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.
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? “
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.
Leafing through the erudite sheets Blissfully sniffing biblichor Tempted to relish in the stupor Pint by pint I quaff the printed liquor. Leaping into a different world An eerie road I stride Sometimes as a delinquent lass Sometimes as an evasive bride. Gulping potions of passion Daring to face the wrath of dragon How astute it feels To hurl at kins the literary jargon! Empathy runs in the veins Tears often cascade down the cheeks Involuntary grins deck up the face Heart prompts before the protagonist speaks. Certain enticing pages Shackle the responsive brain Failing to get over them I get back to them again and again. And how it feels to highlight phrases And utter them with the needed style Letting each word seep through skin Making them sacred dogmas for a while. Losing bookmarks in the mean Failing to resist dog earing pages Reading them for the umpteenth time I can’t stop cribbing over the wrinkles in stages.
It is a relaxing jaunt A jaunt from forwards to epilogues Carrying just that one motive To squeeze every drop of expressions and dialogues. And how to forget the pleasure Of counting the pages left As the pages dwindle towards the end The heart weeps in the sorrow of being left bereft. ‘She could have stayed stronger Or he could have acted smarter’ These pop ups never fail to urge To reach and question the author. And scanning through the last leaf Staring at the back cover Rejoicing the end of a tale It’s time to drown in the hangover. Awashed in mystic indulgence Calmness fondles my mind Heart races to find out Whether ‘twas a journey or an elixir I just left behind. After every tireless voyage I become more supple like clay Permissible to be subtly moulded In the way the wordsmith does say. After adding a book to the pile I find a newer version of mine With a different set of verses to use And my visage disgorging a different shine. So I have vowed to devote my every second To quench my silly soul’s greed Not of money or of land But of enough books to read!