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? “

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.

Cerebral Jaunts

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!

Love- A Paradoxical Escapade

Passionately smooching each other
One nuzzling the other dove
Triumphantly envying me
Made me ruminate my cowardice towards love.
That love is the contorted version of devotion
I had been soothing myself with
Vowing not to plunge into the tantalizing pool
I thought I rescued my heart from the impassioned scythe.
Closing eyes I thought
‘The horripilation of solicitous touches
And wobbles in the gut
Are mere callow theatrical things
To which pragmatic minds, their doors must shut.
And love being called a solvent
Perhaps a fallacious judgement of credibility,
For it cannot solvate inherent flaws
Making space only for perfections and affability.
Roughly dragging into a field
Of subsequent tests of fidelity
Love mainlined with the venom of possessiveness
Demands regular testaments of chastity.
Hearts vow to coalesce
But minds fail to acquiesce
Souls scuffle in the mean
Landing up in a putrefying mess.
The bondage is never as flawless as it seems
Arms don’t circle round you whenever you want
Often it’s not the coveted hands coming to mend your ripped heart
Love is rather a painfully silent rant. ‘
But the moment I opened my eyes
And willingly cleansed my glasses
I saw the metamorphosis of my views
And my notions eventually churning into ashes.
The breeze gracefully bends down
Planting a kiss on the leaves
They shyly wriggle and rustle
Like a bride who gives off euphoric heaves.
And the sea…
The sea despite being turned down
Courses towards the shore
At times though it slows down
It always tries some more.
The sun like an evasive beau
From east to West continues to run
The sunflower but endeavours to glimpse
For it just can’t stop loving the sun.
The clouds often projecting dominance
Garb the sun in the darkest cloak
A couple of hours elapses the clock
And the same sun, with its comforting warmth
The brimming tears of the clouds does soak.
How the mighty , blazing sun
Elegantly dies every day
So that the cold moon can live
And get some hours to be gay.
Love is not so spick and span
It is a blissful pain
It’s all about losing yourself
Without thinking what you gain.
There is beauty in imperfections
In chasing your elusive love
There is always a pleasure in embracing flaws
And with your beloved rising above.
This planet functions with warped affairs
With no disruption of harmony
Clad in the robes of mundane passion
We fail to frisk with love’s pristine symphony.
There is gratification in haughty grievances
And of course pleasure in pain
Who can know the elation of a selfless amity
Without having self conceit slain.
Of course we can’t have fairy tales
We need not strive for them
Let’s aspire for poignant companionships
Doing away with the blame game.
For once don’t love but be devoted
And from expectations rise above
Like you give in to God, not knowing if he did nod
See how the toughest of people genuflect,
Confessing you their love!

The Ambrosial Incense


The effusion of balsamic cologne
Followed by coalescence in her frame
Sets up an enthralling biotic constitution
With no qualms, entirely mine I can claim.
As a sanguine sky marks the onset of day
Her luxuriant hair meanders with grace
Revivified by the morning shower , the scent permeates
Caressing my hypnotic senses, the alluring ribbon of sleep it does unlace.
The residual whiff after her departure,
Gyrates and my languor it mars,
A million neurons get plucked,
My soul prances to the tune of a thousand organic sitars.
The mystically tempting extramundane fragrance,
Quite astutely sensitizes me,
Nullifying the venomous roots of dejection,
It strews in me the pips of glee.
The looming of the mollifying aroma,
Appeases my restive heart,
Garbing me in robes of hope,
Bludgeons sorrows to soon depart.
My wallet that often inhabits her wardrobe,
Clasps the scent in its miniscule arms,
A maudlin comradeship in peregrinations,
Deluding her presence it simply charms.
The concoction of balsamic odour and sudor,
Gives off a ritualistic smell,
A harbinger of time to recline,
It reinvigorates my every cell.
Since the day my nose acquired prowess,
It has been dexterous in cognizing the scent,
Epitomizing supreme maternal concord,
It’s healing impact none can supplement.
Twas a humble promulgation of my mother’s redolence,
Which never fails to enrapture me,
Suffusing endearment, warmth and affinity,
A sniff is as rhapsodic as nothing can ever be.