Wild Bird and The Sky

When you close you eyes
do you see a dream that spies
on the wild bird that can't fly
and sings to the sky
to not be so high.

I have seen that wild bird
from very close to her herd
and tried to listen to her song
I too have wanted the sky for long.

Of the Magicians

I may let the words one day get across to you
for I have precious little to say
but now I have no time or intensity to illuminate
to let you see me clear, and make you believe in what you hear.

Friend, I am same as you
I have a proud heart too
this one I write so you may not see, the real me
I am attached to the very words I abhor
tomorrow they may end at an unknown shore
I hope you don't find me any more in those pages
that we filled with well crafted rages.

I shall not end to write, however,
I shall not recede with this line that is being read
I will stay around and watch the playground
as the birds start to fly and words make up the sky.

We are these words and we are these meanings
we are the poets with our own leanings
believe me when I say there shall be not many suns
we are the little left of the magicians.

not titled

She has been odd sunsets in his winter evenings. Not that he really bothered them to be perfect, or her. She always thought he looks into her and beyond. She wanted to be that beyond.. beyond herself, beyond the evenings.. the sunset. He maintained that she went beyond his realms of identification, into the sunset that he sees when he looks at her.

She remembers telling him of something related to Coelho, whom he disliked for enchanting the world with tales so ordinary. They were in Mussorie and she said, "I believe in the essence of Veronica, her thoughts and the world around her." Did he snap then? No. He could never snap, or over react, or get mad at her with all his bitterness that he so eloquently reserved for the writers who measured success in means he could never attain. Once he told her,"Never read Rand, she sold the world to capitalists." She believed in him, like she belived in the tales of Dahl in her childhood.

Last day of the sun did not come to their knowledge. A fire took him away with his books and the printed names of writers he despised and worshipped. For long after that day, she collected ashes, and words.

Me. Myself.

In my notes there are odd references to love
that often tread on the limits of infringements
some that follow till destruction.

I read me intrigued, at what thoughts have been.

Meri Kavita ke Arth

Aaj shayad main kuch aisa na likhoon
jise padhkar aapko lage ki kavita ke maayne
kitne sach hain, in shabdon mein.

Kavita ek zariya bas hai ek kahaani sunane ka.

Main kyun likhun woh sach jo vastvikta pe pachtaye
main kyun likhun woh shabd jo mujhe hi takraye.

Hua hai aisa bhi jab shabd saamuhik shoshan karte hain
vichaar dabi awaaz mein bhi kuch kahne se darte hain,
phir kyun main aas lagaaun apni baat badhaane ki
panktiyaan aise kyun banaaon jinme kshamta ho dhah jaane ki.

Yahi sach hai ki shabd khokhle bhi hote hain
meri bhaavnaon ke arth jhoothe bhi hote hain.

Something Shrugged

They have seen the deserts convert into graves and graves being deserted by those who once loved the loved ones now dead.
Those who carried the light disappeared.
Those who were crazy and loved disappeared.

They have seen the explosives being carried by the railroads and the railroads being exlploded by those who cared.
Those who never heard the songs slept.
Those who sing have once wept.

They have seen the mountains merge into the horizon and horizon being lost behind the mountains.
Those who understood disappeared.
Those who stayed, never said.

Her Abstractions

She has an unguarded sense of vanity
a brush stroke used, littered
lips curled into maroon
sky touched with a hideous blue.
She wears selected moments in her hair
wraps her up in a fragile layers
and looks through violet shades.
Assorted rumours glitter in her nailpaints
some green, some red
some those blushed in the bed.

Apni Hi Baat

aaj nayi si ek kahani sunata hun
apni hi baat apni zabaani batata hun

dhoondhte hain jo log khuda mujhme
main unme hi haivaaniyat pata hun

mila tha kisi ka ateet mujhe kuch der pahle
uska aaj batane mein main bhi ghabrata hun

mere liye jisne duniya se ranjish ki
usse hi aaj main duniya se chupaata hun

waqt pe bolta tha jo shaqs har baat
uski khaamoshi aapko samjhaata hun

The Girl Tuesday

Of all the things that he could have been called
they chose to call him Monday.
People received him with a certain malice
an emotion he privately reserved
for the girl who always came in late
and yet into acceptance, the girl Tuesday.

Beyond

I speak what you belive can never be said -
Of the restless rhymes
Of the sins explored
Of the love slit through eyes
Of the gods ignored.

I live where you belive it all ends -
In the heart of darkness
In the clouds beyond rain
In the words not yet made
In the dances of insane.

..

Mushkil hai kisi se kahna ki pyaar ab raha nahi
apna hoke bhi koi, itna apna nahi hota.

Black tide

The black tide swept him away
to a place where the demons pray
and he smiled at his own darkness.