Tuesday, November 25, 2014
I spread out my hands-
With the weight of the wind in between.
My leaves were already stale,
Yellow and faint.
And there was no sand in-
-Between those pebbles under my feet.
And I couldn’t hide from the orange sky
-Leering on my chest.
And the evening kept me only some chased butterflies
To hang on my nerves as to tickle and flutter
And to count my leaves
And to season themselves-
Before their fast approaching grave.
Sunday, September 21, 2014
Its blue beads have rolling lights and dashing reflections. And at the circling end of 33 such beads there are white threads hanging together. And I show them below the lights to see them crystal shine like his face in blues and in bliss. From the day it was presented by him it never lived a day without passing light.
I haven’t ever noted this before. My words having a callous existence, leaving it like little islands with trees full of meanings, flurrying its red, pink, white, black, yellow, ripened and un-ripened cherries on heads leaning on its craggy trunk. I have never thought myself as an artist, who can spun words so indifferently that people’s brain can get shattered on my cob web. I have never thought my mouth was ever lashing out a barrage of reactions, questions, misinterpretations, that it’s difficult for others for they are getting away from their coziness castled out of slanted truths.
They say you cannot understand two people’s private emotions and sentiments. Because you don’t truly belong to their space. And I never thought myself as an artist who can understand and empathize with other’s emotions and react to them in the most objective way possible. Even the most close ones, fallen prey of my impolite silences.
A junkyard full of deluded images of oneself. Always myself in the “right box “and others in the wrong box. Actually I am the true artist, contented with enough justifications, detachments, critical perspectives, twisting myself and other’s thoughts into pathways of redundant analysis so that others can finally despise me with most plausible reason lightened on their heads.
That’s exactly why I am more into the beauty of the blue beads which is presented to me than the religious purpose of it. That’s why when someone discloses their most personal, moving sentiments, emotions and tears, I think upon the generality of it and react with the most ridiculous way possible. Because I am true artist who can later ponder upon it and dare to photograph its soreness here without an inch of disgrace.
Romeo with poison and Juliet with apparent death can have only the impact of critical onlooking of plot structure at the stage of complication and denouement for me. If you want to see the sentimental impact on me, leap onto my heart and rip off the skin, in beneath am I still the artist? I should think on it artistically. I am an artist. Are you?
Monday, April 14, 2014
The downpour seem to have an intimation
Of romance implicit and artless
That has been consistently thriving in her since yesterday
Though it’s only a revival of an existing bondage
Its face felt anew-
May be out of the sensation of being lost-
By his absence- distance and missing
It may be the lack of ceremony of making him tea
Or simply he is either not there, or not palpable.
It remind her of a painted figure-in low key
Dissolving into the background
Slipping into abstract
And there is only rain outside
And only rain.
Saturday, April 12, 2014
The lost patterns of rumination found itself
Right at the edge of his joyous flood.
It’s been only like bliss interim
Later points razor sharp towards the hollowness.
It’s been like the pressed eraser-
-Waiting to be accelerated
To dwindle the defining lines
Bordering the sane – insane-
That the delicacy of his unresolved pains
Proved by a turbulence least imagined.
The strangeness of the mind less contemplated
Amidst all accusations and antipathies.
Thursday, January 2, 2014
However hard we weep, scream and yell
The ones who determined to slip the grasp will slip
Break away, fly and trick.
Have two distinct faces
The one that smashes the bones
And the other that simply scoffs at its fragility.
May be it’s the victim
Whose vision clouded and clowned
Because for some
The ways of the new men is uncomprehending
They simply don’t fit in the new men context
Of digital texts, life, morality and love!
They are the yellowing papers
With single lines, margins and book marks
Sniffing flesh, blood, poetry in skin
Thickly sorted like in a red pomegranate.
Only to be later torn
Or eaten by moth
Or thrown to flame
Or to be ashes along with a sewage disposal
They are seldom toxic
Unlike a digital explosion!