Don’t Listen

If we stop for a while and look around us, most of us will not find ourselves in the place we wanted to be, someday. We have often changed paths. Presumed adversities have overpowered our exigency to explore a new way. Most of the time it’s our well wishers who hold us back. Their intentions are pure but their fears throw shackles over our bodies.

This poem is an appeal to every individual who decides to traverse an unconventional path. It will be difficult initially. But for once unshackle the fetters of fears that others have thrown around you, for you yourself are too brave to have made that decision. A lot of those paths are undiscovered. Walk down one of them. Who knows, it might just be easier and pleasanter than the one all choose to travel.

When you see a path
None other could see
Or didn’t dare to walk
Wondering what it could be
When your heart scurries
Beneath your skin
And you think of none
But when to begin
When voices are loud
Inside your head
But there’s chaos around
Keep quiet instead.

Listen to what
The voices say
Your senses to your soul
Bare you lay
Lift your foot
And take a step
Don’t stop until
Arrives the doorstep.

Make silence your weapon
To jostle the crowd
As you reach the threshold
You can’t help being proud.
Use that zest
To step on the eerie path
Start marching
Don’t presume the aftermath.

They’ll fill your ears
With words of dread
And will persuade you
To not go ahead.

But don’t stop!

Feel your veins
Carrying blood that boils
Hot enough
To incinerate turmoils.

Still you know
That you’ll be pained
They’ll smirk
And ask what you gained.
Sing yourself
The song of hope
You’ll get the power
With angst to cope.

But don’t stop!

You’ll go through the hardest time
And the darkest tunnel
With ears bleeding
From the cacophonous warning knell

But you will emerge!

You will emerge
Into light and air
After all ordeals
You’ll have to bear
The light will fill
Your gaping wounds
Your ears will heal
From the melody the world croons.

There will be silence
All around
To hear you speak
Would wait the town.

So it’s for you
To know today
All roads lead
To the end one day.

Travel the one
For you ,your heart shapes
Don’t listen!
For most of them
Have never tasted the grapes!!

Wish there was a God for real

Not much explanation this time. This poem is self-explanatory. Though we have unflinching faith in Him and know that we will always have Him to fall back on, at times we can’t help wishing his presence to be a bit more pronounced.

I wish there was a God for real
Who would encircle his colossal palms around
The hope ebbing away from people
And clasp them with enough warmth
Caress them , blow some strength
And push them into the hollowed hearts.

I wish there was a God for real
Who would have a scythe ready
For those who wash hands with blood
And a tickling wand to prod
The naïve ones who’re too afraid to try some more.

I wish there was a God for real
Who would ensure no innocent’s crushed
Beneath the tyres of men in stupor
And that there’s no room for tumour
In a brain full of good-wishes for others.

I wish there was a God for real
Who would not mistaken triumph at all
For a soiled trophy of conniving men
But would gently whisper ‘amen’
In ears of toiling souls he sees.

I wish there was a God for real
A God straight from grandma’s tales
Who would watch it all
Lift us as we fall
And wrap us all in his mystic shawl.

Decrypting latent disciplines

As my skin glistens under the blazing charisma
Of the sun,
The warmth pervading my skin,
Melting the frozen carapace around the senses
Stoking them to rise from a deep slumber
I struggle to severe my hypnotic lashes
Only to be blinded by the glowing sun
Who apparently mocks at me
Like it does at a million others, under its shade
Who grapple with the same set of questions
Drowning in the ocean of self -effacement
Yet made buoyant by the baggage of self worth
They fail to dissolve.
I too am another tripper, heading towards
A destination, oblivious
An explorer astounded by everything her eyes
Fall at and surprisingly hesitates to dissect more
For she knows her vessel is too small
To contain what awaits to be found,
A disciple who is perplexed by the disciplines
And sets about to search the master,
Yet steps back, for there is , she knows
No pleasure like that in the pains it takes to find Him.
And what does it take to live once the master is found?
But how does it matter?
‘How does it master? ‘ , throng my mind
Throbbing it loud enough for my heart to involuntarily pace
With it.
How does it matter if I reach the destination?
How does it matter if I explore everything I want to?
How does it matter if I meet my master?
I am but a rubble in the cosmos
An inconspicuous dust in the corner space
Of an unmeasured, unfathomable expanse.
How do I even matter?
If swathes of my flesh drip down coalescing
With the damp soil beneath
Will I be any different from the tiny white flower
That wilted in my garden and woefully remains unidentified?
As silence engulfs and vacuum savours my mind
I hear a voice that doesn’t come in waves
See a light emanating from no source
Feel intensely yet go numb,
I sense a sudden unison of my external and internal
My mind questioning my own dubiety
Calming me down, trying to make me reminisce,
Though unidentified, how I, the master of the garden
Mourned equally for the white tiny flower and the giant
Red rose
How every flower completes an inch of my garden
How the ocean owes its drops
And how everything is just a variedly shaped heap
Of zillions of invisible, indivisible particles
We fail to identify in a lifetime.
Again silence engulfs me, but this time
The sun no more smirks but grins
Allowing me to stare at it for long
May be it knows, I’ve just decrypted the master’s
Very first latent discipline, “ It’s about deducing in just a different way”.

Paradoxical life

Despite enduring all the pressure, a diamond stone won’t dazzle until its cut and polished. A lot of times there are people quite unfortunate who undergo all the pressure but are forgotten by the diamond cutter to be polished. And, because they don’t shine we fail to notice them.

Not all those who stand on pedestals are diligent nor all those who don’t are indolent. We only see those who stand tall. But there are people who work equally harder, dream equally high but woefully their lives are designed in such a way that things don’t work out the way they should.

This might sound exaggerated because often we don’t care to hear the stories of those whose stairs break just before climbing the pedestal. I wish we could. Atleast we could acknowledge the sleepless nights spent, the blood and sweat given in and the hope crumbled into shards.

Still, they emerge to be surprisingly optimistic, warming cold bodies with the ray of hope they struggle to find. With every disappointment, they get a little stronger and gird up their lions once again but with a lesser ounce of hope. Even if all hope dies, the paths get thronged with obstacles, they don’t stop walking. May be because they eventually let go of the fear to lose.

But there can be no cloud without a silver lining and it is their perseverance that draws the outline of their plain, bulging clouds.

Read the poem below to find out how their lives take a turn:-

Some people have lives like a rainbow
Enthralling passers by with the splendour
Of the vibrant spectrum, while struggling
To make ends meet.
Or like a spacecraft fuelled
With the heat of unflinching faith of millions
That gets swallowed by an
Undiscovered black hole while
Precisely following the trajectory.
They are like that unfortunate mid bottle
In bottle billiards
That sleeps to let the ball pass over its body
Leaving rows of bottles on both sides untouched
Or that beautiful flower on the cactus
That people fear to pluck.
They have hope dripping from their flesh
Quenching despair souls on the way
For hope has betrayed them so often
That they just can’t open the door
Once again.
Their face muscles are eternally stretched
Flaunting an upturned mouth
Irrespective of contexts
May be because they know ,
They won’t have enough instances to smile
So they just empty the store.
They carry forbearance in their collarbones
And an injured resilience in the tears
They confine within the lids which shine
Bright on moonless nights.
They oar in the sea like mad men
Only to be dashed at unexpected shores
But they set about to explore the deserted landscapes too.
They are bruised
And seconds before healing, another part
Of their body rips apart. But they no more dread blood.
Rather when it slithers on the body
They get prodded by the pain
To walk a few more miles anticipating an elixir
Which they know is an illusion.
They push indifference down their throats
And hallucinate optimism, being schizophrenic about
An omniscient super power following them everywhere.
Let alone aspire, people pray not to have a life like that.
Because theirs is like a novel where readers lose
Desperately turning pages to find a note after the epilogue
As they the story gets intensely unfair
With the protagonist.
They don’t lead races or lists
Or do not even make it to pedestals
Yet, there is an audience who comes down to them
Emptying the aisles with reverence
So that
They can stroll, singing the secret
Of survival!

Know that..

In a ted talk I was recently listening to, the speaker used a line, ” Life is a race but who asked you to take part? ” This hit me hard. We have been so busy finding a space in the queue for ourselves that we have forgotten to ask what we want out of life. Seeking validation has been obligatory. Shattering fences and renouncing comfort zones are believed to have become mandatory. But why?

Let’s take a step back and view life from a broader perspective. Where are we all placed? What are we running to achieve? Isn’t it said that even if you win the rat race, you will still be a rat. So why this recklessness to reign over a region that already has a million aspirant emeperors fighting?

Seeing this insane craze of people around us, there are times when we feel laid back. There are times when this over enthusiasm, instead of encouraging us pushes us into the pit, drains all the pep out of us. And I know, we almost choke ourselves to be at par with others in the race. But remember, the guidelines to a happy life varies for every other person.

Through the poem below, I have tried to present a piece of solace to all the toiling, perplexed souls by letting them know that it’s absolutely fine to prefer a conducive space to a detrimental one. It is not necessary to take the strenous path every time. Even if you don’t take a lot of risks, you will still have an audience waiting to know your story. Pain does not define what you gain . So calm down. After all,of what use is a golden bed, if your body aches at the end of the day.

Know that you’re not wrong
For not desiring the pleasure that pain guarantees
Know that you’re not wrong
To eschew honey, for you’re too afraid to be stung by bees.

If two paths join today and morrow
It isn’t imperative to bleed on the thorny one
If you choose to stride the tufted track
You won’t subject to futility your every plan .

It’s fine if you don’t wish to break boundaries
For every one of them broken, isn’t there another one to break?
You can explore every inch within it
Though snapping it might just be a piece of cake.

It’s fine to ponder only over the “ possibles”
And not to have the wildest dream
If you think you don’t have to find a reason
To be able to engender a beam.

In a flamboyant ocean of possibilities
Why be enticed towards the corals of pain?
You can reach the shore with a spotless skin
For bruises don’t count what you gain.

Step out of the queue for once
Think, what out of life you want to make
Aren’t we all just clueless trippers
Why always put our peace at stake!
The warmth of your cocoon isn’t that bad
Relish, as long as you feel, stay away
It isn’t requisite to invite adversities
You are strong enough to brave what comes your way.

Chase only what finds you an ounce of joy
Your comfort you need not inthrall
To hold on to things you already have
Know that isn’t wrong at all.

Calm down, breathe. Don’t be too hard on your shell
You’re going great, with some gaiety you swell
Despite not plunging into perilous seas or climbing precipitous hills
Know that, you still can have a story to tell.

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? “

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