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