A Poem for a Poem

Out of the pages of a read
but long forgotten book,
she rhymed into my prosaic life.

A metaphor she dropped
in every sentence of life.
Now every verb could dream
and every noun could be an
unknown desire.
Into the ordinary of the prosaic day
she brought the beauty of the starry skies.

A poem she was,
though not of complete delight.
Reading between her lines
I could find a grief,
tucked around the corner
or a cry stifled by the edge of a smile.

Around what core of indestructible pain
is her being wrapped ?
Around what shards of unknown miseries
is her dream woven?
What untold stories have trickled
down those cheeks?
What unfathomable starlight
have they carried into oblivion ?

Comments

Bindu Rekha Babu said…
Goes on to say, u should not neglect ur writing...
May 22, 2012 at 12:20 AM
Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

A Forest

Its not a sanctuary that I want, a forest it is that I desire. Not the manicured lawns and the trimmed hedges. But the growth that is wild, a form of limitless forms. Roots that spill over from the sidewalk and break the monotony of direction. Yes, a living, breathing forest in my city that chokes the roads; breaking their will to go anywhere to let live the paths that go nowhere. Those strangler figs, that have a foothold in the sacred spaces of life the roots that hang from high rises threatening to strangle the living room. The leaves, ominously closer to the sunlight, than the windows that feign the delight. This murderous nightsky, this perennial scavenger of stars, this inverted cityscape, deviant reflection of our mind, illuminated but devoid of any light. In here shall a forest take root snubbing the citylights, letting the darkness prevail and the stars shine bright.
Read more

Learning a language

There is this word  called unruh. Its restlessness measured  by its lack of syllables- which have fed the moths in the dusty closet of another slang- perhaps, the rendering of a mottenfraße. Planted in a foreign flesh, the cants of a novel tongue, dawdle, saumselig, dithering to germinate alleys. Sonant by sonant searching their own memories for that one silbe of lullaby. Scwindende, Lächelden Rauchshriftzeichen im kneipe- nostalgia of laughter in a sidewalk cafe. Whispers that make the body blossom into the palaver of pleasure. But nothing!!! Nichts!!! Only a long screech of loneliness. Mutterseelenallein, which scars like bluterguß, sounds like the name of a flower but is just a bruise.
Read more

Hyderabad: The Recipe

 And when,  in the smouldering cauldron of April Musi sizzles like Ghee and the tendrils of Nastaliq   caramelize issuing the aroma of Dakkani , add the oblongs of cumin till you hear the crackle of names: " Ghode ki kabar ", strew in the petals  of a star anise till you hear  the blooming of Azaan   from Jama Masjid , and stir in the peeling stuccos of cinnamon till you hear  the rustle of old book market in Abids . Now, toss in the marinated viscera of the city, the arcades Chowmahalla and the sinews of  Begum Bazaar, the marrow of ancient alleys winding through Charminar. Finally, slide your hands  into a casket of anima, find the longest grains of Basmati, layer carefully the folds of time: first Kakatiya , then Bahmani , followed by Qutub Shahi and on the top Asaf Jahi . And there! you have the recipe of a city.
Read more