Category Archives: Poems

The most naive representation of feelings is in poetry.

You’re the light: light of all lights

You’re a quintessential summer song
bittersweet, mixed with a soft humming.
How my heart beats, almost lonely,
without your hand in mine.

You’re that red wall with the window
from where the glitter seeps in
and turns me into a labyrinth of lights.
Forever the favourite one.

You’re that melodic old radio
that sometimes sings and
Sometimes makes noises like a hullabaloo
How do I love the noises and songs alike.

You’re an album of photographs.
If I open too much, I drown too much.
If I let it closed, my heart is closed.
When I speak to them, they sing back,
same way as you.

You’re like a secret box full of old books
that makes me a child
always running for you,
for the graves of your naive little poems
you saved from the world, dearly for me.

You’re like an evening walk.
I can blabber everything and not know
I spoke to another soul.
You wear my thoughts on your heart,
same way grass covers our harsh feet.

You’re like that swing I miss.
Every touch of you that I remember
swirls everything in my stomach,
like a pool full of fishes
embracing every drop of me.

You’re not you anymore
How joyously do I see us
A you and a me
running into the wild
with sky above us, infinite.

Not everyone’s father is a hero

Not everyone’s father is a hero.
They kill childhoods with whisks of drunk nights and sullen, hollow homes.
They never gift doll houses, sketches or books.
They never remember birthdays as celebrations; rather it’s a day embarking a sorrow.
There are no summer holidays together, not even a Sunday brunch.
They leave imprints of violence, abuse and several nights of suffering and tears.
Their children never see galaxies and stars and rainbows, not even their favourite cartoon films on TV.
They crush under the silhouettes of dominance, ignorance and lies, a daughter’s dream tale, her voice and desires.
They roam escaping family, an absent figure.
They are not the ones children wait for, I always felt so free when he wasn’t at home.
His room and work place took no space when he wasn’t there, quiet like a lonely song, how well I could empathise with them.
They are unknown and unheard.
And yet the grief for a lifetime remains: it’s irreparably painful to forget them, abandon them.
Give them the same pain back.
Their children grow up with a heart full of rage and rebel and do you know whom do they wound the most?
Not everyone’s father is a hero.
~On father’s day……

I wait for the rain

I wait for the rain all day long.
I’ll smell the sky,
mud in the pots and old red walls.
I will forget everything
Of broken heart of the black bird
shooed away for her colour.
Of small crooked stone like particles
that made my eyes red and teary.
Of waiting for a home standing alone
but never too lonely amidst
tall trees all around and a lake
of green water how I saw in picture books.
Of longing for the end of this loop
they tell me is life and I,
I do not believe and I will not believe
for life is for now in the rain and
in my desperateness
to wait and wait and then to forget.

I wait for the rain all day long.
Summer starts stinking
no way different from people crushed in
small big houses with minds still alike
and their wraths and dooms.
Dust covers our faces as if before it
we stood naked and raw and
our minds not so corrupt.
I wonder, I wonder if summer intends
to make jokes on us and
laugh every season on our broken bloom.
Hot air we breathe but bones still frozen
and I wait for the season to match with
how my heart feels.
May be then my songs and sorrows
will drown together into one another,
may be the same way first rain drops
sizzle on the wet old heated floors.

I wait for the rain all day long.
Vast summer lands stand lonely,
but do they look betrayed?
Sun burning for whom?
What grandeur has he ever owned?
Muse is always that moonlit sky
under which the lovers sleep.
Those strokes of hot but golden light
that fall on the dirty footpaths
are eaten as sausage with dry wheat rolls
by beggars enrobing their dreams
with sky full of lies,
every night, every night.
Who knows these lies are their only shimmer, the only gold of their life?

I wait for the rain all day long.
Everything is wrong, so wrong,
but everything will be right when the sky
is not too bright,
a little dull and a pause without funerals.
Waiting remains but
seasons change;
But a man never said four seasons
be enough for escapes and
when have we not asked for more,
but a little more?
An unseen solitary ocean is waiting
in my songs for a few drops to wet my face.
I wait for rain all day long.
I wait……


Of being able to say what I can’t hold anymore.
Of time.
Not running out of my hands like sand.
Creeping slowly when I want to halt and feel nothing.
Of being able to cry,
Oh cry!
Cry my bones out
and feel weightless.
To feel it sliding down my stomach
that wet, teary smelled, broken breath
that makes noise like death.

Of a month after months,
a day when all the waiting
would be justified.
Of transformation.
When walls, smells, soaps, noises, faces, foods, colours, water, spaces, vacuums, fillers, rooms, ceilings, birds, roads, dust, seasons would change.
Of answers beyond the stories of transformations.
Would it be enough?
Or would I still wait for another story with a longer waiting?
And would this be my life?
Just this?

Of being loved the way I want.
Of being able to drown into those moments that look like pauses,
like photographs still and deep.
And no matter how long you gaze at them,
nothing about them changes.
Of someone someday loving me
without telling the need to leave
for work, meetings and appointments.
Someone free
of the damages of this world.

Of being able to cut off from these ideas
that I never chose but
they still surround me like daily soaps
running in some distant room.
Whom would you want to kill more?
The makers or the viewers?
The idea of settling down,
earning money,
getting up at 8 and sleeping at 10,
using calendars and watches and setting alarms,
of being a people pleaser,
going to parties and wearing make up,
of not being moody, looking presentable,
following dress codes, hiding womanhood,
avoiding rebels, hating rovers, condemning hippies,
men and women and some other avoidable species,
hate the government, argue to look safe,
women’s respect is in her vagina, men have balls of steel,
live in hypocrisy and die full of regrets.
Of imagination.
Imagine a world without these ideas.
Of realisations such as these:
even imaginations
are nothing less than wars.

Of rushing into now and now
and now in this next moment.
When anything can happen
Or maybe nothing would happen.
But at least it will be a newer now.
And in every now
I look a little more like nothingness.
Every now full of silence.
More peace and the world
more disappeared.

Of someday being able to
write this again
another space, pen and paper
and putting an end to it.
No, not the poem,
the longings.

Why do you forget to love me?

How does this happen to you?
Or does it happen to me?
Why do you forget to love?
I never do.
I am always loving you in my head,          
in my heart and
in how I say it to you or
how I wait to listen it from you.
Oh no.
I am not saying you do not love me.    
But why can I not know it all the time?
Why do I wait for hours
and go back again
waiting for hours?
Why do you forget to love me?
Of course you’ll say you do not forget.
Of course you’ll make me remember    
all that’s love in your eyes.
Of course my hurt will be a complain      
in a while.
Is it a fault in my love to always get caught in your flaws
or there really are flaws that can’t be settled for?
I am not afraid of how I feel                    
but I’m afraid of                                      
why do you forget to love me.
No it’s not about laughter all the time.
No it’s not in an hour of eating.      
Sorry I expected poetry out of it too.
But I still do.
Sorry you’re forced to be here
but I can’t let it go,
the want for poetry from you.
I don’t feel enough
when I can’t get love back
from you
the way I want and I sit here feeling why
do you forget to love me.
Why do you forget
the wishes and dreams
and talk about things
that only fill gaps.
Why do you forget to ask
how am I feeling and finish
what you say and simply go off?
Why do you forget
someone is always waiting and
she’s not looking for much.
Why do you crush this sweet thing beneath your daily hours                            of labour and needs
while all I try is to make you better at life.
Why do you forget so much about me and
why do you forget to love me?
I know your heart has love
but only words that are said and actions that are done
can make a day worth a life.
Why do you forget what’s this life?            
I know
I want a lot but I am not guilty of it.
I don’t say I have loved perfectly and
I don’t say you’re flawed to disappoint.
All I want to say is                                    
why do you forget to love me                    
and if you don’t                                          
then maybe
you’re with the wrong one.
What about those beautiful fancy things?
They were promises.
The made up kind of promises.
The ones that are said never meant too much.
Is the time not right?
When will it be?
Am I to wait too long or am I walking ahead too fast.
Am I talking too much or
maybe I am talking senseless.
Maybe I am hurt and
maybe I am the one causing my own pain.
Then from where did you come?
In between why does my heart wants to go and
ask you why do you forget
to love me?
I might be the fool out of two.
I might be the one
in an imaginary kind of love
but I think a while back you were here too
and once I had called you back and you came and
it was all feeling fine.
Now it is not.
Maybe that’s why I want to ask
why do you forget to love me?
And mind you
do not give me an apology or a promise in return for this.
Possibly I am not looking for an answer too.
So I leave it on you
to ask yourself
why do you forget to love me?

Photo by Bill Henson

Like a long pause

Oh this sadness of the silent night
Like a long pause in the heart,
and numbness in my mind.
Agony I’ve got and now only
agony do I like,
Oh this sadness of the silent night.
Tears fill my throat like a man
convinced to suicide.
Doesn’t leave, doesn’t stay
Simply dies.
Oh this sadness of the silent night.
Aches of a howling old man,
of a woman long quiet, ‘tis bearable, I tell you;
But of a heart decided to let
all hopes die, ‘tis infinite.
Oh this sadness of the silent night.
Oh moon in your pale light
I sing this sadness of the silent night.
It let my fireflies die,
but listen close because
yet they fly, yet they fly.
Oh this sadness of the silent night.


Photo by Avertigo

Love of the ordinary

There’s so much love
in the patience of
ordinary things;
Paintings on the wall,
street light on a forgotten road,
old yellow papers in a file,
wires stretched over small houses all alike,
soaps dry and water drains everyday,
our hands, our feet go wherever
we take.
Curtains pulled off, hanged up like labels for decoration
decided merely for colors.
Books in a book shelf laid for life
decided merely for how our hearts feel.
Newspapers made, read, unread, wrapped around yellow stained things, thrown
and again
made, read, unread, wrapped
and thrown
for years unknown.
Smells, shapes, sizes
shoes, clothes in our closets.
And our skins
when do they change,
except for rot with our age?
How sky repeats through
every inch of this universe,
blue and vast.
And what’s more lovingly patient
than the birds that sing
the same song every dawn
on the same branch
of the same tree?