Monthly Archives: September 2013

Goodbye.

Tears,
artist’s brushes,
paint pictures,
beautiful ones,
they say.

But today,
tears
erase,
on my birthday,
they erase
you
out of my life.
They can’t travel
back in time,
for
they haven’t
known a time
when they did not
think of you.

Only
half an hour remains
before this
purging,
when
swathes of tears,
like white paint,
will run over
the beautiful sceneries
I created.
You were my muse,
my inspiration.
But
you toyed,
oh you toyed!
with this heart,
now
it is nothing
but
a shred in your fist.
Oh Plath, the great Plath!
This mirror
shows me,
I suffer
so much
I might be a jew.

Tears stream down,
run over memories,
dreams, aspirations,
Saline, divine,
align, malign
Yes, you malign
I’m pointing
at you.

These tears,
they’ll erase
and they’ll paint
pictures,
ugly
in remembrance
of what you did to me.
Oh dear Sylvia,
she is the hitler,
and I’m the jew.
The victim of the holocaust?

But
this shred
in your fist,
this bloody, red shred of a heart,
will forgive
but not forget
for oh you poor soul
it weeps for you
as much
as it weeps for itself.

I end
with
a calm
goodbye
and gratitude
for all
cherishable memories
before I
wipe them clean.
But wipe them as
I may,
they’ll not
be forgotten
I hope I’m
reciprocated
in the
same warm humanity.
But now
you know
it ends
like it never
did before.
I have
nothing more
to say
at all.

Precipitous.

Shattered
by memories;
heightened senses,
rushing to surface,
gushing blood flows
in her presence,
memories;
they shatter me,
eternal dream
never come true
instead pave way
to scribblings
on paper,
thereupon to virtual space.
I’m traipsing
precipitous boundaries,
troubled by trivials,
conscience speaks for itself,
id for itself,
subconscious immersed
in an Interstellar Drive,
of its own.

Rhyme I do not,
for my life,
does not rhyme;
it alternates
in motions and stops
Division of moments,
chopped
right in middles.
Meanwhile
Gunmetal, duralumin
wait
while I’m afloat
in a peaceful peace.
A doze of poetry,
scribbled in notebook,
a tranquil breeze.

This poem, a journey
from state to state,
borderline chaotic.
Like I said,
precipitous boundaries.

Towards the end
I think of her,
a wave upon my being,
crashing, retreating.
Me, weathering, eroding.
Maybe I AM masochistic
but this will end,
once hope runs out.
This poem runs out
Now.

Snippets in Time: Old Works #2

Two more pieces, written towards the end of 2011, among very dreary and drab times perhaps. 

The first one. Looking at this while in a state of mind entirely preoccupied with the enigmas of optics and relativity, I can only say that this holds true as much today as it did two years back.

I often feel an urge,
my heart, it baths itself,
in a surge,
of emotion, of wanting, 

to do – something, to play,
to love, enjoy, the vast,
the surreal model of clay –
the world around me. 

It does me no good, they say.
Or perhaps it’s just the paranoid,
the cynic in me, in a way,
that gives me that illusion.

The second one. Monotony is a beast indeed, a reckless one at that. It’s astonishing I wrote this in a flush of emotions, and now it is so strange – and literal! 

Monotony, monotony, monotony!
Dwells in every heart,
red, blue, grey, yellow,
tries to tear it apart!

Beneath liveliness, there lives dread,
an exhausted mind, skeleton,
both barely standing intact, under
this dreadful weight of a thousand tons.

O Monotony! Why do you dwell?
Is it the sin we committed?
Or it, as the dark depths of a glorious ocean,
is an inseparable part of every being?

Listen.

I could always relate but never be. I could always see but never feel. I was afraid. To lose. I dared not. No, I could never dare. I did not have the strength. To tear myself out, and experience what they say is the worst in life. To tear the self out, the outer self, and have a glance at the inner with its myriad hues bare and naked. Not spiritually. But in that wild, ugly, utterly contemptuous way, loathing myself like I never could. People often talk of the serene, the bright scintillations in life which ascend us to an emotion not unlike being at the top the world. But I wanted the opposite, to be at the bottom, to lurk in the darkest corners, to contemplate death, disease, grief. I wanted to be the person with the hopeless wonders languidly languishing homelessly on the cemented path alongside the household refuses of families, himself being the great refuse of humanity, his loneliness, his hopelessness unbeknownst to me. I wanted to know how it felt like. But I was afraid. To lose.