Tarnish

Can't find reason to be happy
can't really pull things together...

don't want to wipe off the dust
on the glass panes of the window
don't want to read the cracks
on the dried leaf
that entered through the window
one afternoon
and has ever since, been captivated
between the pages of the diary...


Can't sleep well at nights
a day full of haps, rather mishaps
plays on the mind
the lamp post outside
stands alone
its light..., strives hard,
fights the palm leaves,
finds the only possible way
through the broken glass window,
enters the grave-dark room,
stabbing the darkness.


Huh!
You wake up... irritated,
get off the bed
cover the window with heavy curtains,
and go to bed...
Satisfied!

I am not the one...

I know,
i am not the one...
in your heart

I am not the light of love...
you look at
in stormy nights of emotions
when perceptions mislead
when senses die out
and feelings are numb
when dreams beckon
besides your own shadow
there you stand
all by yourself
waiting for someone

Someone...

My world closing in on me
choking my soul
my eyes refuse to open up
in an endeavour
to hold on to the fainting dream
my heart strives hard to reach you
leaving me behind
besides the ocean of vacuum

With wet eyes
searching for your inexistent reflection
in the stagnant water
of overflowing madness

I ask myself:
Who is she?
on the opposite end
waiting perhaps
for someone
to cross this ocean
to enlighten her destiny
with divine love...

I am not the one...

The Enigma of Celebration

last night,
when it wasn't that dark
and the echoes of the distant cries
were faint
the moon:
so clear it was
and i saw you,
your reflection,
there in the sky
and you seemed in doubt


when you slept
you dreamt
and the whole cosmos conspired
to make you believe
that it was your day
that waited on the other end
of the beckoning darkness


but then, you
like a child
refused to open your eyes
perhaps,
in an endeavour
to hold on to the fainting dream


you put up a question:
why should one celebrate?
the day of arrival
to this 'hellish' land


but O dear!
its the joy of existence that we celebrate
and since "we"- perhaps the busiest on earth,
cannot celebrate everyday,
we choose dates
or rather excuses,
to escape the monotony
and re-ignite the fire within
to cherish what passed
and to accept
what awaits


it is your day altogether
though nothing different
from other days,
it brings you
a lovely chance to feel
the immense lightness of being
its the day of "free-will"


so,
my dear friend!
the peg of life
awaits you
live up to it...

cheers!



-this one i wrote for one of the sweetest friends life has blessed me with... she was just a bit lonely and down on the day b4 her birthday and i thought i tried to cheer her up with these lines...

lachrymania...sorry this is not a poem

Once again
they turn over to me
with the same hypnotising power
my words again fail to evolve
they slip on my wet heart

I don't love her
not many would
she's not beautiful
but her eyes... could kill me

Those eyes
i've seen always
looking towards, and not at
and creating a mania in me
to read those inexpressive eyes
to see my reflection in there

I knew she didn't blink often
nor have i seen her cry
and on the phone
she refused to have seen me
last afternoon
on the roof

Today
i don't think she's the only one
among the beauties around here
with such overwhelming eyes
neither would many of them say:

"Sorry i didn't tell you earlier.
last year, i had a nervous disorder
and my tear gland,
medically, the lachrymal was damaged
i am sorry but i can't see"

I just want her see this one...,
once.

trauma...

why has the pen stopped?
the ink seems faded
words refuse to come out
is the poet dying?
is he...
heading for a breakdown?
or is it the urge to write
and the numbness of his thoughts
conspiring together to finish him off.

his papers fly off
they don't anymore, wish to be scrubbed on
his pen feels slaved
deep inside... he's bleeding
memories consumong him...
bit by bit
he's overwhelmed with emotions
but something in his throat, blocks the way

the poet... is alone, and wounded
and tired, and blamed
and his destiny
plays tricks on him
All's lost
but he doesn't want to give up
his hands are sore
and fingers trembling
he may not hold a pen again in his life
but will he be able to finish this one...?

i wish i hadn't known you

i wish i hadn't loved you...

i wish i hadn't seen you
smile back at me.. that day
i wish i hadn't seen love in your eyes..
though it wasn't there, anyway

i wish i hadn't known i had a heart
a one that has learnt to cry
i wish i could de-heart myself
i wonder... i should try

i wish you.. were she
and i.. some he
i just wish all this
hadn't happened to me

CRUCIFY!

yesterday
a string broke from the guitar
the sound helped me realize
death may not be that painful,that far

i spent hours searching for my vein
with the blade in my hand
i just wanted to make it quick
cuz time's slipping out like sand

even the dagger wouldn't work
fear played on me
Jesus! He was crucified
so do i want to be

push the barrel through my mouth
shatter it all in a blow
i don't want to see blood
even the echoes shouldn't show

hang me by my tongue
nail it to some chain
death is not what i ask for
what i beg for, is some more pain

The Broken Wing

When he fell,it was getting dark.
The same sun which,
an hour ago,
was the mightiest,
was the crown
of this living world;
Now,
was at its bare feet
striving perhaps,
For help
to avoid his destiny
to avoid drowning in the gulp of the sea of darkness.

He realized:
crawling, somewhere inside,
was the repentance,
of having
A broken wing
or rather
Having a wing...'broken'.

He felt
his feelings dying off,
He could see
his sight fainting
And above all,
he could hear
the silent moaning
Of his bruised soul.

He tried to rebel
against the thought
That this was his destiny
to lay brazen
under the same overshadowing sky
Which he ruled once.

He dreamt of The Elixir of Life
as the Alchemist would call it.
But he was sure
His ruined spirit
would never be the same again.

Though he will die
but the reception
of the knowledge
Of all the lives on this earth
With all their bruised souls and their broken wings
and their repentances;
in silent whispers
of the Soul of The World,
was his Prize.

Middle Berth #34

i don't want to look at her
and i think i won't... anymore
but i know i do...

i am middle berth, no. 37
and she..., at #34
right here, before me
unable to resist
catching my glances

she talks like the rain
and walks like the river
she smiles the spring
and sleeps like the flower
and she's even more irresistable
when her long hair brushes her face
cuz she tries to pretend
looking at her book
when i knew distinctly
she wasn't

at first thought
i like her
coz she's 18
and i am 19
but the next moment
i think the other way

i know she is not ignorant
cuz our eyes did meet
cuz she did talk to me
as i said..., like the rain
but she often gave up

i can't stop thinking
why has she done this?
she's gorgeous
and she told me she works
i suggest myself
pretty much, in vain
was it.. a mistake?
a case of love, deep, eternal, divine?
or... force?

its so dark
and i still try to catch a look
of that sleeping flower
who, in turn
manages to catch me staring
making me act...
innocent

i really don't want to look at her
cuz she's Mrs. Das
and Mr. Das, at no. 35,
is 31