Past Equinox

So, a few days ago I told myself
"No more of your lunatic poems,
You've written enough already!"
But who was I kidding?

It all started with the bunch of lightning clouds,
They were clustered on one side of the evening sky.
At first, it didn't seem much
But then there was a flash.
And more flashes followed,
I was on the road, but I was having trouble keeping track.
The lightning was so quiet and abrupt,
You had to keep looking to believe it really occurred.
As I turned right, the sky went left
And so did those brilliant looking clouds.

I got busy for a while,
I had some business to settle.
The roads were too crowded,
It felt like the capital, only it was not.

After I was done, I started for home,
The rickshaw was fast, but couldn't quite move;
There was too much traffic to over take
But the rickshaw-wala tried, I could tell.
I remembered those brilliant flashes,
And I looked up in the hope of seeing more.

There wasn't any,
Not anymore.

In fact, there were no clouds at all,
Only an endlessly black sky.
Maybe those clouds have been swept away,
Maybe they have spread all across the sky.
And suddenly something vicious caught my eye.
I had to look twice and I had to look carefully so.
The moon was in the sky,
I must get back home soon -
Or else.

The harvest moon was up in the sky
And I was strolling on the ground.
There's probably no shield that might dare protect
If the moon chose to reap my sanity.
A blazing specter in the October sky
Shone brightly against the city's own shameless lights.

Who says these man-made lights can
In someway dim the stars and the moon?
Tell that person to dare and
Look straight at tonight's moon
Tell them to look at it from the cities they live in,
And tell them to tell me if the moon seems any less.

This moon is surely late in its cycle,
But I don't really care.
The moon is here
And I am here.
The world is here as well.
But to keep my mind from going insane
I must take some recourse.

For, the human mind can only take so much.

Appetite

The moon is soon to be full,
But my heart is aching for something else.
That thing is round on the top,
And mostly flat on the bottom.
It has a brownish golden skin
But the inside is all white and soft.
It does not glow, unlike the moon,
It has a sweet, doughy taste.
It comes in many shapes -
Flattened, rounded, spiraled, braided and more.
It can be made in any shape,
And it will taste the very same.

What is it - you ask?
It's a regular bun bread.
No, not the rectangular, sliced ones,
They don't taste as good.
What's good for sandwich,
Is only good for sandwich.
What's good for a burger
Is good for everything.

I buy a dozen at the start of a week,
And keep them stored in the fridge.
They get a little hardened,
But never lose their taste.
I heat them up for a minute
Or so,
And they become warm and soft
As if freshly baked, straight out from the bakery.
I can eat them for breakfast,
And for dinner and for lunch,
Still I will eat more in between the meals,
I am just always too hungry for them.

I had been trying to make them at home,
Succeeded only once.
But it takes too much time
And physical labor,
So I still buy them from the shop,
And not make my own.

Ex Post Facto

I wish my head would stop spinning.

The world falls silent -
It happens all of a sudden
And there's little time to figure out what's actually going wrong.

When I say my head, I'm actually referring to my ears.
It is in the ears where the world spins.
It is in the ears where the ringing begins.

The legs seem to hold the weight,
But for how long? - The brain asks.
If you look in the mirror, you'll find your eyes right in their sockets,
But the eyes know the body is going out of its orbit.

Will I faint?
The brain is asking itself,
But the brain doesn't know for sure.
What should be done with the body?
- The brain asks itself again.
Stand still? Sit down? Lie?
Hold onto something?
It's a gamble.

Meanwhile the brain shuffles among choices, another thought presents itself.

If I faint,
What state will I be found in?
What if I'm naked -
I don't want to be found naked and all passed out?
What if the clothes I am wearing aren't really passing out clothes?
Do I really need to look good passed out?
How exactly do I pass out, anyway?
With my eyes rolling up?
Or simply crash on the floor?

Seriously? - The brain asks again.

But I find myself sitting.
I know I am sitting,
But I don't remember when I sat.

It's weird that I'm not actually fainting.
It feels like that my head is made of cotton
And so is my body - bones, muscles and all.
Moving any part seems to be a lot of trouble.
I can move my arms, and speak too,
But I don't know what I am saying or that if I'm speaking nonsense.
Why am I not fainting?
Is it bad?
Or is it actually good?
I'm closing my eyes, but I can still open them
And look around.
I can easily see what's happening around me.
My brain is still solving its poly-lemma.

Wow, now my stomach (or bowels? hard to say) is feeling weird.
It seems consistent,
Not growing, staying the way it is.
Seriously? - I ask my body.
Here I am trying to turn the cotton back to protein and calcium,
And my body is having urges to take a shit.
Like right now.

Body, please shut up.

Brain, how long?

Brain: Still working on it.

What can I do to get rid of all this things I am feeling?

Brain: Idk. Take a shit, maybe?

No, brain.
I like cotton candy, but I don't like to be turned into one.
I mean, me-flavored cotton candy?
Even Willy Wonka won't approve.

Brain: Stay where you are.

Yeah, as if I'm getting ready for a 400 meter Olympic marathon.

Brain: ....

I'm sweating.
Why am I sweating, brain?

Brain: .....

It feels cold.
Icy cold.
It feels as if my sweat glands have been turned into ice
And now they're having a meltdown.

Brain: Good news!
Cotton to protein, cotton to calcium transformation successful!

Yay!
I feel a bit weak.
But that's okay.

All of this suddenly feels like a dream.
Was it all real?
Or was I dreaming?
Brain, do you know anything.

Brain: Enough for today.

Cats and Digs

It was going to be a hot day,
Or so I supposed.
The weather was humid,
The sun bright,
The ceiling fan was running slow
Even though the regulator was set on its fastest.
When I went to give the crows their bread
The sky was clear around the sun,
There were clouds here and there,
But not the ones I thought would bring any rain.

And suddenly, it began to rain.

When it rains,
We always hurry to close the windows,
Especially my father
Who, otherwise lazy, would be on his heels.

I had already planned on having coffee today,
The shermaal bread was an added bonus.
I took a cup of hot water, put in a spoon of Nescafe,
And then tore open a sachet of zero cal sugar
- added it to the steaming cup.
I am not a fan of bitter coffee,
But I like my homemade coffee little less sweet.
Heated the shermaal bread in the microwave,
The heat turned it soft and fluffy.
Took the two things,
And stood aimless for a while.
Decided to watch the rain while I eat
On a day like this, breakfast had to have some aesthetic.

Before I tore the piece of sweet bread
Or sipped my coffee,
I had to take a picture.
After all, I had to share them with the world (so to speak).

The rain literally pours down on one of our window glasses,
It's as irritating as it's beautiful.
The downpour on the glasses makes it hard to see the rain outside,
It's like looking while you pour water on your head.
While steady water is clear as a raven's eye,
Running water is a bad conductor of sight.

I sat on the bed and ate my breakfast,
The slightly bitter coffee complemented well with the sweet shermaal.

It rained, almost till past afternoon,
And the rain has turned the supposed hot day cold.
Chilly, to be precise,
And I am very much sure tonight's gonna be a cold night
- but a good one, of course.

Childhood Skids

The days are still young,

The nights still basking in their heat,

The Sun is growing old

And so grows this Earth.

Youth shines in the Spring laden leaves

Youth shines in the written words

Whose ink has dried long ago

Youth shines in the sunset Moon

Youth shines in the clouds driving the night sky dark

Youth shines in the storm borne winds

Youth shines in the pups’ little skittish yawns

And youth shines in the stars’ still younger hearts.

But not even youth is evergreen.

It is leaving slowly,

It is a stealthy thief.

But I challenge the lines I wrote above,

I say, youth never really leaves.

Youth is there when I watch a dry leaf fall

Youth is there when I sip into the immortality

Written down on white paper

Youth is there when I catch the Moon bathing in evening sun

Youth is there when i stand under the dark of the night

Youth is there when I fly in the storm bearing winds

Youth is there when I see the pups’ careless content

Youth is there when the stars bind me with their hearts.

And youth is there when I skid to a fall

And stand up wondering why.

Youth is there when I laugh hysterically

And laugh still some more.

As I write this I am still in my youth

I would grow old and would

Wish one day I hadn’t

That day I would come and sit

And read my own young gibberish words. 

The Kite On The String

Now, the weather was much clearer

Than I could expect it to be.

When I slid the cold glass open

The sky, much more ashen than it could be grey,

Poured down in drizzles,

But it was the wind: drenched at first

And then let loose into a sinister world.

The leaves are just too small enough

For little black birds to nestle;

But at times they seemed to croon

And flap their way to find a warmer refuse -

One that is dark, one that is half in the light.

The wind had business, quite important to attain;

A broken kite was not reported to be seen,

Monsoon, as untimely as it can be,

Gave it one more reason to be free -

It was flying again, fixed to its glass string.

What the eyes see, the pen only hears,

The ink can soak in, and it will never be wet enough.

Tale As Old As Time

Now, what amount of poetic expertise

Would be ample enough - I do not know.

I know, some things are stirring in the distance -

A butterfly and a hundred such crows.

Listen to the wind, and listen closely,

The wind has a tale to tell.

I can hear the saudade,

Slowly weaving an unknown tune.

The strings are stretched to the horizon

Where the distant stars fret over the sky.

Listen to the wind, and listen closely,

The wind has a tale to tell.

With every little breath, a little color

And a little scent is added to the picture

Lying not far but not really very close;

It is a mystery soaked in petrichor.

Listen to the wind, and listen closely,

The wind has a tale to tell.

The warm blood likes it a little cold -

The abridged paranoia of an unborn storm,

The illustrated melancholy of the still clean clouds,

The synesthetic anxiety of the unionised skies,

The corrosive mania of the nearly condensed vapor -

And all that is pure but far too evil.

Listen to the wind, and listen closely,

The wind has a tale to tell.

It is enigmatic, but restrained to its core,

It crawls across the skin and it lies still still.

Too rich in volume, it takes up all the space

Inside and out - a regardless animation.

Listen to the wind, and listen closely,

The wind has told its tale.

Odd Oddities

Time is not a tale, not a written story,

It is a flow in a river, a current in a sea.

Time has no branches, no trunk with a bark,

It is vaster than Yggdrasil, and as deep as the Earth.

Time does not listen, does not also see,

It is within the senses, count them more or just six.

Time is a collage, a puzzle in a maze,

It is quieter than a facade, glittering in a snake.

Time is a glimpse, a dank copper plate,

It is brighter than history, for history is a dream.

Listless In The Sun

The unkindest of the six, they say.

And so Winter leaves

Leaving misty evenings in its wake.

Thick blankets now tucked back

Into their early yearly boxes.

The Sun is now late to set,

But its helium core still burning hot

- or hotter still.

And so Winter leaves

Leaving sweaty armpits in its wake.

The unkindest of the six, and it will always be. 

Ripe And Ready To The Eye

It seems that the nature has taken a mortal turn.

The trees stand bare, with new leaves awaiting conception,

The dry winter barks fill their hearts with springs of new wood.

It takes a ring every year to welcome the king of seasons.

The seasons might regularly disagree, in turns of six

they might wreck havoc over the lands that claim to bear them all.

Spring this seventeen is standing on a hyperbole of wreaths.

No parabolic similarity is deigned to be drawn, but just

the one intended. And so far kept discreet, separate but nearby.

Seasons have made this land fertile and the poets barren - barren with words.

Winding The Afternoon

It was like stepping into a world, different and divine -

The terrace was a common scene

And so was the sky hugging the horizon,

And still something was vague and vivid,

Born as if anew and borne like an ancient curse;

Breathing and burning slowly,

Caressing the tomb it's buried in,

One day when it's let loose

It feeds on the world like an obscurus.

It was like standing endlessly through time.

Center Of Warmth

What a thousand sands can't do,

A million might try.

There's a center of warmth deep in the dirt,

And there's motherly love against the grains,

You mayn't find the source hidden within,

You mayn't realise when you miss the discourse.

Pressing through the debris,

A haven comes to life,

One that is warm, one that is cold,

One that is blissful in an inordinate amount.

What a million sands can try,

But only the warmest ones can dare to succeed.

Sunset Vanity

The horizon was slowly coming to a halt.

The lit-up sky chose to froze a minuscule

And belched a golden tinge into the blue.

The day was rotating to a stop and

Birds dove into the sunset winds.

One could not see the sun on this day,

It was hidden, shy, behind cement walls.

But the sun does not know its radiance

Only grows wild when it says goodbye.

The serenade in the west was too much in tune to not notice.

The Arrow On A Loose Bow

Have you seen Artemis striking a lunar pose

In the dampened lightless sky?

I saw her shifting beneath tonnes of darkness,

And a damsel in her wake.

Venus was just orbiting,

A heavenly body tied to a ring,

But did you notice the goddess,

Born and borne of foam and sea?

I think Aphrodite heard my eyelids

When they closed and then opened wide.

I made sure my gaze was her mirror,

And she looked down once, and then once again.

I did ask the Huntress,

How her arrows were not dulled

By the light shown from her face,

And her bow not bent, but taut.

I heard her silvery mane slide sideways,

One little splash in the moonlight,

And the bow would let loose -

One moonlit arrow that'd not miss.

Is It So Real?

We see the sky is blue,

But is it really so calm?

How much more blue does it have to be

To be more ancient than the burning suns?

Is it high enough, for a dome so big and round,

For the winds to breach and shatter into songs?

Where does it begin to sink,

And where does it end to rise?

Is the sky really so endless,

Or is it bound in the human mind?

Hurry, Not Haste

There is little time left,

How can you tell a story in a daze?

It began a long time ago,

It began when the sun was a lonely star,

It began when the stars were still all dusts

Clinging on to the ever expanding walls of the Cosmos.

But didn't it begin a little earlier than that?

When time was still not conceived?

It is hard to say, what time it was;

Surely it was a time when time was not.