Friday, February 17, 2012

A platter-full of words and a jar of tentative meanings-


I draw a breath in the canvas of trickling solitude, I whisper and mime the seemingly motionless silence that stealthily lies and creeps up a gushing stream of words that shall leave me tired so I use my moment of absolute consciousness to write this to you it is not a letter it is just a case in point an evening mixed in winters, a moment that is rambunctiously dull that you have nothing else but a drape of thoughts and a steaming cup of Malabar coffee.

The day is living out its lifetime and a night that is just somewhere around weaves its web. There was a dream a subliminal motion that took me to a night sky filled with orange-red stars and a home that called me by my forgotten name. The same evening again with this familiar smell that is so known that it almost seems a figment of my imagination a fiction of sorts.

I glide by swiftly from a dictionary of words and a strange cocoa aftertaste that refuses to leave my tongue inviting poetry. I like how sometime I just bind it all and form reflections but not today, today in this moment though I shall write but it would not be a meaningful clutter of words. Only a few morsels of self-explanatory phrases and mostly a hard to read and far difficult to comprehend stale derivation of my prosaic mind.

And after a thousand false starts I am ready for another one a synthetic cuisine of metaphors and rhymes but I won't. I won't, I do not want anybody to understand every silent stirring that my mind conceives, not even you. Today I am tender with my vowels and even in a river flow of isolated lines of poetry I can now see so clearly what draws me to words not the meaning, no, never the meaning but this fragrance that I get out of brilliantly lit words. So, let me indulge today and if I do not make any sense let us leave it at that.

For all you may know I may have evolved too with every word that I write or perhaps just at this moment eager to complete my sacred journey to fulfillment and these words.

I have found you in these words as I have grown up slowly, insipiently and all the time. I know that however much I scatter my words in an unknown fashion I have now been owned by you.

And all associations
intangible,
incomprehensible,
inadvertent
are us
and our unknown evolution
into each other.

That starts with vowels and ends into us just like the paragraph above.

Leave me a cloud full of touches tonight, own me with my words put into face by your smile. Cry me an ocean of hope. And like my words however illogically, meaninglessly be mine

Monday, February 13, 2012

and hence I stopped worrying and fell for un-worded poems-


1.
for
what are words
to a poem
just an ill fit garb,
my poems flow
with the sounds of unknown,
they tap the boundaries
of a folklore

and sometimes
it is not even the magic of a page
the staccato of the ink
or even the canvas of a rhythm
that gives life to my verse.

just a cup of coffee
and your name
in the middle of a page
handwritten
by me.

2..
my wordless poems
are filled into
the beauty of a sunlit winter morning,
and the notes of a
passionate torrential downpour,

my poems are nothing
but the rendition
of your slow soothing voice
that talks to me when am writing.

my poems are everything
but words.
they are
bone and flesh
snow and ice
and a little of you.

and love, it is
in the twilight realm
of your eyes
and in the chateaus of morning
on your face
where lies
the sand laden beauty of the pyramids,
old dense foliage of machu-pichu,
the snow-filled peace of the alps,
white calm night moon of Taj Mahal
the comfort of a poem
that shall be written
and all that goes
by the name of me

some time this time-

And for time just walks
diligent, unrepentent
tick tock

it is only the man who stops
in a certain alleyway
of a moment
from where
it is impossible to go back
and worthless to go ahead.

...

like I do somewhere in the classroom
of Prescidency,
watching you stealthily
reading, Marquez
while I fall for you, like time
over and over again
and again
and again
etc

they say am a time that has stopped
but I am just a moment, eternal.

footsteps and hands-


I walk with your shadows
like a footstep
to the country of memories
where the senses lose their meaning
and ideas are farce
where I feel more than I see
where silences hold the conversation
and your eyes murmurs an ocean
.
and I drown

all while your voice mimes
a soft breeze
and the comfort of a well slept night
where nothing remains as it were
and words are just a pretext.
to a more subtler dialogue
that proceeds by touch

and then the facade of the world
calls me back for its daily rigmaroles
but even when you are not around
you remain, like a sky
that shelters the slow rhythm of
my poetry

and your thoughts paint my words
as my soul bathes in the light of
your poem

for I am just a hand
that scribbles of whatever
you have asked me to

Wednesday, February 8, 2012

in fragments yet conjoined (like love)

1
I exist
a part flesh and a part thought
like the shadows of intangible
the warmth of a starless rain smelling night
the chants of an old ruined shrine
and a thousand living moments
nested in the comfort of your arms.

2
You know,
there is an unknown sky
inside the home of your eyes
that makes a thousand ships to sail
through the ocean of my heart
and the water stays
in the imprints of your small palms
in ripples

3
As I
let go of me
and my solitary confinement of a life
only to fall back
once more
in the enamoring arms
of a metaphor
in the archipelago of your skin
out beyond every failure of mine
and the need of a poetry
to find you, in me

4
And then I learn
that I was never meant to meet you
that all along
we resided within us
breathing in each other
for each other
like the unsuspected light of sun
deep within the sacred soul of the moon

.
0
Walk by to see
how each prose of mine
is pronounced a poem,
in solitude
and a story
in unison
just by -
the touch of your name.