// The Leftovers of History
Then, there left everything closed!
The windows slapped themselves.
The doors hushed their wooden lips.
The walls looked shocked and horrified.
The silence drowned into the darkness
And the darkness into the uncanniness!
These people transformed into those people
Some loom sprouted in the room.
The wall clock tied the time's flock.
The cracks up and down are stories.
The wooden worms house in the furniture.
Alive, attached and avaricious they are.
Let them feast on the frozen cake inside.
Aren't we eating one another every day?
Time is eating day, month, year and us.
We're eating time, place and other things.
Time is eating time. Place, place. We, we.
Other things are eating other things.
Other beings are eating other beings.
Is history eating history with some leftovers?-
I find the solace
That my soul yearns for.
The metros blare their
Horns of corporate vehicles.
Great hustle and great bustle
Throng of people to jostle.
My eyes are moving with
The rush-brushed and unhushed
Tied to their necks and desks.
Manifestation, meaning, money
Engraved in the eroded pavement
Where slippers and shoes lick
The colours of those strong bricks
What a senseless robotic movement!
I'm afraid of being a worn out
Wire of the AI device
That understands my searches
That meddles with my metapsyche
Altering my mind urging for the solace.-
// you & i
You bared your soul with naked body
I covered you with flowered touch of mine.-
A novel in a series of poems
That begins in medius res!
It is a plot of disjointed moods,
Of events of fractured feeling,
Of tide and ebb of heavy emotions.
Who is the protagonist of this tale
Or around whom and what does it revolve?
I know not how it evolves day by day
And how it is going to end or begin again.
Expressions dominate all chapters.
Each chapter is an influx of poem
Centrality is the fluid personality.
Tiny poems mirroring tiny realities
The dialogues of the metaphors
Glue the events and fuel their progression.-
// 14th June 2025
It's Saturday evening and the phone rings
When an abrupt burst of buried memories
Reverses the today's clock back to those days
Of titters and giggles, of snippets of walk and talk,
Of care and share, of rebukes and retaliations.
The voice I know owing to old familiarity
Or rather more of an affinity of affection
Again I become the I and she becomes the she
Whom the mighty waves pushed once afar,
But everything has to settle down, even a faud.
Matter it doesn't if her morning is my evening
And the stern and always-anxious Time
Comes in between the long awaited waves
To blow the dying embers of the fire for ablaze
Only to burn those sprouted grudges and apologies.-
My crescendo of thoughts
In the multitude of writers
Nor can ever silence my silence
Focal to those that prick me
Vocal to those that break me.
My plastic poetry is my strength
When it falls into the canyon
Of decentralized epistemologies
When it desects my brain into
Several parts of several time zones.
I feel the apple thrown to Gregar Samsa
How it rots in him or rather in me
I feel the feet and palms of Sisyphus
How they push that boulder of suffering
I feel the manÃc depression of Dr. Jekyll
How it slices him in two, but none in actual.-
Why my life plays with me
Twists after twists with bitterness.
Astounded I am never to know
The summaries people have on me
And their millions of interpretations.
Dark is the color of my breath
And diseased is my blood
These days my heart pumps
Those ailing platelets into thoughts.
What are those invisible swellings?
I do sound like a misspelt word.
I do act like a broken syntax.
I do behave like a delirious being.
My past floats on my present like toxic oil
All I see is the helpless future on the shore.-
// A Bunch of Flowers
She nictates like a bunch of flowers
More vibrant and more jubilant
When she smiles a bit with full blush.
The flower in her hair - a face of piety!
White dominates her nature,
Magenta gloss, her lips.
In fact, she has many bunches of flowers
That she carries with dignity and grace:
The colours of nature are allured by her.
The gate of wait is an uncertain date
That opens when you know not well
As I'm blind, inclined and destined.-
// 5th June 2025
Why can't I replant the uprooted roots
In the moderate damp eyes of mine?
Why can't they regrow clinging
My countless strayed yet sprouted thoughts?
The ecology of my forsaken identity:
The vast deserts with depressing dunes
The swelled mud of my raining eyes
The droughts in cracks of promises.
The waves of desires go up and down
I need a pairs of palms to hold my heart.
I plant and water my dreams and truths
Against the cyclones of imposters.
Need to celebrate the environment day
Within the self with flourishing hope
Conserving aspirations in all human seasons
Wherein rooting and uprooting define life.-
Of different genres and patterns
Some dwell in (non) linear world
Some oscillate between mysteries and histories
Some are engraved in their visiting cards
Some are born, torn and worn in works.
Some vomit reality and relish falsehood
Some hoard their money and luxury
Not for education but for weddings.
And such stories never end...-