Blue

Blue, the back of my eyelids

A tinge of stark

I step into a space

My room is never dark

For I dread it

My space is never dark

Not darkness of truth

But the color black

Blue, the color of my eyelids

Escort me to space

Intangible, indefinite bits

I stare, closed eyes in daze

The skies and blue oceans

Gush with enticing expanse

Unite at a mysterious horizon

An everlasting trance

Blue, the color of skin

He’s an embodiment of truth

His dainty fingers enjoy

Caress of the exquisite flute

The warmth of sapphire

And a stroke of azure on canvas

I touch both with delicate care

Blue; my growing madness

Blue, the color of my eyelids

Escort me to space

Intangible, indefinite bits

I stare, closed eyes in daze

Gravity

Don’t slumber, neither do you cringe

On the burden we bequeath, you willingly binge

Dwell within them and reside in me

Live in and out of the earth and in all that we see

I don’t see you; yet I am experiencing

A rigid embrace in your very being

You fathom the passion in a dancer’s feet

You drink the love of someone’s conceit

You are the greatest of all fetchers

You are the grandest of all catchers

Stars and planets float with power unmatched

In the gargantuan indigo space, no strings attached

The beginning of the cosmos, He set alight

Power vested upon, to ants and planets, alike

From where do you come? To where do you go?

That we needed you, how did you know?

You existed before me and long after I am gone

I don’t see how you are different from any God

One soul of you, treat all the same

Neither you see color nor do you declaim

This tender planet sans gratifying serenity

Divided by opinions; United by gravity

Dying tears’ serendipity

Murky skin of hers wander

Past breeze that clench tales

Her dress rags her hide

Remaining shards to veil her shame

Drunken eyes lament

Vanity she once possessed

Swollen eyes among other parts

Now a hue of red

Exposed burns and cuts

Creased fingers and palm

Thirsty hands grieving

Etched on skin, a psalm

Of minarets and domes

Romances learnt and forgotten

Yet stare down at her

With blunt devotion

Walk through a boulevard

Into a desert so rave

Sun bounces off the sand

Sand endures the pain

Recasting pain in her eyes

Wind rages in its entirety

Transitory tear-trails on cheek

Dying tears’ serendipity

At the chin, salty beads

A mortal ocean gathers depth

Plunges onto her torso

Diffuse and rejoices death.

Discerning reality

 

There is something about worn-out places that fascinate me. The exhausted paint coatings releasing itself from the grasp of the wall, exposing the underlying bricks from which they were once built, long ago. They are no longer able to contain each other. I wonder who wins here. The paint, avowed to protect the wall, now unearthing freedom? The wall, who can now be its true self? Or both, for breaking free from the vile dominance of attachment?

Who are you?

Nodding head in exasperation

Fire in belly

And fumes in ears

 

Walking on the forlorn street

A touch of zephyr

You compose the heat

 

Who are you?

 

The intelligence that wanders?

A form that breathes?

Thoughts in your head?

Or the eye that sees?

 

The lone light died abrupt

Abandoned you. Blinded.

Yet, the world you hear

Existence depended on the ear

 

Unaware of where

Bounded swiftly by strange silence

Severed from the world

Existence depended on limbs

 

Blinded, deafened and defeated

Fatigue, arduous to gauge

Worn-out limbs give away

Existence depended on something strange

 

In the cosmic expanse of universe

You and I are a speckle of dust

Yet, the Universe we are

Alas! Crafted of love and lust

 

Love for the material

Lust for the same

None fathom that their body don’t have a place

Let alone their name

 

A million times our name said

A hundred times God summons to say his’

‘Speak of me under your breath’

We, a thousand times forget this

 

Being human.

On clothes, it only lingers

Clichéd.

 ‘Being Humble’ differs only by three letters

 

Born as little bodies, the same;

Churning out thoughts and memories

Energies beyond elucidation

Experiences beyond dreams

 

You and I wrangle by mere thoughts

That sashay and glide

Countless encounters adding them up

And them making up the mind

 

Who you are is who I am

 Galaxies in your eyes, just as mine

 

Body, you see in front of you

Adorned.

Soul, nothing but a crumb of the universe

Of the same soul. Of God.

Mora

Mora means rhythm. Mora means poetry.

(Inspired by Anoushka Shankar’s rendering of classical Indian raga named Jog)

Sitar strings surrender to fingers

Fellow instruments orchestrate

Melding tradition and now

Stillness overpowers the mind

As the descant resound

Pounding to reconcile with the Mridangam

The lone commotion is that of the heart

Drifting miles to meet mora

Eyelids do not part

Chuckles dance on lips

Corner of the eye a loitering tear

White stone flicker when her nose scrunches

As he plays it by the ear

Mora, before now exists

Mora, is not bound

Mora, can only be discovered

When one touches the walls that bleed sound

Video link: https://youtu.be/-wra4p4zARw

The Lean Line of Tenses

Ever wondered what it would feel like if you could travel back to your past? Be an invisible third person and examine everything that happened in your life? Watch from afar the people you unknowingly rubbed shoulders with, become the people you dearly respect in your life later?  What about simply travelling back and re-living those moments? Savor the happy ones again and amend the sad ones? Well, the thought must have crossed your mind at least once! But what about the time you wasted thinking about it? Whatever happened, happened as it was bound to take place!

It is odd comprehending that whatever took place in the past is inevitable and fated. It’s the same with what might happen in the future. That makes us wonder what exactly we have with us right now. If a word you just read, a breath you took or the thought which you thought are things of the past and the word that you would read next, or your next breath or your upcoming thought are things of the future then there would be a momentous debate on what the present is. In fact, the transition between past and future undoubtedly is a skinny line!

If someone is able to make that scraggy line a little podgier, that’s probably when they have learnt the art of the much coveted and dramatic expression of “Living in the present”. But is it as straightforward as it sounds? For us to live in the present, we should have no contemplations whatsoever of the impending. Would that mean you wouldn’t have to worry about saving a penny for the rainy day?

Any living theory that exists in this world certainly has two faces (much like the people we encounter every day!). One theory which tells you to quit looking for something when you want to find it and the other which tells you to go out and look for it. Now, consider the second to be true. What about the theory of destiny then? Is it just a word people use to blame their failures? (Courtesy: A coffee mug which had this printed on it). Some believe that when a baby is born, his/her entire fate is already written by the great hand of God and that things that happen to you aren’t controlled by you but the omnipotent. Does that mean they grow up to be quitters, fall into the category of lazy people and never make an effort to move out of their comfort zone because they worship the ideology of destiny? I believe to an extent that it is factual. However, someone being blindly precast in the philosophy would do nothing but cause themselves damage. When you eliminate the option of staying put, accusing destiny, you are left with another option. Learning from experience! It is by far, the cleverest alternative. Experience sure can be a wonderful teacher. You went through whatever happened in the past. Alas! There is no way to demolish it! Embrace it, smile, move on, yet learn from it and attempt to plant what you acquired in what you do right now, so that you know what to vaguely look forward to. Although, it is definite that none of us would be able to deduce what precisely will happen, having a blurry image is by far better than having none. At least you can script your own Experience Reference Guide! And who knows! One day you might even get to publish one!

So we still stick on with living in the moment. We don't have to be apprehensive about the future, yet be prepared for the worse that might happen, with the help of our reference manual. Putting 100% to what you are doing at this very moment would also mean you are listening. Very clearly! And that is a quite a wonderful thing!

I now understand why there a lot of confused souls out there. Well, I absolutely am still one of them! Let me know what you think.