The Bed

28 Mar

Crumpled mattress.
Love and passion
Has intertwined on it.

Empty bottle.
Heavens of intoxication
It has imparted.

A white puppy.
It has run around here
Softly barking
Before it turned to a doll.

Pieces of paper, cloth,
wrappers,
Near the bedpost.
Remnants of
An idle day of pleasure.

A locked up suitcase.
Possibly packed with
Happiness that was here.

And the owner
Of the joy that was here ?
Got Crumpled like the mattress ?
Got Emptied like the bottle ?
Turned still like the doll ?
Got Dumped like the wrapper ?
Who knows ?

Might come some day to
Take away
That suitcase of happiness,
I hope.

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Based on the prompt provided at Wednesday Magpie Tales 221

The Visit to a Dear One

12 Jan

To sigh, was the only thing to do
When we met.
Seeing you on that morning,
My mind raced forward,
And hugged you warm.
But my body,
Cold from the weather outside,
Stayed still on the couch,
Offering only a weak handshake
To greet you.
At night, while talking,
My mind was busy.
Running invisible fingers through your hair,
Kissing your cheeks,
Mouthing mute endearments,
While my body stayed,
Stiff and numb.
My hands clasping a book,
Lips shut tight,
With only my eyes
Engaged watching your sweet face,
Your shapely nose, and,
Your innocent eyes.
May be it is that I am a good boy.
A virtuous boy.
And it may be that,
The heat of virtue dries up the springs of love.
For, when we parted,
I felt no sorrow,
No remorse over the separation.
I didn’t even want to shake hands with you.
All I wanted then
Was to get away,
Get away from you,
Get away from this strange dangerous love,
To my city, far far away
And to dive deep
Into the cozy anonymity,
Of the madding crowds therein.

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Rallying with Thursday Poets’ Rally Week 60

In this city

30 Aug

From a bus through the city,
I saw its poverty.
From the depths of my heart,
A line, “So sad!”
A moment of thought, “Better try to
Craft a good Haiku.”
Then to let the sight, the thought, the emotion
Fade into oblivion.
For the bus has to move on, and so do I,
To my future, which I wait to see.
To ignore and to forget, I am used to.
What do you say ? Aren’t you ?

 

Sharing with Thursday Poets’ Rally Week 50!

In Another’s House

15 Jun

In another’s house

I am not quite myself.

Always alert and present.

Never talking in loud voices.

Neither oversleeping, nor sleeping less.

Waking up at that perfect moment

Before the teapot is placed on the stove.

Offering help without being asked.

Thus, faking my normality

To have them feel that

I am at home.

Neither overeating, nor eating less.

Taking only that right amount

Of fried chips, fruits and dates

Offered in the evenings.

Always worrying about

Tidying the bed-sheets I have slept on

And perennially concerned about

My accidental footprints on their painted walls.

Neither talkative, nor mute.

Trying to speak those

Apt words at the right times

Nodding my head in agreement

With a smile

To all the opinions, advises and experiences

Pouring into my ears;

While my waking mind within

Is straining hard to unroot

That weed of a thought

Which keeps on asking me

Why I should put up this pathetic act

To keep afloat, unsoaked

This paperboat

Called our relationship.

 

Submitting for Thursday Poets’ Rally – Week 46

To remember you…

5 May

What shall I remember about you ?

Is it the fragrance of your warm body ?

Or, is it the delicate touch

Of your snow-cold hand ?

At times, I wish to

Take all these treasures

Away from you

And keep them locked in my

Old wooden chest

Lying hidden

Inside the secret chamber of my mind.

But when we sit together,

My mind stops.

My thoughts freeze

Like a lake in the winter.

In that silence, I experience

The contentment

Of an ascetic who has found God.

The moment you move away,

I wake up to my human moods.

My frozen thoughts melt

And spread all over my mind.

Sometimes, they spill out

And become poems.

Shall I keep those poems of mine

To always remind me of you ?

But, aren’t they just clear mirrors

Which show me my own face ?

How will they ever become your beautiful portraits

Which I can always keep with myself ?

Submitting for Thursday Poets’ Rally – Week 43

Thanking Jingle and other friends for awarding me with this nice memento! A big sorry for the delayed acceptance.

Soulful

27 Mar

Writing, to me, is like cutting a cake.

To divide my soul into

A big piece and a few crumbs.

I offer you the little bits,

And with myself, keep the rest.

I spread those crumbs for you

On the floor and wait for you

To come marching like black ants.

Take a munch, I tell you.

Relish it or spit it.

The choice is yours.

But, judge me not, from how it tastes.

And bite me not if it burns your tongue.

Always remember, that I have kept

The better part to myself.

My soul is far tastier

Chocolaty, sweet and delicious.

And when the feasting is over

When each one of you have left

I look at the remains

At those crumbs untasted

Reflecting me like shards of a shattered mirror

To tell myself once again

How beautiful I look.

Manhood

23 Mar

You men sit in your groups

Talk out aloud in your rough voices

Hands holding your whiskey glasses

And mouths boasting of your manliness.

Of how every other woman you’ve met is a flirt,

Of how all of them have fallen for you in secret,

Of how spineless and dumb your colleagues are

And of how bold and brilliant your own deeds are.

You humiliate your timid friends in front of others,

And tag all men who show affection to one another as faggots.

Know that you are no different from those soldiers,

Who, after having ravaged countless enemy villages,

Celebrate the intoxicating victory with bottles of wine,

Their swords glinting red from the blood of innocent men

And talking of how each woman they violated,

Like whores, in front of their masculinity, behaved.

And arguing, on how many more each killed

Or how many more each raped.

What they used were sharp swords,

And what you use are your sharp words.

With their swords, they hurt bodies and spilled blood.

With your words, you hurt minds and spill tears.

Still, if this is what you call manhood,

Then, to say that I am not a man, I am proud.

 

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Written as part of the poetry prompt given at Magpie Tales Week 58.  The prompt given was the picture shown above. This is a One Shot Wednesday poem as well. Visit the sites for more poetry blogs!