Unpoem: Words

On days you try to do something and end up doing nothing. But then, isn’t doing nothing also a kind of doing something? Like the Oracle says in The Matrix, isn’t not making a choice also a choice? So I set out to write a poem and end up writing an unpoem. This is not a poem, these are just words.

This is not a poem
These are just words
That spilled over
One morning
When thoughts ran fast
And slipped down
The slippery cordons
Of untold dreams.

And words do spill
Sneaking away
Through spaces and periods
While you are busy
Deciphering
Those slipping thoughts
Sticking together
Falling alphabets.

What are words after all –
But dreams
Carved in Your language?
And so are these,
Those tiny fragments
Of the stuff
Your dreams are made off.

This is not a poem
These are just words
That spilled over.

Oh Kids

I knew he was thinking.
Pondering such simple truths, as
Why is the ball round? Or,
Why is the sky blue?
Searching answers he would get soon.

Then, with all his shiny milky teeth
He grinned at me, his face was aglow –
That glow of the innocent.
Giggling in part, and whining the rest
Coo-cooing some words
Jumbled in his own language.

I laughed and smiled, giggled at his whims
Spoke his language, and became a kid
for the moment. When it was time,
I left him to play
And stepped into the by lane, where
Time waited its warp.

As in time everything grows,
So will the kid learn and grow,
Into what the world calls an adult. And someday,
Come to the same place, and play with a kid
And wonder just as I did today –

What is it about kids
that always fills you with joy?
Is it their innocence
or a lost nostalgia of what you were?

Sleepy…

The day finally comes to an end. There’s the fatigue of a long and grueling work, and the wonder – how increasingly mechanical the daily routines have become of late. And there’s the bliss of sleep. Nothing compares a good sleep at the end of a long hard day. Good Night. Sleep Tight.

A piece of dream
Beckons me
As I sit
Stretching out
The final strains
Of a long day

Little grains of sleep
Loitering
Around sullen eyes
Flashing
Clouds of mirages
From the day gone by.

Mirages of men
Of voices heard
And tales told
Lingering smiles
Delicate frowns
Love, Hate
And other such illusions
Hover the eyes

I slip, meanwhile,
Through corridors of sleep
Into the land afar
Where dreams await
Refugees from reality.

Snow…

It’s snowing. And a few words tumbling with the falling snow. I let them drop and bundle them into a tiny package. Now I start thinking what to name it. Sitting by the window on a snowy evening, may be? Because that’s what I’m doing? Nope. That’s exclusive of Mr. Frost. May be I’ll just call it what it is. Snow.

There they are
The flakes.
Swaying obediently
to the whims of the wind
Marching down
Like soldiers
On a commander’s call

As if blessings
were showered from heaven.
Falling
Oh so bright
Oh so white
Into this dark night
Like ignited souls
That went astray.

Gently they descend
Floating thin, and frothy
Glittering pendants
Adorning the earth.
Spreading
Their white halo
And landing on the cheeks
Like a lover’s kiss.

Fragments…

And then there are days like these when certain sidelined fragments of your memory suddenly wake up and linger all through the clichéd morning to the time when you make yourself comfortable snuggling under your comforter. And on one such day she resisted her urge to snuggle from the cold, to scribe the fragments into words.

After the milkman’s bell
Woke me to another morning
I sat by the window
With coffee and a mild breeze
And pebbles of random thoughts.

It was on the night of a power outage
When the blind
Led the sighted to safety.
Awake from sleep
Not knowing if it was the sleep
Or the dream of sleeping
That made me feel strange

I was seated
Among restless passengers
A crying baby, delayed flights
Torn shoe and spilt coffee
And a stranger beside
Who seemed to tell me
“You’ll be around me,
A few good hours.”

So a few good hours they were
With books and cookies
And smiles
And a few good hours
Is all it took
To be born into the arms
Of a stranger.

And before I knew
I had confined him
Into a mental postcard
And placed it safe
In my marriage album.

She closed her diary, stepped into her bed and snuggled close to Rehan. Watching the contented peace of his fast asleep face, she drifted into a tight sleep herself. The fragments, too, slept with her.

Cries From A Grave

Dedicated to all those who lost their lives in the Mumbai Blasts. 

I would smear my hair
Saffron, white and green
and whistle
every time India won.
Just like you.

I would stand
long queues
to the first show
of every new movie.
Just like you.

I would run
from my math lessons
and the spanking
from my dear father.
Just like you.

I would break
every glass window
Slamming sixers
on our muddy streets.
Just like you.
*

But this day,
Kind One,
I lie thoughtful
Of my unknown days
and unremembered deeds
Of my little thrills
and nameless acts
Of the desolate journey
that beckons me

As I swoon
in perpetual trance
Choking
in my own breath
Bathing
in my own blood
Splintered petals
caressing my wounds

I stare
with sinking eyes
at the sudden stillness
This rapidly engulfing peace
dragging me into its fold
as I slip into a sleep.

I rest
under the spotless moon
beneath the sheath of warm air
in a blaring silence
shrill and still.
Still, as death.

In death do I pray,
Living One,
That I forfeited mine
So you may live yours.
*

Sing not
a mournful eulogy
until you hear the sniffles
of my mother’s
dry tear

Feel not
an ounce of pity
If you do not know
the language of my grief

Cry not
a tear on my grave
If you do not understand
the meaning of my death

For under this grave
is Me - the unborn.
Stolen of the joys
of seeing this world
Robbed of the bliss
of my mother’s kiss
Stripped of the delight
of playing street cricket
Deprived of the pleasure
of living a life.

And To You
Fortunate Reader,
I bequeath
All the Joys
Of my Unlived Life.

Phantom Words…

I sit with my laptop safe on my lap. Chevaliers De Sangreal playing on the Media Player. Lots of thoughts, ideas, news and opinions to write about. And I stumble on the infamous Writer’s Block. Trying to convert my thoughts into words and type them into my laptop, all I manage is the Phantom Words.

Phantom Words
As I sit
wrapped in a cloak of thoughts
they rise into the ghastly mind
pensive and pointed
I stare
through those misty eyes
as the visions of their obscured wit
dance to some unheard tune

Phantom Words
They pass through the pores
of a poked heart
They swing and swirl
around the sleek silhouette
of amorphous thoughts
Even as they keep sliding
like a slipping spaghetti,
attempting a new shape
with every glide.

Phantom Words
They rise like mirages
over queer thoughts
that seem perplexingly simple
yet made to search
for those elusive words

Phantom Words
When abundant ideas
stuff the mind
and try to break free
from the bottleneck of words,
they relentlessly pile on
only to dissolve later
in the hazy presumptions
of worldly abstractions.

Fingers tap
thoughts mingle
letters dwindle
but
Phantom Words
is all that remains.

waiting…

I look around
and I pause to see
a tear escape
beneath my bloated eye

My heart skips a beat
as thoughts flutter past
Squeaking stories
of days together

of days bathing in sun
and wiping its sweetened smear
of whispered words
and the smiles they evoked
of sensuous strokes
and their pleasant viles
of serene silence
and its inexplicable harmony

of eternal dreams
and its sleepless bliss
of tender tears
and the soothing hug
of melancholic voices
and its divine warmth
of adoring stares
and its timeless peace

My heart skips another beat
as a speck of hope flutters past
promising a new fable
of together and forever…

I look around
wiping tears of denial
Praying for the promise
and waiting for your arrival…

…and the oxymoron

…continued from previous post

The morning breeze
flew into the window
and sang a melancholy
to the drowsy ears

She walked ahead
through spotless sunlight
searching the park
for her lost pieces.
Filtering her mind
from the pains of prudence
Clearing her paths
weeding out her agony
Cleansing herself
with episodes from past
Furnishing her steps
with the newness of future
She picks her broken pieces
to weave her new thread
her own new thread.

Wake my child
you have a new meaning
Wake my child
you have united yourself
Wake my child
you have gained your self
Wake my child
you have reasons to joy
Wake my child
the world is at your call

The moon rose
as the first chapter
of her serene solitude
played to its promising start.

The beginning.

the moron…

The clogging ventricles
pant for something fresh
A gasping choke
searching for a breath

Fatigue and immobile
a heart heavy
and gaining weight.
As the past narrates itself
hasty and harsh
in a drowsy sermon.
Perplexed thoughts
perplexingly simple
and profoundly unkind.
Spilt words
forgotten for long
dance in the dim eye.
Flawed deeds
reflecting over
and relentlessly niggling.

Sleep my child
your meaning is stolen
Sleep my child
your self is broken
Sleep my child
your gains are lost
Sleep my child
your joy is buried
Sleep my child
sleep is all you have

The moon sank
as the long drama
of their interwoven lives
played to its inevitable conclusion.

To be continued…