Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Such hypocrisy!

In an outwardly form of Pessimism
how you hold that sinful Optimism.
Like a dried plant
maintaining a secret store of sap
you long for the monsoon.
Circumstances stitched by Time
gang up to form an organism
That hounds you into escaping.
There are others you've noticed
who have fallen prey.
You reduce expectations
but beat them each time to survive.
Once in a while you pull up
to an island of solitude and pretend
to be not looking at the clock.
A survivor's guilt takes over
as you admire the journey so far.
But again, you announce to the world
Your hopelessness and lack of hope.
Fake that you are pessimistic
while you have been confessing
"So far so good."
But again, what else can you say?
Remember, others have fallen prey.

Monday, June 20, 2011

A Short-Bio

A short-bio is always necessary.
It would tell the world
how serious and portly
your statements could be.
Whether they are the products
of regular nihilism of youth
or wearily hanging loose skin of age.
You could be born yesterday
and scrawl heavy words across the page.
Like a kid that imitates adults
move heavy objects around.
But you wouldn't be right about it.
Rights and wrongs that you write
on stone tablets, will be a laughing stock
beyond that mountainous moment.
Blood that you imagined
is the color of a cough syrup
and we all know that.
You couldn't pretend to save anything.
Except your ignorance from ridicule.
And yes, a short-bio is necessary for us
to plug-in into your shoes and play along.
You should do it definitely
attach a few lines about yourself.
Let them be your emissaries
with whom we would trade our time
which is running out like never before.

Saturday, June 18, 2011

Travel restrictions

Beware of the distance that you would go along
But extend compassion to the fellow traveler.
Conversation about the weather is dead.
But global warming still holds out.
The passing image of you is blurred anyway
Try as much you can to keep it that way.
Opinions without judgments are staple
Trying to disseminate wisdom is trouble.
You could be tortured by baby monsters
But swim you should like lobsters
against all this with a painted smile
as your ordeal is leaving you by the mile.
A big book, much like a hardened brick
Would do the necessary trick.
Literary fiction and its obscurity
are your best friends here for sanity.

Depending on your color and hesitation
Acquired politeness and gesticulation
Opinions would be out
placing you in the ladder.
In the next station tea would be offered.
And you are expected to politely refuse.
That would complete the image of you
and puts the world to a comfortable sleep.

Wednesday, June 15, 2011


Despite all my efforts
Sadness remains non-verbal.
I coax it to explain
how it feels
inhabiting different peoples.
It just babbles non-answers.
I take chances
Try and reason with it
Ask it to show me by signs
And permit me to read its mind.
It rejects all my pleas
with a haughty head.

Its unending misery
it refuses to share.
Instead, before leaving
spills coffee all over my table
Thumps really hard
and warns that it doesn't end
with these broken lines.

Thursday, June 9, 2011

Last laugh

I have all the things building up
like little insect homes in the sockets.
A wasp of choice flutters
uncertainly around the formation.
Life, of course, like my shadow
wanders off oftener than me
into uneven terrain
tugging me along
with an invisible strength.
I rein it in only when
I am in the dark.
Brooding and evolving strategies
as if to win in this game.
I am out and snatch few wily wins
but you know, the last laugh of life.

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

Worldly matters

And the world for you
doesn't have any particular form.
No face that you can recount
and rant later on.
Twenty odd people and
That's your world.
And only anecdotal evidence
in bits and pieces, that you exist.

There isn't a let up from things
and each day a surprise springs.
And like an impossible promise
I am kept aside to dust and miss.
Peels of know-how of this world
dawn on me as the time is whirled.
The more I scamper and scrawl
the more my mind has to crawl.
Grope around for the switch
and get a shock without a twitch.
Of this world, there is a form in mind
to which almost always I am blind.

Thursday, June 2, 2011

Let me write

Let me write all the poetry
my hand would allow me to.
My mind as it is
is never completely written.
Always leaves something for itself.
I could have written five more
lines here. But, no.
There is a strain to hold back
and let it be a raised pen
shouting out ambiguities.
In protest and helplessness.

To find a silent blind spot
is what I am always after.
I shoo away other thoughts
clustering like nuclei
in a just born universe.
And concentrate on a brink
of an idea and try to
reach you in mid-air.
Where I know you too are
Falling through all this.
This emptiness and noise
This compromise and choice.

In simple things I find the threads
to tie yourself up for a moment.
A spidery web around your thoughts
which you would notice while clearing up.
And before it ends. That's it.

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

Past is past

The meditative looking out
of the window has only
the absent sparrows chirping.
A cold wind of past cuts
across the barricades
built over the years.
Past is past you wonder
taking the sun in the balcony.
But it presents itself as present
in the garb of relevance.
You might be lured into
mending fences with it.
And that's a definitive trap.
An apparition we could tolerate
than a full fledged fleshling
breathing and living around us.
And luckily,
an audience with the past
to make peace
to be absolved for a part of you
is a rarity that is mostly denied.