Six feet

Image copyright Vibina Narayan

Soft light whispers into the forgotten corners

Overlooking shadows and secrets laying bare in the middle.

The moon cradles the night in her wistful arms

As you cradle mine, in your made to believe strong.

And all that remains,

is this momentum and space

between our condensed breath heavy with the magnitude of now,

Skin denuded of pride and satin we never bought.

Pulse stroked in the labile hands of time

Held like a pearl, dived deep, hard to catch.

The oyster of your world presents the song of your heart.

This bed I wish to sleep on, the sea of your life, (for the rest of mine)-

On a raft, a plank or may you call it my home.

I inhale in selfish lungfuls of all the dispersed wishes- stray and not

And forage to trap all the stars beneath the veined veils of thick eyelids-

Those carrying dreams and not.

Praying to slip into the burrow of you, skeleton and soul through.

Six feet, deep and under and more.

Six feet, beyond and wide and whole.

H is for Hamlet

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This gray day has bought with it

Some wizened thoughts

Of a past not long back

When the feet knew of stinging bites

And the heart found love in

Nothing old or known and

Thorns and stones

(and stupid idealism).

 

The hunger has died, but the burn remains.

The urge to purge the stillborn memories

Of many of our dreams we built callously,

(brick by brick)

Whetted by the stone of curiosity,

Licked by the blade of loneliness,

they have planted beautiful blooms

for the Gods in their slave’s garden.

To be enjoyed while taking a pinch of salt

With a drink to our sealed fate.

 

Grief comes to those who have the time to cry.

The rest of us keep on running until

we run dry.

And sometimes we remember to breathe,

As there is nothing any longer to feel.

While the gush of air in dissolves the body

Into the universe of our head rush,

And the clouds above roll out the drums and the show,

but no rains or tears from within,

I often question the distant rainbow,

I remember seeing while I walked a prayer for you, only to get

An endless reflection of vacuous colours,

in the mirrored room of illusions I built for myself. All over again.

Here

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Sunshine streams through the heavy clouds above

Like a call of conscience from heaven.

Life outside moves with a horizontal vector

While I’m sat here, static and in inertia of limbo.

The lilacs I always looked up to for respite

Have grown pale into the spite of existence grey.

Time moves inch by inch, every swipe of the needle

But a smudge on our longevity and dent in our breath.

I have not spent much here, yet I feel like

I have been home forever, 

The shadow of a stranger in the glass,

Some long lost friend.

I fix my gaze upon nothing yet I’m lost

Even the field of dandelions held like 

Beads of crystal in the softness of dusk tried to call me out.

Maybe that is what it is. To be here and now.

When you are really no where any how.

Harvest

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A midriff lay slumped on a chair.

The spine an adage of another existence.

Crumps and foils have been cleared away.

Breakfast long served before the bell breaks

again, 

another blush of coral in a vase, like

a little child screaming for that what it knows not. 

As always.

The sun has esteemed our resilience. Idyllic fair-weather uncle.

The soil has been trowelled for him to feast and

lush worms exposed in their hideouts.

Little sylphs of the earth, mopping up the dried salt

of this frosted mud.

I lay a bulb, inch apart, and hoped for some gross vanity 

as spring disrupts into shoots and roots entangle the mess that we call life.

I let the water flow out wondering what it would taste like. A drink of brine inside. 

A tongue for foregone rains. Outside.

A silent robin looked around, perching its hunger on a barren branch.

 

Charcoal Analogy

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There is a burning fireplace 

In every heart gathered here.

A dark chamber of secrets hidden

In the deep recesses of their ever burning soul.

Embers of dreams lost to a sallow, callous youth

when the blaze of arrogance danced to defeat.

They now yearn for the spirit of passion, that no longer

lodges in their withering flesh,

Longing to be ignited by the lick of a flame,

A touch, a swig of the tender fuel

Of love that can never be lost. Only found.

Again and again.

Our lives lie in this furnace, these lumps of burnt charcoal

That we are.

Waiting to be picked at, from its state of apparent futility.

These cold and needy times pleading for 

You and me, again,

To be burnt to the end of being burnt,

And nothing more to give but

What was already there.

Yet another chapter being written here. Sat by this fireplace.

To warm another’s belly.

To warm another’s hearth.

Single Magpie

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I have had a very rough last few weeks. Just started off with a new job at a completely new place with lots to travelling to and fro from work and home. And I wouldn’t exactly be going ga-ga over my personal life, at the moment. My brains were all over the place and I was hurting people who genuinely loved me the most. I remember being a complete wreck last Sunday and reached the zenith of moments when I lost all my cool. In a way, it was a process of catharsis but it led to a lot of hurt and anguish that, unfortunately, I just couldn’t control, despite regular meditations.

I remember waking up the next morning, to a clear blue Monday sky. I got out of the bed, got my journal and pen, and penned down every single issue that has been bothering me ever since they started. And I could automatically feel the heavy iceberg in me slowly thawing away into a glacier of forgiveness. At the end of writing my journal, I took a resolve. That I will not my bruise my poor heart anymore. That I will treat my heart, my beating crystal of a beautiful heart with much more love and kindness and dignity, that she actually deserves. And from there on began my ability to be a lot more kinder to myself. And in the process, unto others.

I went out for a walk in the cold morning, the brilliant autumn sunshine wavering through the golden leaves, shimmering the green of the grass to make it appear gold- well technically, there was gold everywhere!

Autumn brings out every shade of gold, nature withheld in herself under the many guises of other colours of summer. Every colour of autumn, be it the bright yellow, the tarnished green, the burnt orange, the indifferent brown, the bright burgundy or even the sallow tawny of dried leaves, is a beautiful complement to the colour gold. It is as if, time wants to display her demise into the depth of another year, with a resplendent show.

My face was freezing and my hands nearly lost their sensations but I had never experienced so much happiness and release in a long while like then. I wrote a poem in honour of my day and made peace with myself. My life and its gains and losses- small and large.

I hope you like Single Magpie as much as I did writing it 🙂

 

 

I walked through miles of cold sunshine

Today.

The indignation of hitherto, waiting at its

Bay.

The sun had not smiled yet at the frost in its 

Thick white spread.

Yet the young green leaves shallow-ly bathed in the virgin waters of

The day.

Splinters of ray poked the peripheries of what I tried to see but couldn’t

Say.

Memories of bereft blood and memoirs of unknown laughters held me in my path in a 

daze.

Yonder arose a red mist held up in the sky sewn together with threads of autumn berries

A manic splay.

A magpie, a single magpie, as ominous as me

Soared up with its proud breast, perched upon the highest bough of a discarded tree, it’s foliage 

frayed.

All of us in equal share, in this frame, of the ruthlessness of hope and tomorrows.

She charmed me, this little white breast messiah, with nothing, absolutely nothing.

Just by being there. 

Loner bird, sat like a loner human

A queen in her stillness, a thinker of all sorts.

While I breathed in and earned my thought

Without a dime or two to spend.

Violet Reminders

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Today, I would like to share a few verses written by yours truly, inspired by my walk in the garden. I had planted and lost, and not cared and still won . That is what nature has taught me this year. To be patient. To be resilient. Hope you like what I have written.

 

 

I planted yesterday in my garden

Some hopes and

Purple dahlias.

And today they are sweetly usurped by

Little pale pink dreams I do not know

The name of.

Dainty and wild 

like some of us.

Virgin blush enchanting the naked eye.

 But their love for their mother remains like none.

Because they remember me in the wet lands,

Giving birth to 

Amethyst stillborns.

 

Tulips

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The sun shined a brilliant blaze through my

Glass doors today,

Shifting this mind numbing daze built in the column of my living,

With aeons of flying shed dust

That refuse to sediment in the murky waters of time.

 

As if God stood as a guest in guise outside our humble hearth.

Tears of brilliance and reverence in my eyes.

Maybe there is some one I could love

Far and close, near and away.

 

It is winter with no blooms to cheer you

In my withering gardens,Sweetheart.

They are as gray and sullen

As this season after feasts and bygone goodbyes.

As I gave the last of my mirths to

Strangers of blood and not.

But there are songs of robins and sparrows and whatever of them,

Still care to sweeten my

Ember of a soul.

Singing in gratitude of nature and time

And better days to come by

Because ’tis a beautiful one.

Today.

 

Last night I withered through the storms with

A wayward bough hitting the windows and door,

Like a petrified orphan.

And I thought of those obstinate kisses

I once wished for as much as the

Embrace that would not let go off my

Ill, rebel of a being.

Maybe, before I move to a better loved home?

 

For now, I have, however, some rainbow tulips

In a vase waiting for a Lover’s gaze

To unfurl every petal and drench his

Thirst for youth, colour and all that can be used up and ruminated.

Like an abuse you spew out of your mouth in terrible heat

Of your heart.

 

Come if you may, to sit by the fire.

Tell me some stories of yours, ours, what ifs and

Those that can never be heard.

Hold my hand, as fragile as the skin above my veins.

Dont let it go off,

Not even in an absent thought.

Because I can

With all that I have.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Little Brown Leaf

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She washed ashore

This little brown leaf,

Laying in a pool of

Sad salt water,

Looking up at me

Like an abandoned child.

 

She must have heard a million tales

From lands unknown, from winds afar.

Singing to her,

Were the shells thrown out

By the princesses

Who had treasures everyday anew

Galore and galore.

 

She must have seen

Sailors and prisoners,

Witches and their crafts,

Lonely men in their towers and

Women recuperating from love,

Who cried and thought they ruled

Their own lairs.

Ah, mankind!

 

Crackling nights deceptive of dawn

Bright in the middle of

Nowhere,

Nothing to dine,

Only to drink

Brine and breathe in,

The vacuum air of

Another sunrise.

 

Plankton,

Sweet child of mine,

Of another era.

Another kingdom, another sphere,

Who wrung  you

Off the green I hoped you were once,

Was it the harsh cold waters of

God’s own making?

Or dry currents that free will

Desired when smitten by

Glory?

 

I hope you make my red toe nails and

Hobbit feet

Your refuge.

Maybe I could give you a name

And you could tell me all your dreams,

And other forgotten stories of

Fame.

 

I will never let you out

Into the sea,

That mass of unknown

Again.

You frail and fragile body

With no fragments known to

Fate.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Reflections

reflections

Where did my dear

I let go off you?

When did I leave

That rope

I had tied your heart to

My able, small hands?

In between the lines of our lives

To the lines that now lie

Beneath our eyes,

When did I lose you

While seeking lost treasures

In the kingdom beneath

The sea that held legends and gold

And ships and shells

As false as their

Tales of mermaids.

 

Will a note of love be good enough

Or a Sufi’s* blessing?

Bottled with the pearl of

My yearning,

Pushed across the sea

By the abr** sent by the

Gods above who have always

Loved me.

Will the pining heart of

A shy poet do?

Will the strength of a

Monk in reverence,

To let us be

Do?

There must be a map somewhere,

Hidden amidst rocks and thorns

In a cave swallowed by the

Shadows of phantoms of

Another world,

That will take us to

Jannat***

Far beyond our

Conscience,

Our grasp.

 

I will get on my saddle now,

I will ride my white beauty

Through the moonlit fields now,

Like a raging dacoit.

Silence torn by

Screams that will never be

Let out.

Before anybody else up above

Throws an irate sword of thunder

To plunge this night of

Our lives.

 

*mystic (Urdu)

**clouds (Urdu)

*** paradise (Urdu)