feel the power your lone soul possesses
Breathe, drop and lift your lashes
You don’t have to rise like the phoenix
Just don’t let others turn you into ashes.

And listen to what the brook says
‘For men may come and men may go
But I go on forever’
Like the brook, you bicker along
Let the inane people haver.

Be a perennial brook of compassion
Under the sun you will always be glowing
Those who intend to stay with you
To keep up the pace, in rhythm will be flowing.

To gather the gems on your way
May be it’s a matter of few more miles
But you’ll certainly find men for your life
Who can blissfully bleed to frame your smiles.

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