Abhijeet   (तस्वीरनुमा)
692 Followers · 8 Following

किताबें, इश्क़, और लखनऊ !
Joined 14 May 2019

किताबें, इश्क़, और लखनऊ !
Joined 14 May 2019
4 JUL AT 13:20

हम रास्तों की फ़ितरत से सफ़र क्यों छोड़ें,
इस चाहत को किसी गुमान पर क्यों छोड़ें,

हम हैं उनकी रूह में पूरे के पूरे दाख़िल,
तो हम सिर्फ़ जिस्म पे ही असर क्यों छोड़ें,

शामिल हैं उनके ज़हन में अब हम यक-सर,
तो ज़रूरी बातों को यूँही मुन्तशर क्यों छोड़ें,

वो ना आएँ हमारे बुलाने पर तो ना सही,
हम अपनी तरफ़ से कोई कसर क्यों छोड़ें,

ज़र्द पत्तियों की तो मजबूरी थी टूटके गिरना,
परिंदों ने लेकिन ज़िद पकड़ी शजर क्यों छोड़ें!


31 MAR AT 21:26

describing what poetry is as easy as
anything. but explanation goes
beyond the horizons of language.

silence is epitome of appreciation.


31 MAR AT 21:20

drizzle, mist, then the
cat's-paw. all happened
at once. expected, though.

thirteenth time, it happened
so, last friday, evening, the
poem, flew out of window.

colors. breeze. remains.
did she smile ? ah, it rains.


31 MAR AT 21:14

/Complete Piece in Caption/

phew phew, here here, now now, at 11:11, i open a book, and it smells of my death. the winds are too sharp, and i know so, because the pages are flapping, and i sense cacoethes. some pages are colder than other pages.


31 MAR AT 21:09

one memory of that odd hour,
still. still, our hands were.
quivering quietly. trembling toes.
numbing nose. ah, squealing skin.
asking for warmth ? and blessed.

lips burnt.
ashes is
equals to
the kiss.



31 MAR AT 21:04

/Complete Piece in Caption/

wearing a loose steel-blue shirt, or is it caroline. I dunno. a light-wash denim, or a dark indigo. I really dunno. I'm standing on terrace; winds, soft and nebulous, tousling my head. and I do the same with my words. I create songs out of dust particles these days. music out of shedding cells in my veins, or perhaps, out of cloudy, film of whispers I hear around, of people talking of an 'unwelcomed guest' here in our midst.


31 MAR AT 20:56


crapulence within craves
the cathartic cloud nine.
it is my drunkenness that
makes my chamber, skin,
undying patient to pyrexia.


24 MAR AT 14:00

I close my eyes in my self-isolation from Corona... and I see, the most tragic of all greek tragedies being enacted. Here, in Chowk, I hear, invisible whimpers. The Rumi Darwaza, perhaps, is mourning over the dark fate, that this vintage city is doomed to have. How dauntingly melancholy, casts its spell, and enshrouds the desolated streets, and clouds of utter uncertainty brings chaos to Dastarkhwan. Charming afternoons, and delightful evenings are withering, as if, the Fall has arrived much sooner. Lukewarm souls are witnessing the nemesis with cold eyes, and warm dew in them. With such minute details of confusing, cataclysmic crisis, the city has somehow managed to invite peaceful breeze, paregoric aurorae, singing birds, pellucid blues above... and love for those, who are in need.


24 MAR AT 13:52


when evening brushed her lips,
against the gloomy night's neck,

the day was doctored to dusk,
and the lights were blinded.

they sung loud ― the blue devils.
with notes of delirium too sharp...


24 MAR AT 13:45

where I found my soul lurking ?
there ? in those depths.

depths of autumnal valleys.
depths of mourning seas.
depths of an empty gaze.
depths of her presence.

depths of those,
deep goblets!


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