Forgone

Thy name I least repent

Thy love I most cried for

I quiver under the memories

-of our ever enmeshing passion.

Railing through me

Through you

Is a covert world.

Place your candles before me

For I am the flame

Place it where the wind heads.

Let my ember be kissed away

Quiet like a pressed snow.

I unfurl like a spiraling fume

Enough to clog your pulsating pain

I quit for you to embark,

For you to breach the chains

And embark anew on wings.

The Chased Butterflies

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.

I am an Artist! Who are you? You are Artist too?

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?   

     

     

Afternoon Doodles!

Desiderans

The downpour seems 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-

And invigorated

May be out of the sensation of being lost-

 And inanimate

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 reminds her of a painted figure-in low key

Dissolving into the background

Slipping into abstract

And there is only rain outside

And only rain. 

The Pending

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.

And yet

The strangeness of the mind less contemplated

Amidst all accusations and antipathies. 

Reversions

However hard we weep, scream and yell

The ones who determined to slip the grasp will slip

Break away, fly and trick.

-Betrayal-

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

Waiting waiting

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

Still

They are seldom toxic

Unlike a digital explosion!   

Collisions

Why do we meet such people?

Like two similar fishes

Colliding in an upsurging wave

Being sported by an unknown hand

Out in the air      

Amused

Wriggled!

Vicious smiles-

Laughter - wonder-

Words slipping - stretching themselves

Slithering out of our mouths

Words rolled and sparkled

Ablazing the air around us.

All too much for us

To take in together.

And in the end

Only to dive backwards

To swim their own ways!

                  

I use to draw blood dripping bird wings

Broken glass pieces

And barren trees when I was small.

What did you draw when you were small?

Did you have myriad hues?

Vibrant and variegated?

Do you have silence?

Do you have sorrow?

Don’t play hide and seek

The moments you are in hiding

Would be the longest one to me

Don’t make me seek

Because

I am oblivion to

Faces hidden by intentions.

I know

You are out somewhere!

Wistful and waiting

Clenching fists-

Spitting thirst

For an abiding collision

For know not why!

The Tale of a “The Latter in the Either-Or”

“You wish to say something?”

“No nothing at all…”

Her planned words

The charm of her quiescence

What a blushing comfort on him!

And how artfully she crafted a latent heart

Conspiring with head before each exchange!

But                                               

Words rumbled within her

Throbbing and chiding-

Her hibernating longings.

And her incessant premonition

That the hushed fluttering of her veiled wings

Would reach his ears

Betraying her smiles and silences

Betraying her mask

Slowly welded and welded by

 -Umpteen silences-

Suspending her wings

In vein exertions of a sudden flight.

                 

Her flights- utterly instinctual-

It echo ‘commas’ and ‘questions marks’

Commas- question marks-

Abhorred by him

(‘Brackets’ vexed him more)

Instead

‘Full stops’ and ‘exclamations’ pleased him!

How earnestly she grasped all his likes-dislikes

And at times when her repression overflowed

Gave him the warm shock of her enigma.

Can’t ever entreat him to fly with her.

Out of question!

Only two choices left

Either

Fly single

Or

Walk double!

Wouldn’t dare to do the former

Being certain

Only of vacuum and desolation

When she folds back her wings.

Couldn’t afford for a neither nor too

That would be dreadful!

So she picked the latter in the “either- or”!

The “either –or” mocked her so often

That she had to defend her choice

Picked choices should never show off its distortions

Distortions should be concealed

By any self argumentation.

So she found a meek solution

For the rumbling moaning words within her

Throbbing and chiding

Her hibernating longings.

Words in print!

Words in print are mute

Fictionalize it!

Double mute to him

The commas, question marks, brackets

All hardly visible to him!

And fly in “the viewless wings of poesy”!

Prose rebuilt poetry:P

Impasto

It’s been in the habit

That any specification seldom drills her affections

That her style is rather fast perceptive in whole

It’s impressionistic- abstract -inexplicit

That the contours of his face-

The shifting shades of his eyes

The fabric of his skin- his hair- his nails

All sustain foggy in her memory.

Let alone the fervency in his smile

As he brushes his hands against her ankles

And his sweet conjectures racing before her pranks

Form the silhouette of her entire passion.

Yet he mourns over her ways so quaint

And yet she impishly laughs at

Because

 Every shell has its own whirl of air

 It’s always private

 Unrelenting

 And persistent.