wet leaves
no tall grass anymore
bird songs
no honking cars anymore
clear skies
no flashing lights anymore
I’m one with the wind,
the stars, the snow,
and rainbows.
Rainbows
Tag: Poetry
Inward
You, me, the Sun,
all the same.
Victory, failure, change,
there’s none to blame.
Mind and actions,
our solitary twin oars,
the tools, the guides,
through life’s sliding doors.
Fear, anger, greed,
a path with no end in sight.
Learn, evolve, believe,
and limitless the flight.
Souvenir
the road cleared,
the breeze felt near.
the years seemed short,
as the days got dear.
we found the moments,
in the madness & fear,
the sweet silence, a souvenir.
Anew
Still, yet moving,
A crisp blanket
Over your hues.
A glass sheen
Over my eyes,
And snow it is
As I turn to you.
I forget where we are
In the soft flurries,
Delicate, all through.
It’s a new day,
And a cheerful one
In a world anew.
(Photo by Chandler Cruttenden on Unsplash)
October again.
Yet I trust the sanity of my vessel; and
if it sinks, it may well be in answer
to the reasoning of the eternal voices,
the waves which have kept me from reaching you.
-Frank O’Hara
Page One.
Play, pause, rewind,
I’m okay here,
With you by my side
For good souls are hard to find
I’m safe, sound, drinking sunshine,
While you squint, close your eyes,
Then stare right back into mine
A friend to hold,
A tale to unfold,
And you don’t realise
That I see a blank page
With my words all tied…
Meart
Click
And there they were
Between
Warps and wefts
Bare skin and clefts
Amid
Words and stares
Caresses and layers
Through
Giggles and grins
Fears and wins
Click
And there they were
Waiting for the meart to say it did.
-To made up words and experiences!
The Tale of the Mistletoe
“Oh, don’t ever harm Baldur!”
Beseeched Frigg to each & every one.
But overlooking the mistletoe
Brought death to her precious son.
She wept and howled, distraught,
Her tears forming white berries,
This loss even the Gods could feel.
So they brought Baldur back,
Put her out of her misery.
It’s an offering dropped from heaven,
Said the Greek and Roman.
For lovers to embrace,
And enemies to find peace.
Resilient like a warrior,
It feeds and heals,
Even when trees shed all their leaves.
Elks, chipmunks, robins,
Porcupines and bluebirds,
It brings all together,
And not once cleaves.
In life as in the legend,
Mending, thawing, binding,
Rounding every crease.
photo courtesy of pixabay.com
Travel Tale: Floating in the Poetic Dusk
A big ring adorned Mamta’s nose, silhouetting half her face as we huddled around a bonfire for warmth. And sitting there with the glorious Kumaon hills girdling us and Mamta reading one of her poems for me, I learned how nature and words soothe a crumbly spirit.
It was only a day before that I had met Mamta for the first time when the hosts of my retreat centre introduced us. Our small chat had concluded with her beaming at me and exclaiming in broken Hindi, “Didi, I will come and see you at the inn tomorrow!” She wanted to know what a bunch of college girls from Delhi were doing in Kausani!
Which brings me to: What could I do here? In 3 days?
For starters, I could sit on these porches that always welcomed us with tea and viands. I could talk to these people who always regaled us with colourful stories. With them, I could drink these buttery noons and tangerine sunsets. Maybe along the way, I could pick up a few Kumaoni words, understand a new culture, unspool its richness and authenticity. But, who could’ve imagined that I would do just that and more, and that Mamta would help me with most of it!
She joined our group for tea just like she had promised. A few moments later, we were scribbling Aipan designs on random scraps of paper—and in the next few—up on our feet, matching folk tunes with our own versions of Chholiya as the sun dived between the hills. Here, in an Indian village in the quiet vicinity of the Himalayas, the Italian saying of il piccolo mondo got a whole new meaning!
Within hours, I was sitting under the pin-pricked night sky, listening to Mamta’s voice as she read a poem from her notebook. And while her words warmed the December air, I took a closer look at the poetry of the land I was in. I could see and feel it in the Buransh (Rhododendron), in the chartreuse farmlands, and in this amazing rendezvous of nature, people, and history.
That’s how I was always going to remember this village cradled in these verdant hills. As a place where I felt freer, happier, lighter—all at the same time. My souvenir: A friendship that began with a Kausani local asking me, “Tumar naam ki cha?”
Boxed In
My eyes are rheumy
My heart’s gloomy
Everything poses a question
Why do they tell you what’s best for you
And box your wants in a prison.
“What do you hope?”
“Let go of the rope.”
“Get out, find your passion!”
“You won’t know until you go.”
But there is always a condition.
“Do what is right”
“Come back on time.”
“Get your grades in order!”
There are no answers that they might have
There is only confusion.
Hum in the Head 