The Unseen

The fumes..

They arise  from 

the cold underbellies

of monsters and gods, 

In the valleys of deep dark myst'

The mist, 

The maze of concoctions

of hilarity, trance and love

divine , profuse, enchanting

ravines 

Home to unknown ghosts

Of similar kinds..

Delicate lilies have been thro' this wind

but not flesh, blood and bones

A spirit indomitable in a small thing

as this

never us, never will it be.

Even the lights couldnt see thro' them

fathomless depths of clouds on earth.

What lies beneath

I want to know,

but I will close my eyes

knowing my farce

When my 'beat gives up,

but my thirst will not

eternally to know 

the stories untold

and whispered in the winds

of the mountains and sky.

Odina' O' Sylvia!

“Kiss me, and you will see how important I am.” 
--Sylvia Plath


Two days back I chanced upon this profoundly beautiful yet lingeringly melancholic quote by a woman who chronicled her pains into one of literature's finest pieces. 
Someone, a stranger, in a random chat, once said, " Even gold becomes the purest when it goes through fire."
Pain. It creates us. It moulds us. We become children of fire. Of desire. The same desire which gave us the same pain. The same strength. To love and to be reborn.
Rumi had once said, " It's a human's continual pleasure to be mesmerised by the confusing pain that the joy of love gives us." A woman as Sylvia who saw a replica of her much beloved father in a man who would later on drive her to the zenith point of depression enough to place her head in an oven and thereby intoxicate the deepest language a soul could speak, never knew how naive a human temperament could get when fondled in the embrace of a huge feather, such as love. For it is light, it is soft, it makes us feel good but will it always be there when the strongest gusts of wind blows by. Equal respect given to the situation on either sides of the line of love, it could be a feather, it has also been iron. But would we humans know when we are in bliss, what danger really lies ahead? Danger of desperation, danger of heartbreak, danger of trust being or not misplaced. Yet how comfortably we ensconce ourselves into this crevice never knowing how deep the gorge actually is. 
Great are those who have given themselves into every tumult love and its despair has caused and immortals are the ones who have died with the same love in their hearts. What we make of ourselves with the other person, accounts for what conviction we hold in the affairs of heart. With a lover, with a friend, with a parent, with a child. 
To kill oneself in love would have been an easier way, but to die in love is no small feat. 
Countless sleepless nights, unending streams of tears and a solemn bidding goodbye to all the rosy moments till now, only to enter into a hemisphere of darkness and a not so fastidious strength of heart, succumbs the creative intellect and man's mind's ability to perceive happiness. 
But do we care?
We still place this fragile thing called heart in another human's powerful fist yet again, the deep dark recesses of whose minds we have yet found unfathomable. 
Pain and joy are sisters. Their mother being love. They love each another. They resemble each another. But they are born for different purposes. To sulk. To live. 
Let the mother therefore decide, how the bearer seeds in his beliefs for each of her child, for no good human ever known has not gone through pain to attain the joy of realisation. The joy of life. Let everyone learn from Sylvia, never to wallow and drown in the whirlpool of love, but to struggle and swim this rough ocean to reach the shore of life and certain meanings it might teach you. For which love has ever been there for a reason, unless fallen in and found out!

Rainbow

And she stood there

This little angel,

The magic of the stars 

Across the sky,

With her in

Every charm.

She once wore 

A frock ,

As colorful as the rainbows,

Such as
You and I never saw.

A yellow for her smile

A blue for her eyes

A vivid pink for her,

Everflowing heart.

A red for the ones

Who'd cry without her,

A green for every 

Land she awed upon,

A violet for all the 

Flowers she knew

Should have some colour on,
An orange for
All the merry times
She will once cherish
When the rains fall on a slate gray day.
But she for one
Born of a million brilliant lights,
Never kept them in her bag,
For a  smile passed on to her
From every vagabond ,
She stripped and lay the colors
On road,
Bare and running.
And they picked and smiled and waved and vanished,
Into lands she thought were her homes,
Luring colors with flowers that were never fragrant,
A wistful smile upon a wishful face.
Alas! the girl in the rainbow dress
She is left with nothing but
Shadows of colors
Beckoning ghosts of
That were hers
Once!


Image courtesy: www.jwestphotography.com ( Joanne West photography)

The Moon Man

Brown liquid

In the marred moon's heart,

Black vision

In aeons of nebulas.

In stupor 

He sees.

Sometimes vague, sometimes paralysed,

Sometimes marooned, sometimes jaded.

Yet a smile visits

A tender kind soul like his,

That could light up 

A thousand Christmas trees,

When his Venus arrives,

On the same nebula

Where he was

An insomniac,

Dreaming of what could have been.

This small marred

Marooned Moon of mine,

Oh such love that brought

Heaven nearer from the horizons,

And when the tides rose higher

To wash his spirit down,

The jealous sea

As blue as the Venus

He ached for,

He just inflated

Bigger and mightier

Fighting with the cruel Neptune

As hard as it could be,

With nothing

But a smile and a heart,

Even the lion couldn't help

Bringing in.

So this is for my moon

My loony moon,

Who looks bereaved 

Yet has arrived,

And conquered the whole paradise

Silent and small, he still sat!

We, my Friend!

I left the doors open ajar,
My windows bringing a pale grey
Into my heart.
Curtains whispering tales,
Of a thousand dreams
And a few foregone laughters,
Of times that were and will be
Again.
Let them all stream in today,
For we have no tomorrows,
Only todays.
To laugh in the sun,
To dance in the rains
To cry and feel,
In the dark heat of the cold waves
And its pains.
Oh and when the leaves of autumn
Fly into our hearths,
We shall soak it up,
With the tears
Her icicles left us.
Cruel and begrudging she might be,
For we all are anything but
Not without a fault.
So what if she forgot forgiveness, my dear
We still remember love in us
Yet once again!


  Image courtesy: Photos by annekata from flickr.com {source of inspiration rather!}

A STUPID FEELING CALLED INSPIRATION

I sit sleepless ( though not in Seattle, to my dismay or may be not!) and I am trying to get ....

Inspired.

So where does that come from? This word which we utter out in our diction a) if it is either known to us in our sense of vocabulary from mere learning b) if we have the intelligence enough to use it in our sense of vocabulary, instead of a uber 'cool' or a blonde 'huge' and c)if we are truly inspired and swept off by the muse, that the magic makes mythological involuntary quests and forces our beefy thick tongues to utter " I AM ...........................................INSPIRED" ..

And yet, isn't it a shame, that the last instance, forget rarely, but almost never happens!

So yeah, almost bordering my late 20s, I am subjected to write some nonsense in the name of exams, voluntarily and the opposite of it, in equal measures, when my grey cells have already started making their routine complaints for retirement pensions, and in my pensive mood I am looking around for inspiration, in thin air. Or some osmotic magic that might lead me to the haven of bliss, where everything but a frown on the face happens.

Not even a diligent, worked up room mate is going to help the arrogant in me.. So I decide to get inspired by ....................................NOTHING.

And I sit by sleepless ( Oh now I truly wish I was in Seattle! ) thinking about all the things I know I could do which is ............. EVERYTHING ( Except for biting a live snake.. I am no Christian Bale!)

So here I am, as I am, still waiting for the moment of Nirvana to happen to me. When I know I have almost gone blind, deprived of hunger,losing vision thanks to a mundane, monotonous routine, in a much despised place where 'monks' reside ( even within "inverteds" it looks like a neat joke hehe ) patiently queued up ahead the ticket counter of happiness-yet-to-happen.

And I hear a knock on my door. Only to open it and see that sunshine had back long arrived home and is still waiting to inspire me..

LULLABY ~ A LOVE TO CRUSH..

Oh Angel of Light!
When I looked up into your eyes
Did I see pebbles of belief
Or,
Abyss of altruism!
The belief of a Saint,
Who died by the hearth
Of the One you taught us
To reside in.

The tears of a languid love.


When did u lose us?
When did we scamper away from you?
We stayed together
Three of us,
We biked, played, read and slept
Together on the clouds of a
Heaven,
In the heat
Of a scorching Land.
I wailed aeons back,
In a house that smelled of burning wood,
But I still don’t know why?


Today I wonder,
Like I wondered in your saccule
Once.
The one made of my flesh
The one that you gave me
The one that you taught me into another
To be or not to be,
But nevertheless I would want to be.


Didn’t our innocence dishearten you?
When the cold metal hit your veins,
Didn’t our soft laughter haunt you?
When you closed your eyes to sleep.
For that one moment,
Didn’t our four fair small legs
Stamp on your bosom?
When you thought you heaved a sigh of
Relief ,or you thought so!


I curse (as ever) the oncoming
Of a tornado into our shelter,
At the horizon of
Our lives, our turmoils,
And The love you gave us.
Dragging us into the depths
Of unknown unfathomable longing,
To be together,
In the home of
Standstill sunrises.


And still my feet
So small to run,
So big ,
To hold back together,
Run to you,
To hug the homecoming breeze.
Your warmth.
Your softness.
Your scent.
Your being.


The scent of the woman
I will ever know of,
As I am being flanked by a million other
Stars,
Into a deep sweet
Lullaby..


Image courtesy: www.cuded.com

I Will Always Love You, Whitney!

DISCLAIMER: THIS IS NOT A JIGSAW POEM FROM A WELL APPRECIATED CRANK HEAD.

Its a clear Sunday. Or so. The weather sense in my Android (Oops! Forgive my sense-of-posh, or whatever!) begs to differ. But who cares when the heart is clearer and warmer than a day kissed and loved by the Heavens above.( So much for hearing, Gaye Marvin's "Ain't No Mountain High Enough" the first thing in the morning ;) )

For all of us know life is nothing but a conglomeration of paradoxes. And even more worser for us womenfolk who have never had our heads fixed right onto where our hearts sway. I mean what is it between girls and wanting to be good and adventurously bad, all in the same life! Wait.. At the same time, rather. ( Ok now let me stop being the Famous Drifter talker, baaahh!!)

To be honest, I dont know what I am going to write here, 'coz I have too much on my platter.. And with some creep lady knocking on my door for some well undeserved money has just sent my thoughts spiralling down into the drains of reality. As murky as it can be!

So I switch onto watch my ever Favourite Whitney Houston render a strong spirited " I am every Woman" just to get that-you-know River of Soul running through my veins to make a Sunday amidst all the other dreary days look penultimately brighter!

And thats when I realised what a dent Whitney has left in the hearts of millions like me with her untimely death. A voice that mesmerised gazillion minds with its power, spirit and a sense of liberation admixed with ounces of passion. I received the tragic news on a dear friend's wedding and the rush then perhaps did'nt make the loss sink in me until I rewinded through my favourite Houston tracks now....

And man! Didnt my eyes well up... If M.J's death was a blow to the mind, Whitney's is dearthly sinking my heart into the abyss of losses that'll leave a mark forever! For those of us girls who think loving another's man tops the book of sins, try listening to Saving all My Love for You, and you'll know the sudden upsurge of guts that I am talking about, that makes it sound alright to savour an extra!

So today, two weeks exactly after the demise of a woman whose voice would make rivers stop and mountains move, whose words could even light up the deepest of gorges and our silly human minds, I dedicate a write up, to my all time Favourite Diva. Whitney, you'll always remain a Nightingale with the Prowess of the night she sings in!!!


P.S: Talk about contradictions, a memorial on a sunny Sunday. Warned you, Life is a conglomeration of PARADOXES ! ;)

MOTHER

I held the hands of
She who bought me here,
I stumbled, fell and walked
Baby feet on the wet grass,
Of the spheres of this world.
I looked up into
The rays of sunshine,
That singed the clouds of life,
And I bared a bright grin
Of a thousand absent gems,
At the angel who walked
The murky roads of creation,
To gift me here into the
Land of Light!

Image Courtesy : http://2.bp.blogspot.com

THE PEBBLE

I lay to rest
A thousand maladies of an unceasing mind,
In the realms of night
Yet another one gone by.
In peace we sing then
As we float through the tunnel ,
Of a million tomorrows and their lights.
And everywhere these saints
Preachers with inky souls,
They ramble along our path,
What they ought to know
But we never heard of, Papa!

You give me in the grasp
A cold hard pebble,
Of nothing but what I lived till now.

Life and its idiosyncrasies,
Them, I clench in my fist
The ruthless joke of it all!
Yonder is the lake
Upon the silver face of which,
I saw the smile
Of a young girl ,
With the most beautiful eyes.

And beneath the waters Papa!
I see nothing but a myriad of dreams
Wept and rejoiced for,
Long back, now and that shall be.

I look at the pebble
Gleaming in its black shine,
And I look into your eyes
Nebulous in its gaze,
Little in its being.
As lurid as the thing in the crevices of my hand
Too small to hold, too big to give up.
They turn darker,
Big pupils of orderliness and kind,
As the little one swims in the joy of those rivers.

For one swift throw
Through ecstasies never felt,
The ripples breaking air
As they dance on the waters.
And so one life ends ,
Again in the lake of illusion.

And the dream wraps up itself
In the brown carton of monotony,
With a label called
Humble Harmony!




Image courtesy: http://www.eso-garden.com/images/uploads_bilder/dream_a_z.jpg