Beauty

Fell my sight upon her form,
On her strange and graceful charm,
It bound me with its compelling claws,
As I watched, struck with awe,

'Twas a strange feel, new to my sight,
A mix of pain and delight,
For all I wanted was to watch her smile so,
But somehow I wanted more too,

Why did I so sorely to want her,
Perhaps the thought that someone could own her?
Or was it the push of an urge so great,
A compelling urge to procreate?

Unaware and desperate, I dashed for her,
Fighting men and hurdles sans fear,
Setting an eye upon the wars I won,
And another upon her form,

At long last she beckoned my soul,
Standing at her threshold,
Letting me into that heart of hers,
That heart that men all desire,

I lay there, tired and worn,
But beaming in all glee that I'd won,
For nothing more could a man want now,
Than the love of a woman he loves,

She'd fling herself onto my arms so light,
And turn heavy for me to lift,
And I'd hold her tight, yet so soft,
Sunk in the pleasure of the burden,

As I held her thus, I stopped to know,
If I truly owned it now,
The beauty I'd seen so long ago,
That charm I'd wanted to own,

I saw her now as a person I knew,
Like a friend I knew some more now,
But where in her lay that pulchritude,
That beauty that we'd all sought?

I drew her closer within our sheets,
And searched her naked depths,
I searcher her body and her mind,
And yet I could not find,
That I held that beauty, that beauty I'd sought,
For what all those wars were fought,

Not the most intimate touch,
Could reach out thus,  as I'd hoped to reach,
I dived and pounced and sought some more,
And even surrendered to what was true,

I didn't see it when I held her tight,
Nor when she gave in to my might,
I still couldn't, when she lay by my side,
And, smiling wide, lay open her naked breast,

And then I saw for then and ever,
That I could have it never,
For the beauty that'd flashed when I'd seen from afar,
Wasn't any brighter when she was near,

It lay a slave, faithful and true,
To her nimble skin and brow,

It lay, seen from beneath her skin and hair,
Across her every stroke of her,
Painted so like with a brush,
Shining with her every blush,

I saw then, beauty lay to be marvelled at,
To be enjoyed and written, and sung about,
A blessing to be joyously felt,
But never to be owned,

Beauty lies not in the eyes of the beholder,
Nor in that thing that's a joy forever,
It lies, hazy on a plane in between,
Both without me and within

Such is Life

Hiding within sheaths invisible,
They live a mystic life,
Crying out when needing help,
And fending for themselves when alone,

Knowing not, their name and form,
They seek to know what's around,

They smile and cry,
They fight and try,
Dancing with the waves of life,

They need another, they help others,
And claim to know and be known,
And yet they hide, from their own eyes,
In a darkness still unexplored,

Oh such is life, that fills their critters,
Spilling out as the truth,
From screams of pain,
And eyes when wet with love,

Such pain they bear, and yet they live,
Dragging their bodies along,
Fools at times, wise at times,
They wear their greying hairs,

So large and wise, yet small and meek,
They live to their own surprise,
Giving sermons of thought, of science and what not,
They bloom 'til they wither,

Ask them how and they know not how,
They say that such is life,

Oh what could it be, this wonderful gloom,
I know not what to say,
I sit, surprised, and don't utter a word,
I try but can't walk away,

'Prisoned in me, I struggle to breathe,
'Til I catch the shore of the sane,
I see in vain, I can't escape pain,
Nor the hungry jaws of death,

I see my doom, clear and bright,
But can't sleep 'til night,
For there's hunger and friends to feed,
And a conscience's strong drive,

So I gulp the fear and the need to know,
The need to sit and reflect,
Pushed, I move my exhausted feet,
And start another day's struggle,

Sit by me, and you'll hear my breath,
And me uttering these words,
These words I've heard them say,
For I know not, how they came,
Nor my eyes that see,

And yet I know, for I must go,
Else hell shall break loose now,
Ask me now, and you'll hear me say,
I don't know, such is life.

A Psalm of Pain

Prison'd in this corpse of suffering and pain,
I writhed in agony, screaming in vain,
Shaking my limbs and closing my eyes,
Hoping if I didn't see, the hurt'd vanish,

Losing all sense of logic and thought,
I saw not the rational that I'd shed,
Nor the vanity that I so proudly held,
And praying to a nameless deity I'd ridiculed,

The hurt that came it consumed me whole,
Wiping away all sense, filling each hole,
It killed all sense of space and time,
Posing to hurt, forever, slaying my calm,

I loathed myself for wasting youth and health,
And vowed to cherish the rest of this wealth,
I made myself a thousand promises,
As I struggled to exist alongside my existence,

Unable to bear my existence I lay, awaiting death,
Struggling like a corpse alongside my breath,
Each inhale a struggle worse than the previous exhale,
As the urge to live turned stale,

The Transformation

Unable to run from my own self, I sat,
And in that moment I saw the truth flat,
It glared at me, this revealing sight,
That peace'd grow in accepting my plight,

And then, as I tried, my struggle slowed,
And, behind this pain, a quiet calm glowed,
It shone so bright, that the pain's wrath faded,
Drawing my to breath, now that it'd slowed,

The pain that came it hadn't yet subsided,
But it let me stay, to live by its side,
And I saw the world I knew, through eyes red,
A world that was lacking but yet still gilded.

The Doctor

Out came a man who knew what I had,
He spelt out the struggle with the perfect words,
Describing my pain in such stark detail,
He held my shoulder and spread a relieving tranquil,

He spoke such words of reassurance, clearing my dread,
Brandishing a dark drug that he'd named.
He saved me from that nameless struggle,
Restoring in me a state I could handle,

My eyes welled in grateful tears,
And I swore to stay at his feet for years,
He smiled a passive nod,
And turned and went on ahead,

Over time, my memory of the agony dimmed,
And the gratitude I'd had faded,
I forgot the promises I'd made,
And went on to live life like it hadn't happened.

As I Lie to Die

Sans the strength to move I lie,
As my name and identity choose to fly,
Leaving behind a curled critter,
With no hope of getting better,

The first to leave is the sense of smell,
That could taste the fragrance that dwells,
And with it, evaporates all interest,
Leaving behind, nothing but disgust,

It's followed by touch's sense,
That unique feel of skin on skin,
That sees and craves the touch of another,
Sans the need for eyes to decipher,

Then goes the power to taste of tongue,
Half dead when smell vanished,
A touch more intimate than that of hand,
That learns and knows beyond what's seen,

Now flees the sight of the eyes,
And with it, the world with all its lives,
Reducing my cries, loud and soft,
To pointless knocks on formless doors,

The last to leave is the ear's child,
Subtler than the subtlest sound,
That forms the soul of all my alert,
That formed from words, the stuff of thought,

I lie now, weak and still,
Knowing again I shan't stand or sit,
Thinking I'll see nothing but naught,
Listening to the moans of my quivering heart,

Its beats, they ring like the bells of the clock,
Ticking away ruthless with mercy not,
Hiding behind its thick, loud veil,
The face of silence the eternal wail,

I lie still, closing my eyes tight,
Seeking to see some form of light,
I knew all along, this journey was to come,
Why didn't I ever try to look within?

I walk ahead, not looking back,
For now, there is no more going back,
I walk ahead, timid and slow,
For there's all the time and nowhere else to go,

The heartbeat slows, my heart giving in,
And I strain the eyes that look within,
Shouldn't my self now be bitten and low,
Fading away, perhaps, quiet and sans glow?

But no, it shines with a light so bright,
Dancing within, in its own delight,
Who said I needed eyes to see,
Or ears for music and a nose to breathe?

As the critter I'd been now chokes and bleeds,
I walk away now, disentangled and free,
Oh mother, oh father, oh brother and son,
See me now, shining so bright like the sun,

I was never what we saw, yet being it still,
I was more the feeling, that sheer will,
I now walk free from bonds that never were,
Dancing in the joy that lasts forever.

Do Not Read Me

Oh reader of my works, published and not,
Think not, that you've seen me inside and out,
For you know not even a fraction of my soul,
Nor the weight of the content that fills it whole,

The thoughts I hold, they stretch beyond words,
Growing like hair when plucked from your head,
Stranger still is the soul that I am,
So dark, it's alien to my closest kin,

Delve no deeper than the things I project,
For I strive so hard to save you from deject,
Seek not to know the being I am,
Stop now, and save yourself precious time,

Strive not to know me, to know who I am,
For though strange and dark, I'm no great man,
Seek, rather, to dive into your self,
And find there, priceless, great bright pearls,

Try to go the way that I've taught,
To follow, quiet, the trail of thought,
Cease, a while to read another's mind,
And hear your own voice and the song it sings,

Discover your abyss that holds great thoughts,
The place where you go when you read my words,
Know now and forever this piece of truth,
The joy of reading me comes from your own depth,

It's the joy of connect, of finding your thoughts,
Of hearing the echo of your innermost depths,
It's the joy of singing the song of your soul,
So take a dip within and stay there a while.

When in Pain

So close to my very being it stands,
Wrapping its tentacles 'round my arms,
Threatening to kill but killing not,
Squeezing my soul to nearly naught,

I writhe and struggle, all in vain,
Like my very esse shall split in twain,
And yet, I stay the same, struggling still,
Such is pain, that destroys my will,

It stops thought and reason, even time,
Swearing, forever, to steal my prime,
Blocking the passage of every breath,
As I curl within, praying for death,

And slow and steady I see no way,
But to accept that the ache is here to stay,
I learn to live life anew, beside the pain,
Carving a new path for my breath within,

And then it loosens its bloodstained clasp,
Feeding on the cede I threw as bait, a trap,
And though I fail to see who's won,
I smile a little for there's a little calm,

And then I see for now and ever,
That peace lies not in quiet but in true surrender,
That the twists and turns shall hurt not,
If I'm to flex to pain's will and haught,

And when I've learnt to turn and bend,
To manage to sit at my seat's very end,
The pain that came it slips into null,
Leaving with such an exit so dull,

It seemed in contrast to all the drama,
The agony, it gave, the suffering and trauma,
But perhaps 'twas right to leave so quiet,
For I've learnt now, the power to accept.

Prologue

I see now, it's not just left quiet,
It's left behind in me, a lasting quiet,
A silence that speaks of the knowledge I''ve got,
A kind that can be spoken by words not,

Now I worship each moment of health,
Cherishing it as my greatest wealth,
And with each inhale I take,
I breathe out, whispering a silent thanks.

Holding Hands

They talk of a tight embrace,
Of lips meeting in a kiss,
Of a slow, revolving waltz,
Of candelight dinners,

Of a long walk at night,
Of sharing a beautiful sight,
Of talking 'til morning,
And of sex when it's raining,

And yet, why so passionate do I find,
An intimacy that's one of a kind,
When your fingers curl within mine,
Claiming me as yours, by my hand?

Lost in a Book

Lost in the cluttered pages of his book,
He squints, giving the words a deeper look,
Tossing in a tasteless snack or a sip of tea,
He staggers pitiably, on the edge of reality,

Touch'd not by the shaking ground,
Nor by the loud noises around,
He lies, motionless on a colourless seat,
With each chapter, accomplishing a nameless feat,

Drunk with the heavy content in his arms,
He's aloof to the spurs upon his numb frame,
Moved not by the strongest nudge,
But moved so much by teary lines,

He dwells in the world portrayed,
Glamour speaking to him in the language of words,
He rejoices in a realm that's complete and full,
Tranquil, dancing in a joy inexplicable.

Alone

Alone I am not, when the sea is all I hear,
For I have the sight of the waves kissing the shore,
Lonely I am not when the sun sets and the sky's darker,
For the cool breeze and moonlight fight to bathe my critter,

Forlorn I am not when stillness surrounds,
For the chirping of insects I hear all around,
Abandoned I am not, when the neighbours leave here,
For the song of silence comes to whisper in my ear,

Alone I am not, when the night darkens,
For my pen's scribble, plays a musical tune,
Alone am I, when my mind quietens, sinking within,
Sans words to say, nor song to sing.

On the Bed of Pleasure

Under the heavy blanket of darkness he hides,
Indulging in his filthy delight,
Sweating under the efforts and tries,
To harness those tiny droplets of joy,

In the moment of pleasure he fails to see,
That the blanket he holds is a huge sea,
Whose waves hide countless such corpses,
That writhe about like his own does,

Pathetic, he falls, dripping wet,
Stinking with the stench of sweat,
Holding onto breath and heartbeat,
Unable to hold the high that came and went,

A fleeting glee it proved to be,
Evaporating before one could see,
Oh so short, did it even exist?
How so smooth could be its exit?

But like the waves that lick shores for a moment,
It dances ahead with such noise and might,
And yet when it comes, it's hardly felt,
Forgotten before it even left,

It only trace is seen on his face,
That bears a smile after the race,
But is it of joy or is it of relief,
Like the end of a run, a quiet release?

And before he dwells on the slipping delight,
He pulls closer his vain blanket,
Why among the many faces of his,
Must he so desperate, hide this?

He cringes within, shivering in guilt,
Slipping away into the crowded surround,
Wearing upon him an innocent countenance,
He hopes to hide that night's every trace,

And yet, like the strange, unique face of man's,
No matter how much it frowns or wringes,
It shall return to its form's core,
Like nothing at all had happened before.

Transition

It's not the rain that I love so much,
Nor the heat of the sun that scorches,
It's the slim transition of weather,
From one extreme to the other,
On a dull, gloomy day, when arrive thin rays,
And the sun brings out his bright face,
Or on a hot, dreary noon,
The sky's filled with dark clouds' bloom,
Which shield the parched ground and evaporating waters,
And bathe me in their first showers,

So is my love for you, my dear,
Intensifying as our separation draws near,
Kindled most intense at the time of farewell,
And the meet after years, when unspoken tears well.

This poem seems to have been inspired by this one by Niharika Anupam, apoet I admire.

A Tryst with Terror (Part II)

It came all of a sudden, thundering down,
From a height that seemed nothing like I'd known,
Raising it's mighty head like it feared nothing,
Casting me a look sans mercy nor cunning,

I looked down for I could not look into its eye,
Though an honest man I thought I'd been,
It brought down the world I'd built on my own,
A world I thought, I'd carved out of stone,

Independent, I thought I had indeed become,
Leaning not upon the shoulder of another man,
And now I saw each brick, strewn upon the ground,
While my face became red, for I'd been found,

Fear, whom I'd hoodwinked for years on end,
Now smiled at me, pointing my game's eerie end,
I blink, guilty, for I cannot but concede defeat,
Surrendering to the very arms that put me in this plight,

I pick up the courage to look into those eyes,
Fearless, for now, I have nothing to lose,
I raise my brows in unavoidable question,
For to do what I'm told is my only position,

And suddenly I wonder, if I'm the victor,
For I feel in my soul, enormous power,
And I see now, more than I have ever seen,
That my life'd been the only thing holding me victim,

Letting go relieves me of every burden,
Releasing me from the cuffs that were on,
For yes, the hands still remain tied,
But how can I be, for now they're no longer mine?

5:28pm, 3.6.2017

A Tryst with Terror

Years of endless study and toil,
And profuse sweating upon hard soil,
Never ending, long pages,
Of books and journals weighing tonnes,

Work filling libraries,
And money that's filled banks,
And before I turn to pat myself for these,
I hear, so close, a sneery voice,

It isn't evil for I know it means well,
But it holds the power to crumble,
The castle of appreciation I built for myself,
All this with just words that're chiseled,
Words such words that are but blunt,
Yet sharper than any I've heard,

I cannot escape it, for it speaks from within,
Aiming for that pride by which I've been smitten,
It raises its inevitable hand, striking terror in my soul,
Driving out every thought, every dream and goal,

It shakes the very foundation of my person,
Roaring its might to the chest that's swollen,
Threatening my arms that built for me my house,
Not the building, though, for in me lies my arrogance,

The fear that comes, it conquers and quells,
Chasing my identity out, in my heart it dwells,
Challenging the independence that I'd boasted of for so long,
Proving to me that my assumptions were all wrong,

I sit here, thanking fate for this rock,
Panting for breath sans thought of clock,
I bend, in all humility, forgetting my achievements,
Bowing down to the universe that can slay me any second.

5:12pm on 3.6.2017

Poem of My Ghost [Posthumous Poetry]

I once started a current,
Or perhaps touched an undercurrent,
Slipping into a flow,
That lay deep within my soul,

It started slow, picking up pace,
Racing ahead, driven by rage,
A tiny snowball growing into an avalanche,
It pushed my mind into a powerful launch,

Words've poured forth ever since,
Like water from a leaking tap,
A poem at the slightest nudge,
Of emotion, suggestion or a pointless grudge,

So much so that I swim in words,
Flying with them like light birds,
Sticking my head above it in vain,
All in an attempt to stay sane,

My solitude's filled with thought,
Words bubbling on their top,
The nothingness of my insides forming a mouth,
To whisper words for my pen to note,

Ghosts of words fill my prive,
To strike a balance for which I often strive,
Rising and falling between waves that're ebbing,
Each time producing a fine piece of writing,

My mind seldom sleeps, as I turn on my bed,
Words chaining to each other, weaving a web,
And if some day I die, midway thro' a poem,
My ghost might rise to finish it, carried by the momentum.

A Rise from False Love

I rise now, wiser than ever,
Bright, radiant and clear,
Redeeming my tormented soul,
From the grasp of the foul,

Absolving my spirit of the sin of love,
I rise now, free and pure as a dove,
Looking down upon my shatter'd egg of gloom,
That seemed to last forever, sealing me to doom,

I was fooled, yes, my dear,
Not by you but by your form in a mirror,
A woman who resided in my heart alone,
Bearing your face and charm but a clone,

She shared your eyes, your voice and all I could see,
But had a soul unique to her that'd fill me with glee,
I beheld her form when I closed my eyes,
And I believed this face enclosed those traits,

When I faced you, I saw her soul,
Not within you, for it isn't what you hold,
It reflected upon your form as my sight fell upon it,
But it truly lay within my heart.

Written about a month ago - perhaps even before.
Typed out on 11:52am, 20.5.2017. Edits till 11:55am

An Ode To The Shade of The Night

Cool shade of night,
Pray, stay awake and active,
So my wife and kids may sleep tight,
As they pull their blankets a little closer,
Shielding closed eyes, from a few rays of light,

Cool shade of night,
Pray hold your umbrella steady,
Casting a darker shadow tonight,
Under which me may curl cosy,
Rolling in our sleep, sans fret,

Cool shade of night,
Pray throw a larger expanse,
Of that darkness some of us deem so right,
So we may coop up in our tiny, dimlit rooms,
Working hard, 'til the sun shines bright,

Cool shade of night,
Pray, get warmer outside,
To ease homeless brothers' plight,
Who shrink within torn sheets,
Turning numb to the cold outside,

Cool shade of night,
Pray dim thy darkness,
And shine a little light,
Upon those who're dying awake,
Shivering with their last bits of skin and bone,
Cringing at the darkness of death,

Cool shade of night,
You're our mother, our lord,
Our only companion at night,
Knowing us best, even in our darkest hours,
Pray do what thou deemeth, the best for us with your might.

Written between 12:20pm and 12:25pm on 19.5.2017 at Aero Structures Lab.
Tiny edits between 1:55am to 2:07am [started perhaps later] on 20.5.2017 at aC504, H13, IIT Bombay.

After me

Oh for how long is a person himself?
Would I remain this man in death?
Perhaps I'd be the evil man I was in my dream?
Please do not take my wishes seriously,
For I am but a poor soul,
Claiming to know the world and its ways,
Moving about through matter of stardust,
But then again, what do I know?
Perhaps I might be right too -
Take my words as you would a child's,
Not too seriously, but do listen too.

My cremation isn't the end,
It is my death itself -
Perhaps I cannot see or hear -
Or even feel the presence of this world,

Or worse, I might feel it,
But as an inresponsive body,
With my soul locked in it,
Imprisoned for eternity,
Like those trapped in corpses burnt,
Or buried in graves,
Crying out for help,
In a voice none can hear.

At C514 a few days ago

Draft on 1.1.2017

Caged in Time

Lost in the shimmer and glitter of the distractive world,
He whiles his life away,
And before he stops to look at the time,
It strikes him down into sickness,
Like a creature let loose from its cage,
He roars loud in a fit of rage,
Only to reach,
That it wasn't a thing to capture in a cage,
That it had always been free,

He breaks the cage of his watch prison,
Which outstretches its pointy hands,
That'd been empty all along,
And it ticks away through the silence,
Seeming alive but deaf,

He falls now under the weight of fate,
Unable to get himself up,
And with his heart, stops his watch,
To record the time of death.

Written at 6:51pm on 9.1.2017

Within Me

When I can no longer see,
Or recognise friend or foe,
When I cannot distinguish the voice,
Of a loved one, a one who's close,
When I cannot sit up and talk,
Or get up and walk,
I will still remember your song,
Not when sung out loud,
But playing within my soul,
Heard only by me, by none else,

For then though my muscles shall be weary,
I shall smile within despite being dreary,
Remembering perhaps not your face,
Nay, even your name or voice,
But that joy that'd always spring,
When I'd hear you sing,

I may not say this then, perhaps ever,
But know this for now and forever,
That no matter how deep I dig,
Within the depths of what I call my soul,
You lie there, always at a moment's call,

I see you in my darkest corners,
Hear you in my quietest moments,
Feel you in the most disconnected of times,
And talk to you when I'm mute beyond words,

Something beats for you within me,
Alongside the heart that pounds daily,
Something of you breathes within my chest,
Alongside the breath that goes in and out.

Written at 3:37pm on the plane on 25.4.2017. Some edits made a few days later. Some edits made by 1:51am on 5.5.2017 (at room) and some more by 2:06am.

On some level this seems to have been inspired by 'Tumi Robe Nirobe' written by Rabindranath Tagore.

Carnal Disease

Pockets of flesh covered by skin,
Some heavy, some light,

Some say it's nature, some call it sin,
Why on earth should its touch I crave?
Yet it's a desire that sticks to me tight,
All the way up to my cold, dark grave.

I found this while browsing through my personal archives on Google Keep and realised I had to post it. I think I intended to stretch it out as a full poem eventually and was probably tired, considering the time at which I wrote it. I should've probably added it to my Short scribbles page but somehow found it as mainstream poetry material and hence I'm putting it here. I'll probably change the title some time.

Written at 3:44am on 13.11.2016 at C504, H13, IIT Bombay Edited at 5:12pm on 4.5.2017. Further edits made up to 5:50pm on 4.5.2017 at room

The Night We Met

'Twas a noisy crowd,
Crazy, confused and loud,
Bright light seeping through gaps,
Between dark people walking in groups,

I looked between them hoping to see beyond,
Wanting to breathe a little through eyes and lungs,
And then I saw a blinding sight,
That took away both sight and breath,

You stood there, in search of something or someone,
Just like me, only I'd found mine,
As you found what you sought, I lost my heart,
Ending the search I'd set out upon so late,

Oh a search it was indeed,
Ending not in attainment nor in cede,
But the loss of the searcher himself,
'Twas the greatest search of my life,

My soul tore into pieces, becoming whole again,
Brimming in joy at this newfound gain,
I swam in the depth of your beauty,
Forgetting the worries of life and duty,

I waited, fervently for you to see me,
And at long last did your eyes meet mine,
The wait for acceptance lasted aeons,
But the smile of embrace took away all pains,

And today, after years, as I hold your hand,
That day comes as a wave, consuming my mind,
Sweetened like your jam, by the crystals of time,
It's a memory, a thought that none can mime.

Written at 9:27pm on 28.4.2017
Small changes made at 11:46am, 2.5.2017

Context: When Swati Hegde asked me to listen to a song of this title in an Uber cab with Shubham (we were going out for dinner) I liked the title so much that I decided to write something on it. I typed it out on my phone in the moving cab.

Will You Be My Vase?

Will you be my vase?

I've been running on a full heart,
Brimming with the nectar of love, spilling out,
And I can't take a single step ahead,
'Til​ I pour out a few drops,

Oh will you save me, my damsel?
Will you be my love, my dear angel?
Will you lift my burden of love,
Will you be my vase, holding it as I move?

I seek to ease my soul now,
Pouring a few cups out,
Oh will you be so kind as to bear,
A few cups of my love, my dear?

Oh please save me, my dear girl,
I can't breathe, holding this load,
I'm suffocated by this love I bear,
And I tremble in utter fear,

I stand alone, here, night and day,
My arms giving away,
Soaked in the nectar of life, 'till wet,
But being killed by its hefty weight,

Won't you open your arms full,
And embrace my wounded soul,
Won't you help me get up and move,
Won't you be my love?

Oh the flowers you hold, upon your self,
They look tired and dry, and old, and frail,
Let me feed them with a little nurture,
So they spring up, strong and mature,

Pray, help me dear woman,
For I've waited for aeons,
Take a few drops of the Elixir I hold,
And let me breathe life into their petals,
I will bring them to life again,
While you save mine in return.

Written, lying down at Marine drive beside the folks (they were sitting) at 8:06pm on 29.4.2017
Final edits made at room at 3:50am, 30.4.2017

The Flow of Poetry

Like a bicycle ride down a hill,

Like steam lifting a kettle's lid,

Like music 'pon pursing strings,

Like water from a tap after seconds,

Flow my words, gushing out with ease,

From the arm that gives in to the force,

Bowing down in humble deference,

To the grandeur of that nameless Source,

The first step is mine, for I choose to act,

In response to the weight of my thought,

Setting the current that rushes forth,

Carrying itself and my arms both,

Like the bus I drive that in truth carries us along,

Like the boat even after I put the oars down,

Nay, like the stream that rocks me along its way,

It takes me ahead, with the force of my own vocabulary,

It fills me up as I nauseate,

Giving up, spitting words out,

Letting it have its way, for there's no go,

Enjoying the ride, looking out my window,

I seldom know the end nor track of a work I start,

It takes me ahead, hitting twigs and dirt,

And as the man on a river awaits his fate,

I stop my struggle and watch and wait,

'Til the current slows, letting me move,

When I push myself to the shore with a gentle shove,

Hitting a bank I hitherto knew not,

I climb out, straightening my gait,

I open my eyes to trace my route,

Surprised at the turns that seemed so straight,

Enamoured by the path I took with such ease,

Relishing the result with delight and surprise.

Written at Tiruvannamalai on 22.4.2017 at 10:21pm

Updated 3:08pm on plane, 25.4.2017

Freezing to Death

I shivered in solitude,
My insides colder than the exposed outside,
Friendless and alone,
Upon an icy, barren farm,

My cries for help carrying into nothingness,
That filled this white expanse of ice,
I struggled, hard and in vain,
With none to sympathise, with me for all my pain,

I gave up, for it was a struggle futile,
As a momentary warmth filled my soul,
I turned for appreciation from the empty space,
While nature turned a cold shoulder to my pleas,

And there I stood, frozen,
My breath quietening all of a sudden,
In deference to the loud silence around,
That pervaded the entire surround,
The beats of my heart conforming, slowing down,
Draping my critter in an icy gown,
As the cold caught up, merciless,
With the tired thuds of my coronary footsteps,
Pinning my spirit and self down,
Preserving the look of my last frown.

Written on 5.4.2017. Edits made by 3:34pm on 12.4.2017 at C504, H13, IIT Bombay
I wrote this when i read an answer on Quora that had this picture on it:

Fret Not

Oh what is it about you,
That shakes men, poets too?
All it takes is a minute of behold,
For us to want you like a child?

We worship your form,
Building dreams on our mental farm,
Not of despicable thoughts and fantasy,
But of platonic talks and a cup of tea,

I seek to hold not your body,
But the soul that it embodies,
For something this form holds,
Must be purer than gold,

And yet you shy away, moving afar,
Your cheeks rosier than ever,
Sliding your veil and folding hands,
That breaks my heart, not daggers or spears,

And still I advance,day and night,
Like an insect towards light,
Oh is it to my death, my final doom?
I know not, but fear not too,

For I know I shall let no harm,
Befall upon your precious form,
Men like me,
Are dust upon your feet,

So fret not, damsel mine,
And hand me your heart,
I shall bathe it,
In the saltless tears of my soul,
And lay it upon the bed of my spirit,
Singing and playing a lullaby,
With the strings of my soul.

Written on 10:52am, 8.3.2017, edits at 12:10pm on 27.3.2017

The Wail of the Flesh

As clothes to freezing bones I lie,
Stretch'd, squeez'd by her moving limbs,
Housing her twisted nerves and tubes,
I'm the seat of pain itself,
And that of that carnal pleasure,
That evil joy that he seeks,
Lying wrapped beneath the sheaths of my skin,

I am the sitter and the seat itself,
Holding all within myself,
Served as meat upon the plates of men,
And as flesh upon his bed,

I'm the mouth that eats and speaks,
The form of her beautiful face,
Of her bosom that selflessly suckles,
And also his sturdy frame and muscles,

I'm the colon that digests and spills,
The organ that beats and pumps,
So it pains me to call her heartless and sore,
But what do I do when I'm hurt and low?

Oh she treats me a whore, she who wears me,
To dress up and present to those who see,
She hides my pains like they were her own,
Dressing my pimples, painting my skin,

She bends and wrings my every part,
All in an attempt to win his heart,
She peels off chunks of me,
Selling them in exchange for love and glee,

Coating my skin with colours and soot,
She treats me worse than her cheapest boot,
Peeling off hair that stands on my form,
She stacks me in that template she so wants to fit in,

I'm shaped, chiseled to be an object of yearn,
Abused so she can be abused in turn,
Oh do I blame them for seeking this pleasure I store?
Or her for putting me in a prison within another?

Wondrous that I may be,
I try my best but fail to see,
How pleasure hides so snugly within,
Tucked away beneath a fold of skin.

All this agony and I still keep her warm,
But one day I'll be wrinkled and worn,
Sagging below like a bag of cloth,
Under the weight of my wretched wrath.

I considered titling this as 'Ode to the Flesh' but wanted it to be a first person's account and changed it to the current one. I wrote this over three days, between 22nd and 24th March, 2017, spending a little time each day. This is perhaps the longest time I've taken so far to write a poem. I'm used to finishing one off within two to three minutes and the time this one took came as a surprise.

A line I had to hold myself back from adding:
She bends and wrings my every part,

All in an attempt to burp and fart

In A Black Dress

You caught my eye, as you came down,
Wearing your stunning pitch black gown,
Bearing a smile, beautiful and wide,
You kindled in me, delight I can't hide,

The hallway turns, with an open mouthed glare,
At the dazzling beauty those stairs bore,
While you walk towards my way,
Your eyes, though, looking away,

You're nervous about the way you look,
Utterly oblivious to the people you shook,
Oh won't you look at me, your man,
Who's tried to look the best he can?

A necklace shines upon your supple chest,
But the neck that bears it shines brighter, nay, brightest,
Tripping hearts of men and women alike,
Yet meek in all your allure,

Your dress is black, but your eyes darker,
Matched only by your locks that're longer,
I could stand here, watching you all night,
But I'm ushered by loud ticks of the clock of my heart,

And before I know, silence sweeps in,
Oh where did it go, the heart that was beating?
I see now, as you walk past my critter,
It's stuck upon the tresses that trail your splendour,

I follow suit, floating along,
Dazed by your hair, gorgeous and long,
Oh all I seek, this night that your mine,
Is to be lost in those tresses, for all time.

1:32pm on 3.3.2017 at C504, H13, IIT Bombay

Why Leave a Mark?

Why leave a mark behind?
A mark that you'll never know you've left?
Of what use is others' lament?
Be it a friend's or a stranger's?

Is it not a live human's struggle,
To live and to endure,
Selfishness and fear to die,

Is it not fear that makes you a fighter?
Is such a battle not a display of cowardice?
A fear of the unknown?
Perhaps beyond this breathless struggle,
Lies a golden bliss,
Awaiting our arrival?

Fights are reserved for justice and might,
Perhaps there are times when surrender is victory,
When acceptance is courage,
When one sands up to face truth,
With a heart that beats on, brave and humble,
Knowing it's going to stop.

This was the last part of the poem now posted as 'The Pit' written on 5.2.2017 at DIY Patil Stadium. Updates have been made on 9.2.2017 at 5:02pm, to post it as a separate poem.

The Pit

He dances around the pit in vain arrogance,
Sure of himself, that he wouldn't fall in,
Justifying his every move, his every stance,
Until that fateful day when he takes a peek,

It takes not a moment to fall in,
And he falls, headfirst,
Into that abyss that's trapped millions,
All afflicted by that delusion,
That they lie above it,
Each having considered,
The ones within as lesser beings,

He rejoices the thrill of the fall,
Lands with a thud but forgets his pain,
Resuming his dance when within,
Unaware even that he's fallen deep,
He merely relishes all he sees,

He loses track of time,
Forgetting life outside the pit,
His days, his nights, even his dreams,
Confined to the pit,
He loses track of the days that roll by,
The darkness masking his hairs that've greyed,

He continues to dance within,
Sedated by the delusion that he is happy,
While rats of harm chew off,
A part of him each day,
Until one day when truth overtakes,
Confronting his now miserable self,
And he cries, head down, hanging in shame,

He looks back in time and vows to climb,
Out of the ravine that’s confined his soul,
He now hears cries of his friends,
Echoes of caring voices,
That'd shouted through the years,
Calling out to his soul that'd muted its ears,
He shuts his earns in agony,
But can hear clearly now,
And he begins his climb,
When his heart is too tired to pump further,
When his lungs are too old to breathe,
And his limbs are too weak to move,
And while his coils wither, ready to drop,
He drags it up the ladder he climbs,
Up towards the surface, where death awaits too -
He completes the climb and death smiles,
Taking a seat beside him,
He struggles t breathe and heaves a sigh,
Hoping to be carried away
His body succumbs and he wishes to die,
But something sticks onto it,
Like a cloth's tip on a nail,
Refusing to release the spirit,
From its lifelong misery,

Death takes a nap while his panting slows down,
And a smile plays upon his lips,
A smile not of triumph, but relief,
That he had a friend beside,
A friend who'd wait, to take him hand in hand,
When his last few days end,

The sun's scorching heat and its blazing shine,
Seem dim before his wisdom,
They all flock to him,
For guidance and help,
And he gladly gives them away,

--------
End 1*:

He's climbed out, yes,
But the shadows of misery,
Refuse to leave his eyes,
Even now, after years of peace,
And bathing in the light of the sun,

He knows now, as he's known forever,
That there' just one absolution,
When his friend who rests by his side,
Wakes and takes him away

--------
End 2:

He waits in patience as the light of the sun,
Bathes his wretched soul,
Healing his wounds and patching his skin,
Slowly to health again,

Those who come, seeking his help,
He sees their painful plight,
That all of them have been in there,
In pits of their own mistakes,

He's made the climb, he's taught them how,
And they'll now teach their friends,
While he sits back, redeemed and pure,
While death awaits his time.


*I've been taught by a writer I take inspiration from, that death must never be suggested as a solution, but for some reason, this poem led me there and to capture the train of thought that came to me, I let it be.
I am no guide, I can be wrong, and in deference to the words of the man who taught me, I write the second ending for all who take this poem seriously.

I started writing this poem on 5.2.2017 at DIY Patil Stadium at 6:15am or so, but the poem took a detour, ending in something else. The two endings written here were composed by 4:08pm on 19.2.2017 when I was looking for unpublished poems to update and publish on my blog at C504, H13, IIT Bimbay.

A Lesser Man?

You look down upon me,
With disgust or taking pity,
Sometimes to lend a helping hand,
Sometimes to thank the Lord's wand,
For sparing you the struggle,
Of coping with an obstance,
A hindrance to living life, nice and good,
The way you think we all should,

You cringe and scorn, even flee,
At the mere sight of me,
For the lack of a limb,
A handicap or a limp,

And you swim with your struggles,
Lashing about dodging your bubbles,
While I swim with mine,
Crawling at my pace, taking my own time,
We both grow old, weak and bend down,
Our hair greying and our egos fried to brown,
Under the heat of the ruthless sun,
With a stat you start to see,
That you aren't any different from me,

That when we're dead and dust,
When all that remains of the life we lived,
Are pictures, memories and grass,
That grows innocently upon our coffins,

Will the maggots that feed upon our coils,
Know us for the men we were,
Lesser, for our possessions, our thoughts,
Our abilities and strength?

Which man of any strength,
Can fight those worms,
That devour upon his dead flesh?
How much lesser of a man,
Am i than you?

Written at 5:05pm at Hill Road, Bandra. Updated at 1:07pm on 1.2.2017 at C504, H13, IIT Bombay

I Seek to Be*

I seek to travel this land,
To go far away from this haven I call home,
To lose myself in crowds,
While sticking onto that tiny inkling,
Of myself that remains,
To shed my name, my past,
And be a man that I can't even fathom,
To be stripped of everything,
That makes me the man I am,
And to look at what remains,
when I'm clad in the bare minimum,

I seek to not just explore cultures,
But to paint myself in them,
In everlasting ink,
Forming new layers of skin,
Upon my naked soul,

To drink in lives of my countrymen,
Who've lived in nameless corners,
To learn tongues that twist mine,
In ways I knew not,
To be called a brother by every man of this nation,
I wish to shed even my gender,
Nay, my identity as a human,
To peel off anything extra,
To see what little suffices to be called,
A man of this land,
Perhaps even an animal,
That my country is proud of.

Written at 6:27pm on 11.2.2017 (I don't remember where)
*This is the second poem of this title that I've written. The first one is here.

Faith

                            I

             (Morbid Thoughts)

They speak of hidden truths driving all,

Of the meaning behind life,

Asserting to each event, the work of a hand,

That’s large and moved by a gigantic heart,

They move about preaching,

Giving long talks and sermons,

Each dismissing the theory the other worships,

And then there are those proclaimed rationals,

Who assign a chemical to each feeling that comes,

And a term to each phenomenon,

Oh no matter what they believe nor what they preach,

Are they above the feelings that they scorn?

They dismiss these things as sins or reactions,

But are they not still slaves of desire?

Perhaps they are, or perhaps they’re not,

But in the end, for sure,

They’ll be wiped away by death.

                             II

           (The Religion of Death)

I see not these books,

Filled with science,

Equations and graphs,

That reason with life,

It applies logic, dismissing all magic,

Claiming to unearth,

The stuff that is life,

But is it that simple,

For our minds to know,

The force that drives this creation and more?

I know not for sure,

What this planet holds,

But I’ve learnt to bow,

To these fields and meadows,

To learn from the pain,

That my friends go through,

To hurt not another,

And live without pride,

For there may be a god,

There may not,

But death shall arrive,

And knock upon my door,

Swallowing me whole,

Spitting my cold corpse.

Written between 2:12am and 2:27am on 28.1.2017 at C04, IIT Bombay

I is to be read as an independent poem and I+II is to be considered a different poem.

Handle Me Gently

Pray, handle me gently,
Valiant though you are,
Why do you choose,
To whisk me away in stealth?
Why not walk up to me,
And ask my hand forever?

Gentle and chivalrous, though you are,
You choose to pull me by the hair,
Forcing me onto your chariot,
And carrying me away,

Do you not wish me to see,
The love you are about to give me,
The care which you will shower,
Upon my undeserving self?

Why do you look upon me,
With such ferocity?
Do you not want me,
To love you from this very day?

Am I to only turn to you, helpless?

Giving in to your heavy tugs?
Do you not want me to love you,
For the good that soul you are?

I am but a poor girl,
Failing to fend for herself,
Berserk, yet deluded,
I consider myself a princess,

You sought me, and found me,
At an abode that none knew of,

Hidden within a crowd of millions,
And yet you found me with ease,

Now why don't you find,
Gentle ways to earn my love,
Why do you see the need
To force yourself upon me?

Oh dear Death, know this,
I seek to embrace you,
And I will,
But give me time until I see sense,
And I promise you now,
I will seek you the next time.

Written on 13.1.2017 at 11:30pm at C504, H13, IIT Bombay.

Dips

This embodiment's a swim upon an infinite sea,
A struggle to stay afloat, to breathe and see,
Through dry holes of eyes and ears and nostrils
From within the damp cellar of this corpse that lives,

Each morn a rise,
From deep waters of consciousness,
A swim towards the surface of the lake,
Manifesting as awareness in the wake,
And each dusk a sink, a dip,
Back into its dark depths,
When the face of awareness ebbs,
Until none can see from above.

It may look same to the shallow but nay,
The soul gets dense by the day,
Heavier and heavier as it slows down,
This cycle of rise and fall goes on,

Up until that fateful day,
When the soul is locked, trapped away,
Under these waters, anchored down,
Struggling to breathe as it begins to drown,

Writhing until it gives in to the pull,
It looks chained but is truly free and full,
Finally seated in silence in an unplottable realm,
As a treasure, eternal and divine.

I wonder if my fear came true. A recent event in my life has taught me to not take pain for granted. I have considered quitting poetry but do not wish to force it. I shall go with the flow but I hope to merely talk of first hand experiences and observations, and not venture to speak of feelings that I do not truly know, of emotions that I pretend to have understood. Doing so sounds not only arrogant, it sounds like a mockery of the pain it truly gives, and a false sense of superiority over those who are actually undergoing it. I am unsure of anything though. People talk of following their hearts, their passion - while I am not entirely for such a way of life, I let my pen follow my heart and might end up eating my own words while attempting to write new ones. I convey my apologies to the Infinite in advance,

This poem and a few ones I am going to be putting up on both this page and Random Scribbles are ones I wrote before this decision.

I began writing this poem on 8.1.2017, and went on to make updates on 18.1.2017. A few more changes were made today (20.1.2017, 10:30pm) before posting it.

Consumed by Revenge

He moves swift,
Driven by what he'd lost,
His spirit holding dearly,
Onto the handle of vengeance -
Once purposeless, now driven towards it,
With full force,
He runs at unstoppable speed,
With no limits on energy and capacity -

Oh who says energy is conserved?
It radiates from the one driven by purpose,

The heat rising, he flies,
All around becoming his tools,
The flame of hatred blazes,
Ready to burn,
His enemy with a bat* of his eye,

He runs so fast,
He outruns his body,
Carrying it like a tool in his hands,
A twig to kindle his fire of revenge -
One that he'd eventually throw into it -

They talk of revenge consuming him,
But little do they know, that it already has -
A fire that begins within,
And burns him, and the whole forest down.

11:16am 5.1.2017 at C504, H13, IIT Bombay

*a little tribute to Batman, the embodiment of vengeance

To the Narcissist

What did you expect?
Background music, the ground literally shaking,
It might've been a surprise to you, a shock,
Perhaps the most important,
The most impactful thing of your life,

But to Nature you are but a speck,
A little gear, a wheel,
In her massive machine,
That is not more important,
Than any other,

You can make your plans, your promises,
And you must,
But remember there's a larger hand,
Perhaps at work,
Or perhaps might slip,

Crushing your plans,
Perhaps even what you consider,
Your very life,

So you can just stand there, starting,
And a pair among Her many eyes,
Will stare back at you in silence.

Written at 2:36pm on 3.1.2017

Up(?) the Ladder of Love

                       I
An outward appeal, it sprouts as,

To get a closer look,

To see and feel superficial skin,

An attraction to a skin-made face,
To curves on the body,
Approved by a curve on that same face,
It grows on as an urge to own,

To possess beauty that one can never have,

Ripening to delicious fruit,

When one gives oneself,

In the attempt to conquer,

Holding a divine status,

Whether secured or not,

Bringing tears and admiration,

Even from those unrelated,

Still it appears trivial to the cold eye,

And yet, when unachieved,
It generates poetry of great depth,

Surprising, how twists on the gross body,
Let you twist the cloth of language,
Producing beautiful ribbons of poetry.

                      II
A little intimacy,

Melts the outward form,

Not just the fancy for it,

Allure and lust are wiped out,

And merely the soul is seen,

Through the same eyes but not,
For heart peeps through eyeholes, not hormones,

Falling in love is a backward run,

Upon the line of maturity,
But being in it is a run forward again,

I wonder if it's worth all the effort,
But before I think further,

And attempt to conclude my thought,

I slip, headfirst, into that pit,
That holds millions,
But convinces you,

That you're alone in it.

Written at 12:16pm on 3.1.2016 at C504, H13, IIT Bombay

Changes made up to 12:47pm.

The Damsel in Distress

She sits alone and pretty,
And put in trouble,
By a villain with grace behind his fierce looks,
She wails in vain,
As she awaits her saviour,
And tears only add to her beauty,

Threat always approaches,
Yet never touches her skin,
Preserving its grandeur,
For it must always endure,

The plot is fixed and so is its end,
All that changes is the means,
With the prince riding in,
Rescuing her in the nick of time,
With a tagline too familiar -

Still she reigns,
The hearts of kids,
Why even those of adults,

The fairy tale's crown,
With all we dream,
This damsel in distress.

Today, we see she's just a plot tool,
A means to tie a man down,
Perhaps still a hostage,
But not the main plot,
She sometimes embodies evil too,

But whether she does,
Or stays loyal and pure,
She's merely a distractive device,

I wonder what,
She would do,
If her man falls in battle,

Would she sit,
Awaiting his return in vain,
Or grieve at least a little?

Or would she merely find,
Another brave soul,
Onto whose arm she will cling?

Well, our fables have grown,

But there's more to learn,
And we've a long way to go,
To realise the simple fact,
That she's as human as the man.

-----

I care not much,
For children's tales,
Not as much as I care for men,

For this pretty tool,
Has leaked from books,
Into the lives of men,
Shaking homes and schools,
Even the lion's den,

It clouds the line,
Between chivalry and trust,
Swaying his muscle about,

She sheds her (crocodile) tears,
And touches his arms,
Gaining more than his confidence,

Using him for her dirty work,
And stripping him of his self,

He follows her scent,
Like a hungry hound,
And cheated of even his meat,

Still he walks behind,
Shielding her,
Up until the butcher's shop,

Where, upon stepping in,
Truth stares into his eyes,
Alas! It's too late, he sees,
As the knife is raised,
That he was a goat for slaughter,
Not the hound he thought.

Written at 9:26pm on 1.1.2017 at C504,  H13, IIT Bombay

An Ode to the Damsel

Oh dear damsel,

Of smooth skin and wordless beauty,
Why is it that blood is spilt,
And lives lost, in your vain pursuit?

Oh ye of beautiful face and weak stature,
What is it you do,
To mellow rigid hearts and melt armours?

Why oh why, does your memory,
Bring tears to the dryest of eyes,
That have never known them,
Even in the worst of their pain,
Stop not for an instant,
Before they let their hearts crumble,
At the simple sight of you?

Your touch softens the hardest of souls,
Cooling the most rusted of spirits,
And warms men of coldest blood,

Oh what is that spell,
That you cast over all,
Who cringe at your suffering,
Rushing to your rescue,
At the smallest sign of pain?

Oh cease your magic for but an instant,
I wish to breathe free and feel me,
Just for a minute or two.

Oh why do men drool poems, songs,
And paintings over your beauty,
Composed of the same skin, only wrapped differently,
Defining their gods upon your form?

Are you not but human,

But merely of another kind?

Oh how do you seduce,
The strongest of minds,
To serve your feet,
And soften for you?

Seductress though you are,
Perhaps even evil at times,
Do not forsake this world,
For it shall know no love,
In your dreary absence

Written at 4:48pm on 1.1.2017 at C504, H13, IIT Bombay