Salogra (सलोगड़ा )

 

 

I passed sunlight through my window,
warm and brilliant,
on my face.
then darkness in a tunnel,
short but everlasting,
under my eyes.
Above, planets and mountains,
stretching with delight,
failed.
So barefoot,
I trudged forward,
on a road of seasoned leaves,
through the trail of insolent quietness.
only to find boundaries and fences,
defeated by momentum.
Up ahead,
Twenty two long years
And a tree of thorns awaited,
blooming in isolation.
I stood still,
when it finally rained,
And noticed the wilderness,
saddened by discipline.
I walked on,
to men and women,
and their umbrellas,
sneering, always sneering.

The last day of summer.

This little piece was written some days ago when a sudden epiphany struck. I was so many different people for so many different people. And perhaps, none of them were who I really was. It’s difficult to be who you truly are in front of so many different people, each expecting you to be someone they should like. But then, as E.E. Cummings once wrote,  ’To be nobody-but-yourself – in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else – means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting.”

The last day of summer.

I love to run
call me an escapist.
I love to brood
So call me an artist.

I love rings of smoke
Call me a burnout.
and the silence of the night
so Call me a dreamer.

I love the last day of summer
call me depressed.
I took a decision,
So call me queer.

Call me a whore,
if you wish,
If that’s what it takes,
to call me your own.

Sometimes, you just got to walk your walk, like Mr. Ashcroft does, in one of my favorite songs\videos of all times. Enjoy!

In flames.

{ When I first posted this piece on facebook, it drew heavy criticism with people saying it tried to venture into a lot of conflicting themes- death, life and the eternal fire to live it, promises to people gone by, promises to self. To me, it was merely, a note to self. Hanif Kureishi says in a book I read recently,  ”Perhaps the most terrible thing about terrible feelings is that they go away after a while.”  This was a testimonial to my darkest days, a reminder, that the fire must burn on. The fire to create, to fight, to seize your life, no matter what the circumstances are. }

In flames.

Let’s talk straight, I say.
It’s time to face your demons, love.

The hand will soon fit the father’s glove
The beard will brush the floor.
And breasts and strawberry lips
No longer feed the desire of
your heart’s fire,

And perhaps, the fire was born
of a funeral pyre,
Once ignited, forever ablaze
of a friend, a brother who died
in your arms yesterday,

And yesterday,
You were walking in your sleep,
Following a river downstream,
into his placid eyes on the other side,
You Promised to change the world,
for all it was worth.
to feed the fire all that it desired,
your hair and skin, sweat and blood,
you promised to sacrifice.

But tonight there was a storm,
the words were lost,
the fire was gone.
And Amidst the thundering skies,
and the blackest night,
the shimmering moonlight on the river,
seemed brighter to your frightened eyes.

It’s true, Promises are only promises,
For all they are worth,
But that fire, was the fire
of a funeral pyre,
never subdued, forever ablaze,
Yesterday, you had a dream,
Tonight, a nightmare,

Perhaps, tomorrow you’ll be awake,
forever alive, forever ablaze.

Leaving Trains

{ Childhood is a magical time. Every little thing seems so fascinating and surreal before you grow older and realize what they actually are- speeding trains, hissing snakes, vanishing magicians, god. I was lucky enough to spend a better part of my childhood in a sleepy town surrounded by such anomalies. This piece is a tribute to that little place, as much as to a time where I hadn’t yet discovered the big city I live in, a career, condoms, substance abuse or Quantin Tarantino. Chopan, I shall visit you again, someday.. }

The Man.

Leaving Trains.

Above the frightened night,
Just beneath the diamond sky,
You’ve got to listen, child.
Leaving trains run away, whistling
to blooming white roses in a backyard.

And green cricket balls come swirling
through forests and convent schools
And you’ve got to remember little one.
the nightingale’s call and the crocodile’s walk
and fiery conversations with dear god.

The hushed silence in the night
of the cricket’s song and the cobra’s dance
and the magician who was buried alive
And you’ve got to be grateful little one
to the gentle giant and his wiry friend.

And, above the frightened night,
Leaving trains run away, whistling
through tunnels dark and deep
bringing friends and faces lost in time
pelting stones and burning effigies

And you’ve got to understand, little one
Leaving trains will leave
And if you make peace,
And if you ever learn to love,
Even the empty tracks lead home.

Better Man

{ So, Readers, fans and poets, this is where it all started. “Better man” was written way back in 2009, probably my first attempt at verse or lyrics, or just expressing myself through the written word. It was scribbled very spontaneously with a permanent marker on my hands, fingers and elbows on a hot summer night; under the effect of a high fever and subsequent antibiotics. And although I remember having a hard time collecting the bits and pieces of words the morning after, I believe strongly that any work written ” in the moment ” is always more honest and has a natural flow. Watch the visual as you read! }

And now,
you’re in a dark room and life seems shit
its 3:40 in the night and you havent slept a wink
You hold your spinning head in your arms and the thoughts
so heavy, so cold
Like a frozen wave of some drink that you’re caught upon

And outside, the noise
songs playin about drugs and alcohol and love and war
but they all remind you of the same girl
oh, you so wanna kill her, hold her, and then kiss her
till nothing seems real anymore
till you lose your time, your space
her voice rings , the aspirin kicks in
youve lost your chance

and outside ,the lights
seem to make strange shapes that somehow
push way deep through your eyes, shivering
into your mind , you fall, from the red sky it seems

and the colours, they burst into your head
Disappointed,shimmering with rage
pointing , screaming hate , they surround
and oh you realise , oh you recall

had a chance to be a better man , a better man.

Tortured with the idea of hope

{ Another one from the hollows. “ Let’s just share memories, swap stories, talk about the damn weather – anything but torturing myself with the idea of hope “ The title is a tribute to one of my favorite TV shows of all times, Prison Break. And keeping up with the visuals, the  photograph below titled ” Crush ” is the work of a very talented friend, Suren Makkar. You can see more of his shine at http://www.flickr.com/photos/surenmakkar/.  }

              The tube flashes, black and neon flashes,
the verdict appears in a moment of truth.
Lightning strikes. The fire. The rise.
The faithful , blinded with love , coloured red
In my head, embraced by an old monk , ive found
a lost faith , my lord could not provide.

Daughters of the lady luck , these four bells ,
They refuse to ring for me, Do i even qualify?
for his promised love , for his eternal light?
faded like the walls of our high school church.
A lost jewel in a dead skull that has played its part.
We will still search. the eternal search. till death tears us apart.

for a reason. for an answer.
Searching for a life, a ringing lullaby.
the light ? Or just another way to be blind.
none of the dilusional hope.
the lust of victory or the heartbreak of defeat.
None of the empty promises to keep.
What can be better and what can be worse ?
free from the illusion ,
free from the circle.
the knowledge , the curse.

the white flag , my lord , is draped around my faith
Your child , my non existent father , takes his life today.

# 1 Heartbreak-The saga of Dr. E. Blackheart (2013- )

{ This one’s from the archives, the first of my Blackheart trilogy.. In a post apocalyptic scenario,  a dangerous alter ego of a man is born out of heartbreak and betrayal. I call him Dr. E Blackheart. The Artwork is by Tim Burton, one of my favorite artists, and comes pretty close to what I had visualized when I was writing this piece }

#Part 1- Heartbreak

Well blackheart, he staggers on the front porch
With the withered lilies and the silver ring
Through the keyhole he sees, he sees her sway

her perfect, luminous shape
her skirt on the diamond floor

And another man, another beast bares it’s teeth
and snarls in her ears, she opens her legs
and she croons, with her bee stung lips, the song he loves
Close your eyes doc, Open up
Run, Run, Run, Run, Run away

And she says she loves him so
And she’s never letting go
But that song still plays in his head
And she never means what she says

On her birthday, he takes her down to her favourite place
Under the moonlit oak trees right besides the red lake
He takes out the steel knife, she takes out the blueberry cake
says “Doc, why don’t you carve that out for me”
Gladly, he says
Gladly, he says

She thought she loved him so
That he was never meant to know
But sweet love, you thought so wrong
could’ve sung your lover any other song

And on some nights, he walks to the red lake, all alone
Slips on a silver ring and throws some lilies down below
He’s still got her clothes, and burns one everyday
Closes his eyes, opens her up
And then he runs, runs, runs, runs away
to her empty grave, it reads

” Thank you, Thank you love
The song makes so much more sense,
Through the keyhole.. “

- Your beloved, Dr. E. Blackheart (2013- )

Don’t stray near my coffee shop.

{ I’ve often wondered after an arduous day, while travelling in the metro\subway, what it is that turns your regular Joe into a serial killer. The answers are all right there- That cranky, pompous man who refuses to apologize for stepping on your injured foot. Or that sad woman with her annoying kids who keep belting out nursery rhymes at the top of their voices. Or perhaps, the whole working class crowd as one single, living, breathing organism whose primary motive in life is to refuse you your seating space after a long, tiring day. This is written perhaps, in that frame of mind in a different setting and is one of three pieces in ” the killer is me ” trilogy.  The painting is a very famous work titled ” The Scream ” by Edvard Munch. Enjoy! }

All of you liberals,
Thinkers and Aristocrats,
Dressed up in black and                                                                                     
chardonnay in your hands

I wish to set your hair on fire,
and light up this cold night.

Sons of Tycoons,
And daughters of free women.
There’s hashish in your curls.
And E under your tongues.

I wish to examine your veins.
And see the color of your liberty.

And all of you cavemen,
virile beasts of the night.
with steroid pumped eyes,
And a pick up from the last red light.

I wish to open your heads
And watch your corpses copulate.

My dear blood, friends and society
I am smoking a cigarette.
Don’t stray near my coffee shop, today.
Borrow my lighter,
And You might ignite a holocaust.

” Dev “

Newspaper Blackout is an art and a form of poetry made by redacting newspaper articles with a permanent marker.  So instead of starting with a blank page, I’ve grabbed today’s Hindu, a permanent marker and eliminated the words I don’t need. This is my first tryst with newspaper blackout poetry, my unique tribute to one of the biggest legends of Hindi cinema.

p.s : Click on the picture  to enlarge.

 

Puffing a cigarette
wandering,
he passed a summer
he was awake.
he passed conversations of chaos, violence and death,
to an evening in the same spirit
his (many) loves swooning,
now appeared a shadow of his former self
he passed nostalgia
memories of living.

 

If you guys liked\appreciate this, please share!   And find more newspaper blackout poems from around the world at http://newspaperblackout.com/.

Putting your arms around a memory.

This blog was born out of several things- menthol cigarettes, november rain, erotica and Abbas Kiarostami. It was born out of life, but most importantly, it was born out of death. Hence, my first post. The title’s an ode to one of my favorite bands of all time.

I remember you friend,
with a longing
to walk with you again,
beneath the summer drizzle
and the concrete grass.

I remember you friend,
with love
from deep beneath the travesses
of my heart.

I remember you friend,
not as a friend,
but as a brother,
found and lost,

I remember you friend,
when the last hour has passed,
and all my memories of this world,
have shrivelled into dust,
and all of my life,
has collapsed into a dream.