what i think when i think about myself

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the unembellished glass on my window
is not of a reflecting kind, it changes color
with the sun’s brow, disguised by its own
retention of what hitherto it did beget –

when i think about selves, i mirror
the glass of my window, and pluck apples
from my eyes to taste the sense of sight,
and single out every experience in its own light,

when i think about lives, i snigger
like the loony bark of the mutt outside, and push
into the so-called oblivion, a thought to right
the wrongs of being one of a kind, of this plight,

when i think about you, i am triggered
by your mirror of my own life, and try to pick
from your eyes, any sign of a comic relief, to indict
myself for subsumption of an egotistic delight,

when i think about myself, i quiver
like the potent wine of the sky outside, and pull
out from my own self, a torn thought to site
every memory, to extinguish into the night.

.

For Poets United Midweek Motif

Photo edited through Instagram and Prisma

Contact me: Instagram, Facebook, Gmail

*Linking with dVerse OLN

words and other kinds of addictions

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jarred from a pint of smoke
swirling like a gothic eyeliner
in my lungs, i feel the white rush
of an unsung addiction all over me
(being breathless in lieu of living),

i have seen beatific dreams of
an obtuse octopus, jeering jellyfishes
through my inner-channel
of reprieve – the loss of only a certain
kind of mediocrity,

i do not fit into the lines of my sleeping bag,
too big to carry my shoes on the head,
or crown me with metal links, or to tattle
through fists – the truth of only a certain
kind of morbidity,

i am a wastrel marooned in the aftermath
of my demise by goodness, unfit to perform,
cease control to rememorize, or to chase
my ghosts – the habit of a certain
kind of melancholy.

.

Image source (Up In Smoke Painting by Meredith B)

For Wordle # 202 at Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie

It’s been a while – I haven’t felt the need to make a post in all this time. I have still been writing and discovering new avenues of my own expression, developing and improving the craft of my verse and its corresponding art. I have incidentally worked on a short collection for myself, indulging in everything from writing and editing to framing the layout and designing the cover (owing to my amateur skills in layout and designing software). It’s been an invigorating experience. My thoughts are catered now towards the idea of getting it published perhaps – I do not know yet whether I should pitch it for traditional publishing or self-publish it instead.
Nevertheless, it’s good to be posting something on this blog again, which had helped me through the harshest of times and made me fall deeper and deeper in love with poetry.

untitled (verity)

.

where do truths come from and where do they go to die?

in this dreary consolation of time, I can see the whirl
of their wheels, and banished desires living on scraps.

if you’d told me of this night two nights back, I’d have believed
but never more.
who’s to say when the flowers droop and colors fall off of the sky?

it’s an inlaid embroidery; intricacy paves the way for simplicity –
I see babies cooing to each other, and people fucking their lives up
in search of one consoling hand. I see men showing junk, and women
trying to hide their breasts, both from an obsolete sense of loss.

where do lives begin and where do they fall over?

in this nest of living and unliving, dying and undying,
I carve lines into the air, of desire, of an unintended mirth
and we laugh. We laugh, we weep, but we just can’t hold each other.

we just can’t hold each other up anymore.

things fall apart.
my lips bleed, my body’s sore and the sour taste lingers in my mouth.
things fall apart.

.

For “A Skyflower Friday” writing prompt at With Real Toads.

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I exist in the voices,
in sounds-

gentle, ricocheting against
the loud bass in the background
and speaking in hushed tones
in corridors where the tiles
are no longer bleached white.

I exist in that TV volume, defined
by the bars that identify the
intensity of my intent,

exist in the grrr grr grinding
of thoughts into an unpalatable
mush, that I got served for
dinner,

I am defined by the water striking
the s(k)in(k) surface, I am that

you no longer pay attention to, Continue reading

The Messenger

soaring to the provinces exotic,

through riddled rivers and beyond,

amid the wars waged, blood shed,

from the acreages of the admonished,

to those sprawled over thrones gilded,

voyaging over the convoluted traps,

covering every stretch, every single gap,

inebriated by the purple lord of vines,

condoning the ill will of the queen fine,

plummeting into the oceans to coral palaces,

congregating with mislaid heroes in peril,

consorting godly gifts and curses, callous,

relishing the obscured avenues, looting olives

from beneath the proboscis of wisdom,

pardoned by his tricks, and wondrous wit quick,

O Hermes, it is he who cruises through realms,

consociating the mortals with the divine,

bearer of epistles, prayers and vain wishes,

coiling snakes wrapped around his kerykeion,

his burdens carried out, instrumented by talaria,

within the cushions of which, he rests his feet,

and let these winged sandals take him,

engrave his name on scrolls of myths,

to his destinations, he is a mystic messenger,

with an avian ability, gifted, seeded by father king

.

The dVerse prompt today is to write about shoes. I chose talaria which are the winged sandals of Hermes. Though I have used the theme partially, I hope that is alright.

I apologize for not mentioning the mythological references in the piece earlier. They are:

1. Purple lord of vines: Dionysus

2. Fine Queen: Hera

3. To coral palaces: Palace of Poseidon

4. Heroes: Demigods(half human and half god)

5. Wisdom: Athena

6. Why stealing olives?: Olive tree was the gift from Athena for the people of Athens and therefore, the city was named after her.

7. Kerykeion: Staff of Hermes

8. Father King: Zeus

Image source

Vision

not buzzing, not much intonation,

I consider the hive perched on the tree,

and conjecture if I could extract some honey,

to bestow the day with a sweetness,

I can not savor, but discern and concede,

by heeding the clear golden flush,

and the strands as I finger it and above,

those rupturing lines, swirls of purity,

the measures of which I can not fathom,

but I can strive to discern, concede

the marvels of that edifice,

where it is concocted, prepared into

the divine reward of nature, the scents

of which, I gulp in, even if they’re not there,

but I could acquire the traces of familiarity,

which I thought, I had never had,

ah! I sigh… and I depart from the moment,

when I gave a glance, and disregarded,

the vision now glorified into a serene scene,

through the electrons, I am entitled to,

which have altered what took place,

into something, I could only fancy, had

.

This is tagged as the poem for 28 November for NaBloPoMo.

Image source

We wait…

7/12/71 it is heard, the siren of the night

.

we rush back into our burrows,

hollow compartments dug into the streets,

and sometimes an unclassified basement

made, in the otherwise grounded houses,

a little light lamp is all we have as

we wait, waiting to know what

is conspiring, pondering over

the question, whether there is

going to be a war in our region,

I have clenched my mother’s saree,

it is plain cotton, no embroidery,

as she has her eyes shut, and her hands folded,

invoking the blessings of gods to keep them safe,

and to hurry the sun-lord to rise,

and make it seem right in the brightness of day,

the men gossip their trades, still important

to be discussed, and sometimes I could catch

their hesitation, of talking about

the war, spreading through every border,

marked by silence, more shrill than

the temple bell… kids cry, as the illumination

of the lamp dims, due to lack of kerosene,

and we wait… we wait in our bunker,

shadowed by our unaware selves

 .

we are waiting in quarters in candle lights,

waiting for the order from high command,

pondering whether we would also face the war,

a new package has arrived of artilleries, there

is a rumour, that the enemy would try to seize

the territory nearby soon, but we have to wait

and think, muse within our minds, I wonder

what my new born is doing back at home,

she would be nursing him… may be and

that brings a smile across my eyes,

I should, I must write a letter but what

would I write, my mind is frozen,

it is getting cold and colder, December

winds are piercing… ruddy thorns into

the skin and, that has made me thinking

of those hiding in the city, below the ground,

unknowing, blind to the action-less night,

may be there would occur nothing, and may be

things will be normal soon, I can hear my

comrades scratching their unshaven face,

and that gives me an itch in my coarse beard,

and I wait as others are waiting, the siren has

ceased its solemn tune, and someone switches

on the light… flickers and then is switched on,

.

and we wait…

 .

years have passed, calendars have changed,

there was that war of 65 and 71 and also of 99,

and I wonder how many more wars would be waged,

there has been trouble at the borders this year,

the cease fire was compromised and I wait… wait,

with a hope that it would not happen again,

and just think of the stories told to me… and

in this black room, at this moment, I reflect

her expression as she had shared her tale, while

chewing over her tongue, the bell for the period had rung

.

A little explanation required for the ending… the tale of girl told from the beginning is inspired from the experiences shared by one of my teachers about 8 years back. She had told of her war story, of the underground compartments and that has paved the way for the poem… so the end marks the time when she had narrated it to her students. The wars are real but the narration is fictional… rather I would consider it imaginary because I have imagined the setting during the war of 1971 because of course, I was not even born then. If you are confused about something or if you have any questions, please do ask.

I was thinking of writing something about it but then, I was also inspired by dVerse Poetics prompt of Calendars today. I haven’t used the theme explicitly but of course, the time and calendar has a lot to do with it.

This is tagged as the post for 24 November for NaBloPoMo.

And before I forget, I wrote a guest post for Yeah Write, dated 23 November, which you can read here.

*The date in the first line is written in the format of dd/mm/yyyy.

Image source