Friday, November 28, 2008

On introspection..

Blinded, muted,dumbed
by a sense of powerlessnes
powerlessness or affability?
weakness or inner beauty?
non-aggressiveness or serenity?
A weakness that forgives,
doesnt punish,
that pleases to please,
that sacrifices the self of an ego,
the selfless ego?
Or a cloud of hatred,
of trifle anger
that doesnt forgive,
doesnt forget,
that punishes with 
a tool self defeating.
The wrath that bounds back on the perpetrator
that is neither subtle nor discreet

An ocean emptied of water
emptied of life..

Look down at that vast expanse
of whiteness 
beneath ur eyes
of the river flowing 
not as one but still in a single file
and then it bifurcates
into vein upon vein of 
madness jumping to its end
of knived red straight lines on that river ,
that expanse of whiteness.
of criss crosses,
of crossroads to confuse passer-bys
of unloading the burden,
the sediment to be spilled out 
the river to be unburdened
or perhaps emptied

the burden loaded on
in a moment of the past
in a loveless adoloscense
of burden carried 
in tears frozen in the eyes
becoming diamonds,glass diamonds,fake glass diamonds
that pierce unto blindness
the head bowed in meekness to see only the ground beneath
and feel the sack ,the dangling sack of sword 
that holes through amid shreiking winds of despair
of a longing for the look of the sky,of wings,of arms that fly
Of trying to stand up for myself
But still arched,bent over
into a dome of submissiveness
load upon load of bodies,
of guilt-ridden glasses of red wine;
of the burden of bricks of faces,
the illusion of walking sticks,
of arms holding me in a cradle

There's no cradle

free me,i cry
free me..
give me ur blood to live,i spilled mine
give me ur eyes to see ,i sold mine
give me ur legs to stand,i rusted mine
give me life,i cry
but no-one did
or u did
Still it couldnt be mine
It never could be
dat blood, those eyes, this life 
transfused but alien
though cup upon cup did i drink 
yet i fell powerless, armless
there never could be a cradle 

Little did i realise
the secret of those eyes,those signs
blinded by an indifference,a vacuum of rejection
of escape,of denial
a passive spectator
with eyes that have severed links with the mind
of mind that has broken away from consciousness
dullened into a glass half filled half darkened

In a jungle of fear filled yellow flies
or bulbs of light in bulbs of flowers
fear of getting pricked 
of wild animals
of shadows
of darkness
of movement 
of making my presence felt
of defense
of offense
of making a noise, a squeak,
of breathing..
of fear filled yellow flies.

free me,i cry
free me..
there's no one to untie the knots
No one to hear the cries
Make me realise that
there's no one to make me alive.
Make me know,
Make me not hope.
But there's no one to make it known,
No one to help it cure.

That mildew of gloom won't go
It has taken a life of its own
My life
i've lost the tug of war
But i shall rise
from the depths of my macabre grave.
On my own
Someday,i will be Christ..

P.S.- The inspiration for this post was a glance over in which i was the invisible ghost.. And I  realised i'm a ghost by choice but i've never wanted to be one..

Monday, November 3, 2008

The past.. and the present

4 posts down and i feel like taking them off .. even if i know there aren't many people who read my blog.. (nor do i want them 2) neither is every sentence scrutinized by journos for possible masala nor are there hopes of that ever happening unless i get murdered aarushi-style or go on a shooting spree making my blog come under the self styled sleuths' lens for a possible psychopathic streak...
Still,every word written in the past smells stale,as if it's soiled with the dust of the past.. 

The poems more so.. A poem is like a piece of art,to paint one you have to purge yourself of all the petty irrelevant unimportant  rigmarole of day to day activities and yet look beneath all that to find that common thread incessently running underneath and spinning into purposes,feelings,ideals...

Sunken,Betrayed and thrown asunder;
I climbed the highest branch to end it there
A beautiful poem etched on the leaves
It stopped me
held me enthralled
And then floated away into the mist
It's beauty had me spellbound
And all this while it had kept singing,
"I am the poem of your life,
personified I am you;
My beauty is you 
just open your eyes 
and you'll see me within you."

When i look back at every poem I've ever written,at first read it seems unintelligible.. and i can fully understand if anyone else cant understand what I've tried to say (and that perhaps is the beauty of it,it reveals itself only to those who understand.. ).. But gradually,tracing back memories.. reaching the same mental frame of mind.. being faced with the same dilemmas,the same questions,the same frustrations.. and it all begins to unfold like the opening of flower petals at dawn..

I know you're there
hidden perhaps
underneath figures and facts
or smothered by  tears that are rare,
though still there
or choked beneath the moments of a happy spring
or concealed under the yellow jaded autumn twigs
I know u're there
and will always be
even if it's rare

Before i stop,my last advice to myself :

You are a flowing river
that bears all it gets
And all it can take
Until the memoirs of the past 
get too heavy to bear
Then you cry tears of parting
of severing the ties
with the beautiful memories
But you flow on..

P.S. This post was meant to be prose