Comfortable Silences

Then the contours of your words

Succulent and fine

Lay intertwined

Soft and supple

They breathe

Defining moments

Nourishing a novel creed

You say the contours change 

But I wish to feed every range

As my evenings subside

Into more defined measure

As my words take a definite ride

To find life in your treasure

Abstract!

Often there is a question that bubbles, and when I am about to realize the nuance — the question no more lives. It just becomes a passe. It transforms itself to an abstract. Its more like nihilism that recourses itself to form a crippled mundane. Or is it that the routine is handcuffed ? I have sorted out questions on my plate, I sit to decide and, then steadily, all the questions vanishes! I frantically look for them, but no where I find them? They have transformed to something else. And I fail each time I look for the transformation. 

It all leaves me so empty. And yet I hold on to the question — How spacious space can be within you? Is this space also diurnal? This space might even be an epitome of patience. Can a being be reasonably patient? Does it  mean that the energy of this space, as I call it, gets transformed to patience? Patience makes things calm. Or is this calmness leading me to something? I think there is a brush of stubbornness that patience has. You just cannot get rid of it. There might even be a phase of nonexistence. Isnt it ? As if you are going through a spasm. And you fail to express. Something that is meant to be just mine. 

It lives on to be an abstract. Is this spasm a hypothesis? Is it your imagination? However, if this abstract is some kind of a hypothesis then laws and logic will help deduce the unknown. But the unknown too gets transformed to a known or to a novel unknown. The colors keep on changing. 

It becomes both crowded and space at the same time. It is an everlasting duel. However, in this cosmic duel the essence and intricate details are lost. It leads to a chasm. A wholeness where you find nothing. It seems to me more like the transformation of a child from the mother's womb. But I question here my own thoughts — Is the child so the question or the abstract? 

Or the child is just a creation of thousand silences opening their mouth. You keep on feeding one and the other yawns open to be fed. And this process is so incomplete. It haunts your subconsciousness too. It follows you without faltering. Life has been silenced so much that it has become a tumultuous task to put words expressing them. 

I fail here!

Find me!

I have to learn yet again to be subtle. To conceal, to take my eyes away because I don’t want to be revealed. The gravest insecurity I have is to be discovered. I believe no one can be explored completely. But right at this moment, I need a cloud, some rains, a green meadow, a nightfall, a mist, a thundershower, some winter, some half-scribbled words to hide me. I want to just run away to my secret garden.

I can measure every ounce of this restlessness in me. I desire it to stay, to overpower all my words, my thoughts, my ideals, especially my silences. The reflection has ceased to show me. I can't see me, I have removed the steam, where am I? Where did I go? Find me.

The more I seek it, the more am lost and the more I grow restless. However, I don’t like it to be finished before I am. I longed for a closure, a closure that will brush an identity. The identity will acknowledge the warmth of my sun, my turns and returns, my concealment and revelation, my findings and my restlessness! Still I would ask find me!

To be born!

How good does it feel to be reborn? Birth involves a lot of pain. It isn’t trifle, it isn’t diurnal. To labor birth is something tremendous. It makes you not one or two, it makes you innumerable. Birth isn’t just for a moment or a day or a sunrise. It is beyond sunset and much before sunrise.

It is a space between thoughts, interludes of emotions, a breathless split. Born to live a plethora of silences, of sighs, of restlessness, of presumptions, and of course of longings! Isn't it? And even to meet faces. Faces that provokes thoughts. Thoughts that initiates your prayers. Prayers that turn the pages of your day. Day that bears the fruit of your life. And life that is born over and over again.

It is amazing to realize what a moment can give that might no longer be possible for a lifetime to reap. A word, a heartbeat, a night can do wonders! They really do! Each one of us is in inertia for that one thing for that one touché — before sunrise, before sunset.

There needn’t be a thousand flowers, there needn’t be that perfect snow, the early morning dew drops on grass blades; but it is that perfect gesture even in a forest of commotion. It might be the briefest of flash, but it will brush you blue, red, white, violet! And then you will be born, may be — before sunrise, before sunset.

Water!

a palatte of desires

What an act you put?
Calling me a strange fruit
An apple of all sins
Is it your overwhelming despise?
Or melting commotion of longing?

You visit my empty hands
That draws intermittent nourishment
Feeding my malice
In my secluded hours
Why do you keep governing my untamed thoughts?

Your oriental mood tempts
When you pretend to ignore
Like a dagger eager to pierce
Through my secluded belongings
Why I fail to satiate you every time?

You are my escapes
When my land failed to reap a word
And when my heart was scared to yearn for a gift
How random you are born and you rift!
Teach me your courtesy
Take this me as me
Come to my last embers to stay
Come to satiate my word
Come when I’m at bay
Come as my master, as my lord

My Proud Peacock!

This time of year
You proud peacock
What makes you act sans fear?
Gifted by nature
You deny
You are only a measured bait!

Your pride fails to buy
My connoisseur eye
You proud being
Step down on earth
And let our story begin

You flaunting feathers
In cloud and heathers
Blessed with a life
Do just dare
To descend your stair
To meet some face
Cause you are no prophet!

Your living process too
Is destined to cease
So,
When our ends are same
Why feed a mind untamed?

Poetry

What does your word mean?

You scribbled commotion!

You restless scene!

An abode of vagueness,

That pours insanity in mind.

Why are you so proud?

A web of emotion!

Clawing an eternal duel,

Breeding a world of lexicon.

You reach my hand,

You curve my stand,

Then you cover my seasons,

With snowy cold reasons.

You are my escapes

My silences

A sweet nothingness

Melting my defences

You are my sleep

When my wet eyes keep me awake

Poetry – my beloved sins of will

When I speak no language, but cry