breaths interwoven,
tongues tied, waltzing in unison, skipping across tendrils of sparkling sensations, tingles racing through, this being entire, lost in the deluge of your gaze, rendering me mute, inflamed, aflame, ablaze …
Archive for November 5, 2015
apologies.
walking through this neverending thicket,
thorns jabbing at my side,
cold, shimmering blade,
slicing emotions apart,
as she prepares once more,
to depart,
and settle in some corner of my manic mind,
shedding yesteryears moulting skin,
beating through the thicket,
feelings flailing, to mania akin,
while she leaves and buries herself deep,
in the convoluted recesses of my remaining senses,
having stormed the ramparts,
overrunning all defences,
so tell her I miss her,
and our moments shared,
and tell her that I am sorry,
I was cold.
I should have cared.
void, empty,
plasticine smiles, obsequious snorts,
fattened, gladly so,
for the inevitable slaughter,
snouts deep in troughs,
snapping at each other, sniping,
a cacophony of meaningless squeals fused into an ocean of empty mewls:
a pig farm?
nah, society,
and all the lies we live.
A Poem for Jawaharlal Nehru
Pandit-Ji*
1.
The moon cast an enveloping shadow over the teeming multitudes,
as they made their tryst with destiny**,
with you as the bearer of the light,
and at the stroke of the midnight hour,
you emerged an icon, from the long and desolate night.
Long years had passed,
since those humid evenings spent,
languishing in jail,
yet your mind remained unshackled,
putting words on paper in the dim candlelight,
as the gaudy glare of empire began to pale.
2.
Today,
you live,
within us,
though not amongst us,
and,
your discovery,
your glimpses,
smoulder within me,
your immortal words,
my compass.
I am now,
the soul of nations,
once suppressed,
that have,
found utterance.
I am now,
me.
I am now,
finally,
free.
_________________
* – ‘Pandit-Ji’ was the name that Jawaharlal Nehru, the first Prime Minister of independent India, was respectfully called.
** – excerpts from Jawaharlal Nehru’s speech on 15th August 1947
what of this shell,
this shroud,
this cocoon, fragile,
familiar,
now untethered,
released,
hearts kicked to the ground,
soaring into gay, abandoned flight,
surfing a silverlined cloud,
unshackled, wings spread wide,
these endless skies ahead,
afloat, away, beckoning,
welcoming,
surfacing from the cesspool of tears shed, bled,
cried,
taken, tugged gently,
away from the freshly moulted:
free,
to surf the cottonwool tide,
free,
to flee, another hide.
searing into blinded eyes, they say tempus fugit – time flies, so lets fly, drift, float,
on dreams, in an old junk,
swaying to the waves,
in a creaking boat, yet sailing against the incoming jibes, breaking free of the tentacled tides, free at last to seek the new day, bidding farewell to the bland, eyes seeking out coconut land, where gurgling brooks, waters pure, may wash away these sins, discarded bluntly over the years, in neatly lined dustbins, weighing me down, as the beach of promise nears, a visual balm, soaking in the marvel, even as the mirage clears.
Scribbled Verse 