points of time

point of time

It could have started at midday as well.
But, midnight is a scary point of time
And romantic.
A night as dark as Krisna

Is there a point where time deflects
Or takes a U turn?
But there was no such U turn
When my mother died.

Are there cycles of time
So that nothing is novel, new or unique?
Or, is it a hell lot of forgetting
Before the turning?

four micro poems to mark my centum post

To mark my 100th post, I am releasing four micro poems that have been gathering dust in my arsenal quite for some time.

post100.jpg

The sand artist

Neither will our deeds last

Nor shall we

But, look at the sand artist

How excited is he

 

Perfection

The perfect are entombed

Or, adorn the shrines

Those little bits of imperfection

are your sex appeal

 

Immortality

She held back her favours

For life after life

All I asked was a moment

To soak in immortality

 

The oldest profession

Preaching is the oldest profession

Not prostitution

Divine displays hide vulgarity

And vice versa

 

 

let there be no light

 

my star weeps for me

to a telepathic feel

for missing me

I too can’t see her tears

it is not light years

but lights that separates us

 

a long lost romance

with diffused blessings

of dying grass

a  tiny boy looks up

to the canopy of tiny stars

 

to talk to them

to count, to wonder

and feel a vastness inside

a tiny pot.

 

lights lights everywhere

so much are we afraid of

the star lit dreamy openness

to gather light years

of  darkness inside.

 

lights lights every where

all kind of lights

neon shining flickering

of all colours

bathing the cities  in lights

to purge it of all darkness

the darkness that is outside

 

 

the stars of flesh and blood

suck all spotlight

while our guiding stars

feeble and faltering

move a thousand light years

away

 

for once you wish

let there be no light.

starry city.jpg
image source: pinterest

 

[In response to Indispire Edition #164. Topic suggested by Shantanu Ashima Gaur .

Despite the light around us in cities, we cannot see the most beautiful wonders of all- A glittered night sky. What are your views on light pollution, and memories of those wonderful starry nights? #DarknessForStars ]

 

War, Peace and a Trade Secret

war and peace

The war is not over.

The meek fight to inherit the earth

Over airy base of war ruined castles

Nations, creeds, everything yours and mine –

Wrapped in golden words,

The word that was an invention.

Dreams of either or may make you shiver.

You take up the gauntlet for a just cause

While the merchants of war have the last laugh.

Peace, violence, death, life and foolishness

Are  means to an end, to someone’s end.

Crowds gather for enslavement

To spiced up stories, to invent

Another just cause to die for.

The meek, the nobles and the kings

Meanwhile profess peace.

For you, me and the whole of humanity.

Welcome the meek with blood,

the noble with inventions,

and the king with approval.

Ssssss….. a trade secret.


Indian Bloggers

Shravanabelagola

shravanabelagola

The majestic statue
high on the hill
invites us
for a rendezvous
of bliss and innocence.

It is fashionable
To come here
To be selfied and uploaded
And arouse  a little jealousy
“Look where we camped last weekend”.

A lone devotee infirm and old
Climbs up panting and chanting
To touch at least some height
Before her death.

Tiny flowers without leaves
Pop up from the hard rock
What  a humble offering
To the huge bare Bahubali
Standing tall on the bare hill,
With relics and  writings as ambiguous
as his silence!

How do they proclaim peace
in words of war -
The scholars fight it out.

The sun follows us inch by inch
As we limp up slowly
To rise above the world
And its maya.

 

(A detailed account of my visit to Shravanabelagola, Belur, Halebid and Shringeri can be read here :  Journey Through Karnataka’s Heritage Sites )

Indian Bloggers

Out of home can be at home

Out of home can be at home. 
A picnicker on the hospital lawn 
talks to someone on phone.
The ambulance has just arrived
to offload a body.

He hears a good news, 
and misses the tears
and the gossip 
and the relief 
as they mourn home 
just another body
in just another van, 
an anonymous group of mourners
in this city of multitudes.
The man was something 
to someone, somewhere.

He was a hoarder
they said.
He built a hundred homes
but never had a home to himself.
He died after a long illness.
Maybe, that is the reason
they had such a sense of relief.

Indian Bloggers

On Her Departure

Full of foliage
the gulmohur is on the verge
to deliver a message of condolence.

The lake of monsoon has begun to swell
to herald the Great Deluge
sparing only me and my melancholy.

Sunny days have gone out of stock
not to be replenished for a millennia.
But life would continue

to exist as a curse forever.
Now that no one knows her whereabouts
there remains this glimmer of hope.

Heaven is a politician’s promise
for a better tomorrow – a myth.
But hell is not.

Dreams and memories
are the only privileges
that remain untouched.

(After writing the poem I was reminded of the famous classic Bollywood number: chalo ek baar phir se ajnabi ban jaye hum dono.)  

indispire

Masks

Somewhere a smile

There a tear drop

 

More tear drops

Water, and more water

 

Water and her sisters

Five of them

 

Play in abandon

Is someone looking?

 

Play and display of

Seen and unseen

 

A petty face

A kind heart

 

You hide and lose

yourself

 

In joy and ecstasy

In amnesia and orgasm

 

In snow and  sunshine

In sea and green leaves

 

 

In sirens and engines

In drumbeats and gun shots

 

In wine and dreams

In food and flowers

 

More money, More sex

More play, More masks

 

Lurks around behind those masks

Now you see it

 

Now you don’t –

Death

 

mask2

A trip to Amarnath

amarnath1

 

Twenty souls huddled together

In a small tent. Tired legs

Refuse to sleep.

My partner has taken to his flight of dreams

With a noisy engine,

Waking up every one but himself –

A journey of awakening.

 

In the morning

Blood streams rebel.

They need all the pushing, pulling and cajoling

And the sun rays.

While the stoic lake Seshnag gathers remnants

Of tents and humans.

 

This year we were a little short of

Enlightenment.

Lord Seshnag was too sleepy to oblige us

With his jewel of thousand suns.

But it happened every year –

They had heard it from others.

 

Legs surrender to the inertia of the road

Narrow, dusty up and down

With scattered snow,

And horse hoofs.

The young and the old

And the gun totting army men

All join the chorus

Har Har Mahadev

 

The smell from the langars

Rise above hills to carry the prayers

And the menu of the morning moksha.

Har Har Mahadev,

Come and take your seat.

The dilemma of life –

Sweet sour chilly or pungent.

 

In the cave the linga has vanished to a goal post.

The form has become formless.

Still the priest insists we bow

And shows us last year’s photo.

But I prefer the void.

 

I thought the journey would end here.

But we retrace our path by the Panjatarani

After just a glimpse of the void

To the tenth ox.

amarnath2