Category Archives: Poetry

I Too Call Myself ‘I’

I have no joys that are not yours, no
aches which are not yours, I too call myself I.

There are no rains, that I’ve not seen
turn into melancholy, sitting like a drought
on the window side, waiting for a single drop
to wash the air off your stains, but you
occupy everything, everything.

There are no afternoons when I’ve not burnt
brighter than the scorching sun in the sky
to light my own house and look for a touch of you
lost but breathing, shivering for the warmth of my chest,
your longings falling like tired embers.

There are no nights that I’ve not spent sitting
depleted and curled within a hundred layers
like a mongrel, trying to dig into the end of me,
where my grave must be, where my birds weep
to go to sleep.

There are no seasons when I’ve not looked
for the face of spring, how many years have gone
autumned, perforated, pining for dancing horizon,
to feel once what does a dead tree feel
when flowers break out of its emptiness.

I’ve ached too but they called it a manner
of a woman, an emotional freak, a damstrel,
whose tears the world can see is cowardice
and a man’s pushed down the throat is courage.

It is I who’s lost like the wind of anguish.
It is I who’s betrayed, once beloved
and in the end a bereavement.
It is I who has sucked air out of the body to check
if my lungs are breathing pain, in and out.

But they’ve counted on rolling calendars
seasons after seasons, your autumns,
your cold januarys, your storms of despair,
your abyssal, your suffering, your bleeding heart.

You are the pure heir of a family’s name,
soul bearer of another lioness to your beast;
and I a surpassed sorrowed gender,
whose heartbreak must end with a whimper.

But how will they separate from our mournful sky,
this I from you, you from this I. For if we were
a damaged ship, put together piece by piece
one last time,
I will still be I.
You will still be you.
We will still be us.

The first two lines of the poem have been picked from Kamala Das’s An Introduction.

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Life is a makeshift

There are these moments
when you’d want to pluck the earth off the universe
and put it somewhere in the junkyard, forgotten;
never get any of these lives back and find yourself anew
folding into layers and layers of unanswered qualms.

I once ran off places on earth and in my head with a wrong map
each time I was sure, I would take some pills and quit this.
Yes, once upon a time I wanted to die or maybe not
but I walked till here and
I’ve shed my own self, I got the path
and I’m an existence forever ‘becoming’.
I never reach a point where I look into myself
And feel where have I reached, where is the right map?

I do not arrive now, at places, in time, in situations, amidst people.
I roam in circles encountering my silent adventures,
I become a dandelion, a root, a leaf, a flickering bulb,
a freak, a wolf, a nest, a cocoon,
And from each life, I move towards another,
To never let the world see,
What have I made of myself.

I am not the noun, I’m a verb.
I change and I am a process,
Maybe like a feather of the bird that falls down
Swaying and shedding the weight of its broken wing.
Yes, I couldn’t once choose myself over my sorrows
But I’ve made museums with chandeliers
Out of each of my grief.

Magic chambers in my eyes,
I’ve left long back
What people made me think
I must learn to be,
I’ve let my eyes dream of plains, scrapes, slopes and mountains,
Instead of directions, seasons, goals and constructions,
I will be my tomorrow before tomorrow arrives,
It is I, who’s moving and maybe not the time.
You’ll not find me arranged in a single manner,
A concrete, a mere life
Till a breath tears me apart.

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.
~P

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?
Themselves.
Not everyone’s father is a hero.
~On father’s day……

Waiting Remains But Seasons Change

I wait for you, for the eternal love between you and the aching soil,
I wait to smell the sky opening like a cave to let you break,
mud in the pots and old red walls painted in your colourless colour.
I forget everything, you’re my manner of detachment
from agonies and suffering that make me dreadfully dry.
I forget the laments of the broken heart of that black bird
once shooed away for her colour and once for her free song.

They taught me it’s an act of a fool to wait for something
which is temporary and seasonal, but what are you if not the face of freedom?
Do you not break your ties with the vastness of the sky
to meet your old graves buried in the soil?
I love how I fail to believe you’re a season’s gift and
I’m a desperate freak in your waiting and in forgetting of this drained self.

Summer begins to stink, no way different from these people, poor bodies,
crushed in small yellowed houses caged in their wraths and dooms.
I wonder if summer intends to make jokes, every season, on our shattered blossom.
Hot air we breathe but bones still frozen.
I wait for you, for the season to match with how my heart feels.
Only on your arrival, do my songs and sorrows drown into one another,
Just like the first rain drops sizzling on the forsaken old heated floors.

I wait for you all day long, without measures and calculations
everything is wrong, so wrong, but everything will be right
when the sky is not too bright, a little dull and lifeless for a while,
and then your beginning, the upheaval first and a continued soothing hymn.

Waiting remains but seasons change;
But a man never said four seasons be enough for escapes and
when have I not asked for more, just a little more of you?
An unseen solitary ocean is waiting in my songs
for a few dewdrops of petrichor to let me melt
my ruins of reality with you.

Longings

Longings.
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.

Longings.
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?

Longings.
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.

Longings.
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,
schedules,
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.

Longings.
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.

Longings.
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.
~P

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.

~P

Photo by Avertigo