Sonnet To Beauty

The sun rolls between two returning birds
like a basketball between two children.
The mother of one clasping firmly the wheelchair
where the father of another sits smiling.

The beloved sustains on the honey of words
as her head finds rest on her shoulder.
Another beloved sustains on the quiet
as his lap provides rest to his lover.

I stroll through the park resting on these scenes
as the water is disturbed by falling leaves.
Some pigeons survive on the rice of a kind man,
some fishes feed on the bread of teenagers.

Absence is not as overwhelming when the hues
and fragrances of gratitude surround you.

-

Notes:

1 Murder In The Cathedral, Part II, Thomas Eliot.
2 The Wisdom Of Life, Chapter III, Arthur Schopenhauer.
3 Lud-In-The-Mist, Chapter 3, Hope Mirrlees.
4 Pale Fire, Vladimir Nabokov.
5 Paris: A Poem, P.6, Hope Mirrlees.
6 Les Complaintes, Complainte De Lord Pierrot, Jules Laforgue.
6 Living Or Dead, III, Rabindranath Tagore.
7 The Library Of Babel, Jorge Luis Borges.
8 Ash-Wednesday, IV, Thomas Eliot.
9 The Adults Are Talking, The Strokes.
10 The Flowers Of Evil, Spleen And Ideal, Against Her Levity, Charles Baudelaire.
11 Living Or Dead, II, Rabindranath Tagore.

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To See

The bareness of a dream
as it converges into the threshold

of an interrupting sound is bonier
than your silence. Like a scroll

you unfurl your cliché secrets but
the treasure is already lost in your eyes.

Your laughter puts down the world
and crushes its kindnesses into delirium.

Somewhere the pain blooms and it's not
a flower or a memory, just ignorance.

May you recognize the odours of lost time.
May they suffocate your destiny

until it learns to breathe. May the fish
find its water. Every touch evaporates

anyway like your consolations.
Lips are frail brands. Experience

squeezes the skin clean. The fire taunts
the ash. The ash haunts the fire.

And nothing comes to a resolution
except the beauty of fitting a shoe.

-

A Sonnet For The Inconspicuous

From counterfeit desire, they gain expect,
As from a plastic flower, bees seek nectar,
For time's tight leash obtains no dog's respect,
No bark did, then again, ever reach its ears.
Youth's fire in tempest single will burn out
And recognition too with one misdeed.
Yet it is transience where true glory lies:
A short-lived love is love still, soldiers shout
Surviving war, a crocodile ever cries
In funerals, junkies too return for weed.
Life's vein in soil does grow, in core the seed.
No x-ray shows the mind, no art the feel.
The best remain forever hid from eyes
For purity to favour win never tries.

-

Psychomination

The stairs, like lightning, drop into the lurid loch,
Averse, you walk, then stop, your soul as if in gridlock,
You hear the chant of life, much louder than the strife,
You swim and pull the knife out of the mermaid's windpipe.

With blood, the water rife now, mirroring your wife,
Shadows with drums and fife, towards the guttersnipe,
Marching like stars and stripes, the one no one can snipe,
Until his flag is wiped so clean, he can't even gripe.

Pale, I lie down and type, until the apple's ripe,
Until the devil kipes the fantasy of faith,
Till shamelessly Eve baits naïve Adam to his fate,
Till God Himself negates our notion of Him. Great?

It isn't child's play to swipe the truth with such persuasion.
Far easier to execute hence the invasion.

-

Miscarriage

The cold licks the smoke clean from the skin.
Your broken reflection crawls down your face.
A dream flutters against the street lamp.
Its wings drop at the command of a scream.
What are ashes but the miscarriage of light?

The ceiling hugs the floor but the walls don't break down.
The spider trembles at the sight of its own web.
You can't seem to understand the cause of your frown,
But the folds of your bedsheet know it is you yourself.
What are ashes but the miscarriage of light?

The mosquito remains hesitant outside the net,
Can never be certain of the nature of the filament.
The blood sticks to the wrist trying to claim it,
Doesn't understand the departed spirit's hint.
What is suicide but the miscarriage of night?

-

A Denial

the cold winter sunshine can't cure this thirst for pain
i breathe in deep before screaming like kurt cobain
my dark room is filled with the smell of burnt cocaine
i'm certain even the joker didn't find his hurt so vain
outside the junkie is selling his balmain t-shirt for ten
his torn shoes are soaked with the mud and dirt of rain
i look at my own blood dyeing my vest so worth the stain
whoever said i'd survive can't you see my mirth's broken
armoured be grief enamoured belief birthed the sane

-

The Library Sonnet

The tavern closed the lid upon my corpse
as I watched through the bottle of whiskey.
The cougar whispered that tears are risky
but still licked them clean from my face.

Page by page, I escaped the book of misery
but my hands still couldn't reach your shadow
on the other side of the shelf in this library
of recognition. I sought the green glow

outside but I was locked in. I heard your song
and sang along knowing you couldn't hear me.
The firefly disappeared above the familiar lake
and in the reflection remained you shaken

like a leaf in the wind. My palm on the window
longed for breath but my lungs had already given up.

-

The Real Love Letter

I'll murder Hades to bring you back;
Steal the elixir from the Alchemist
To wake you up, Juliet in the tomb;
Strike Othello before he can stifle you.

Collect every web in the world to save you
From falling; freeze to death so you can live;
Stomp the serpent before it can persuade you;
Kill the witch before she can poison you.

You walk your path, create your destiny,
I will be in the shadows massacring the wolves.
Dry up the entire river so you don't drown,
Help me, Ophelia, take revenge upon my uncle.

Slaughter every thief, Morgiana, you're stronger
Than you know; I look up to you, Queen of Jhansi;
You're Captain Marvel, you're Wonder Woman,
You're every mother, you're Kalpana Chawla.

Kick Ted in the balls, Sylvia, get a divorce;
Sit on the throne, Shakuntala, I'll take care
Of Dushyanta. Snatch your rights, as for society
I'll burn it down. I'm your Joker, Harley Quinn.

-

Sonnet To Weird Verma

Your Fellini-esque dreamscape pulls me out of the stereotype box.
Behind me, I hear Dylan's psychedelic guitar and Lynch's knocks
on the consciousness-door. Kafka sits with a smile on the dinner
table beckoning me to eat your delicious words, infinite winners
in the test of time. Life is absurd. Life is paradox. Life imitates art
more than art imitates life, says Wilde. Then, you do your part
creating the best kind of art. The kind of art that frees the soul
from the shackles of the world. Where imagination truly unfolds
into the unexpected and original. Where fancy becomes greatness.
And I, your weird friend, Weird Verma, cannot very humbly express
how delighted I am to see a real poet like you here in this clichéd mess
of words and stolen quotes. Keep showering us with your uniqueness,
that is the best I can say. May we meet someday in some corner dark yet
illuminated and discuss the visions and illusions that turned us into prophets.

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