This word,existence

what was it inside him? a rebel meekly struggling, an angst too weak to burst into vehemence.He hid it from this world by his routine, he yawned along with the others, day after day.He carried it inside him surreptitiously like an illegitimate zygote planted in his head.His morose moods had fed it for over an year. Today, it filled his body from the inside, covered all his organs with black tar. He felt it like an attack of nausea that would not subside. He could bear it no longer, he could not walk as if nothing had happened.It had to be rinsed out of his brain,ejaculated from his veins. But no matter how hard he tried, he could not let it go. It was a parasite he had fallen in love with. It was his creation, afterall.He had nurtured it in the darkest hours of his being, carefully putting thoughts behind his words, shaping it with ideas he coveted, reading it passages from books he loved.It had grown in his stupor,vegetated in his lethargy.It was this word,existence.

The winter morning mist

The blue smoke filled the room like the winter morning mist. What an unoriginal line he had just written. It hangs in the sky motionless. Another one. He could go on describing it, use his limited vocabulary, make a few paragraphs, draw a margin and fair it down in his notebook. Another second rate creation. However he chose to arrange his lines, they would not convey significance. They were more a outcome of boredom than a genuine interest, a meaningless chore to fill the two hours after dinner and to tire his mind enough for sleep. Never had he been consumed with an insurmountable urge, a moment of heightened passion when the pen etches on paper, an extension of the thought that erupts in the brain. Such sudden urges were confined to writers who sat on his table, mocking at his incompetence. Which angel blessed them? How could they write such beautiful lines, lines that carry a world in their words, lines that expose innermost secrets, lines that gave birth to the next one? Lines that resembled none in his notebook. He scratched his head and saw the blue smoke with a fresh perspective. It turned into ink and blotted everything he had written so far.

ode to the moons on your nails

if i could rewrite my poems
i would rewrite them all
not one has the words
that absolve my melancholy
not one has its root
in the crevices of my soul

if i could rewrite my poems
i would write more about nature
and only seldom about you
and not one would be titled
ode to the moons on your nails

if i could rewrite my poems
i would befriend solitude
more than my pen
and wait for each emotion
to age inside me
and find its graceful end

A Prose

For hours he had been sitting on his chair, with his hands on his head and eyes closed. His notebook and pen lay in front of him. He had been thinking about writing a poem.A brimming ashtray ,half written and stricken sentences bore testimony to the sincerity of his effort. What could he think that could turn into a poem? He mulled over his childhood, his youth, his daily routine for some inspiration. Nothing poetic came out of it.He observed his surroundings. A dim lit room, faint smell of tobacco,books that he had read many times, a ticking clock, an old fan with a worn out bearing, nothing peculiar, nothing fascinating enough to make him pick up his pen. Perhaps his flair was in writing prose.

Anonymous

Some feelings have no name for them

what do you feel?

when the cool mountain air
sweeps through your body and your spirit
declares- it is free and botherless.

when you lie outside in the winter sun
and bask in the warmth of ennui
without a care in the world.

when you read a line in a book
that enunciates a thought you had since long
and you stop to read it again.

when a childhood memory emerges
from the depths of your being
and you understand a part of yourself,
a little better.

when you remember a conversation
with an old friend
and a forgotten smile reaches your face

What do you call them?

when a thought lingers on your mind for days
and you ache for that moment of solitude
to find the right words
and turn it into a beautiful poem,like-
"She smelled the flowers
and knew she was in love."

once a fire

There is a smolder in these white ashes
somewhere, refusing to extinguish
waiting to flicker
one more time,
in the damp breeze
and fill the night
with its mellow glow.
Yes, there was once a fire here,
whose flames rose to meet the sky.

my goodbye to you

one day,
we would meet again,
in a different bent of
space and time

free from
the restrains of today
the flaws of yesterday
with only us between ourselves
that day
we would let our hearts
do the reasoning

words would convey what we mean
no emotion would fumble expression
no desires would be left lurking
to form a dark memory

but until that day,
remember me,
my friend

this is my goodbye to you.

a thought to linger on

another day ended after a long evening
the last sun rays receded in the sky
leaving behind shades of darkness

the tender night caught the falling sky
into her arms and sang a lullaby
everything slowed as
time adjusted to its melody

everyone hushed for the day to sleep
everyone had a thought
to linger on tonight

The Little White Cloud

Tired of wandering
on whims of the wind
the little white cloud
stopped in the blue sky

For many days
it had swirled and tumbled
in the vast skies,
and had grown weary
like a lone traveler
the last few turns
it cannot remember

It hung in the sky
motionless
with all its resilience

It wanted to be free
from the fetish of the wind
left alone in the vast expanse
with a compass of its own

It wanted to soak the seas
smell the mountains
and perhaps
inspire a poet
on its way.

Black and White

I found an old photograph
of yours
in a book of mine

Your portrait,
black and white
placed like a bookmark,
between tainted pages,
reminding me
that I had left the story
unfinished

You looked like
a delicate dream
that had realized
it was just a dream,
a void, caught in the net of reality

I read a few pages
and thought it was absurd
to read the same story
again.

Under the Green Shade

I feel alive but not so lively
without you,I feel young
and don't want to grow old
without you

You for whom I crave to exist
and burn to re-exist. You whose absence
is sorrow and sight warms heart with desire.
You whom I want to hold, love and destroy

In you I empty my despair
In you is rooted the pain I suffer

I no longer wish to hold your hand
breathe your scent or use your
thoughts in my poems. I want you
to fade away remainderless.
I want to forget you.

I want to discover myself
as a possibilty of being
without you.

Sleep for a while

I want to stop this journey
where hope is but a mirage
to fill an empty heart

Where the roads are crooked
and passers by
seldom stop to give directions

I want to keep my story unpenned
to remain only in thoughts
and meet an ordinary end

Story with no drama
only passive verses
and punctuations at wrong places

I want to sit down in the shade,
let the sweat evaporate
when the breeze touches my forehead
and sleep for a while

Tonight

Tonight is darker than other nights
Not many stars to guide,
half a moon brooding in the sky,
more black than white
moving slowly

Carrying the burden of a long day
Tonight is longer than other nights;

Tonight is quieter than other nights
I search for your thought,
to fill the immense silence
and move the static time,
but none comes to mind

Leaving me to myself,
Tonight is lonelier than other nighs

I wish

Oh I wish, we had not kissed
that afternoon, in spring,
when my fingers straying through your hair
coaxed your trembling lips on mine
and honey would have still tasted sweet
Oh I wish we had not kissed
so deeply and for so long
and imagined our whole world right there-
between our parted lips
and life would have been easier to live
Oh I wish we had not kissed
not just in spring, but in every season
lost in each other's arms
and autumn...it would have never come.

Melody of Spring

Spring has arrived.
Yellow flowers have turned waste lands
into wild gardens
where young lovers
like butterflies
kiss in the bold sun

Winter is gone.
Its haze replaced by warmth
Bright birds and children
are out to chirp
and mock my gloom
with their songs

Standing behind
the wire mesh of the door
hearing the bustle of life
I open the door a little
for the season in me
has not changed for long

Perhaps a stray breeze
will lose its way,
enter my room,
get entagled with the lonely chimes
and fill the melody of spring
in me.