where do you hide
when
the curtains have fallen
the doors are wide shut
and
the windows lay forgotten
where do you hide then
when
the curtains have fallen
the doors are wide shut
and
the windows lay forgotten
where do you hide then
Friday 28 September 2018
The Skin of Love
you say you love me
you say you love me
with every inch of your bare skin
you say you love me
with the entirety of your essence
you say you love me
with the whole of your being
and i believe you
but
what about the man you loved last
what about the man you loved before the last
what about the man you loved before him
what about all the men you loved
didn't you love them all
with the whole of you
and yet
every time another love story died
you wept at the funeral
and as time would have it
you put together every broken piece back together
and there you stood
as whole as ever
can cellotapes heal broken mirrors
what are we but remnants
from the last broken pieces
what are we but skeletons
seeking hidden corners of living closets
what are we but ghosts
sleeping to the ghouls of a recent bygone
love fits right in paperback
the skin knows nothing but the skin
you say you love me
with every inch of your bare skin
you say you love me
with the entirety of your essence
you say you love me
with the whole of your being
and i believe you
but
what about the man you loved last
what about the man you loved before the last
what about the man you loved before him
what about all the men you loved
didn't you love them all
with the whole of you
and yet
every time another love story died
you wept at the funeral
and as time would have it
you put together every broken piece back together
and there you stood
as whole as ever
can cellotapes heal broken mirrors
what are we but remnants
from the last broken pieces
what are we but skeletons
seeking hidden corners of living closets
what are we but ghosts
sleeping to the ghouls of a recent bygone
love fits right in paperback
the skin knows nothing but the skin
Wednesday 26 September 2018
The Angry Goddesses
Did you hear the nightingale sing?
Was it a song, a hymn?
Or poetry maybe?
A ballad that marked the onset of the pomposity that awaited the hope of a hundred thousand
It wasn't just about the ballad
The air smelt of it too
Somewhat like napalm
Lives found life in a moulded clay
Fervour spread like wildfire
As if consumed of rage
The angry goddesses were finally in sight
Was it a song, a hymn?
Or poetry maybe?
A ballad that marked the onset of the pomposity that awaited the hope of a hundred thousand
It wasn't just about the ballad
The air smelt of it too
Somewhat like napalm
Lives found life in a moulded clay
Fervour spread like wildfire
As if consumed of rage
The angry goddesses were finally in sight
Saturday 22 September 2018
Semicolon
when the lives were done with the wars waged for life
she stood at the sunset
cutting through the blanks
she stood at the sunset
cutting through the blanks
Thursday 20 September 2018
Love in the Time of Decay
By the time I was 25, I was married. By the time I turned 30, I was divorced.
It is often impossible to decipher how two lives so entwined could suddenly fall apart, and still no one ever sees it coming. Or maybe, they do?
We were divorced mutually. Ironically, when you get divorced is when you realise the oxymoron in the very essence of the phrase "mutually divorced". We were intense lovers. The separation just couldn't be plain bland.
When you have lived with another skin, in another skin, day in and day out, for years together, it isn't fondness or even the desire to belong. It's a habit. And, you know what's worse than a habit? Another!
It was 2016. Falling in love, indulging in lust, seeking redemption - they were all cakewalks. Or so I thought. And so did, the voices around.
Technology was the answer to sex apparently. You knew technology had raised its bar a notch too high when sex and food sold for similar stakes.
Love had shifted from elaborate spaces of letters to constricted windows of chatboxes. I was freshly divorced, with an unlimited internet usage plan. Definitely not the best of couples. Before I knew, I was under the weather.
In times when people were rigorously opposed to the idea of arranged marriages, it was ironic how the idea of virtual intimacies not just took off, but became a household phenomenon in less than no time. It was funny how it all operated on the principles of recruitment, almost as if you were hiring a partner on rent.
I was never specifically good looking. Moderately built around broad shoulders, unkempt hair, an otherwise sharp nose with an unusual dent, eyes that were neither quite elaborate nor too precise. Words therefore were my only weapon. Born off two generations of poetry, wordplay came to me naturally, I guess. I'm not quite sure they were poetic enough, but I hoped they would get me across the line this time.
Six months of every woman being an apparent prospect, six months of pretended conversations, six months of random sex, and a couple of almost relationships, I was tired. I was tired trying to escape the scathing temperature of the actuality, I was tired trying chasing nothing, I was tired of what I had become.
And that day, I realized the truth of it all. Every single day technology made another indelible mark in the pages of history, we grew apart, a bit further. From each other, from our own selves. We are all broken, we are all damaged, we all have our own share of baggages. And, most importantly, all of us, every single one of us, are utterly lonely. The only ones hearing us are the pale walls of our affordable existences. It's just that we have options, quite a few, quite a many, to buy ourselves more and more nights of unwarranted company. Complete strangers who would vanish into the thin air of a feeble dawn.
Our parents were never in love. Some of them were in awe of the idea of love; the rest of them just stayed put hoping love would happen eventually. While some espoused the idea, the rest got married to the hope. Theirs was a time of rigid faiths and stubborn beliefs. Ours was a time of traded loyalties and shifting stereotypes.
Major shares of our adulthood have been spoilt in choices. From rebellious careers to obnoxious partners, we've had too many to choose from, all of a sudden. Ever wondered what happens when a starved child, who has gone without food for days, suddenly chances upon a lot too many food? In an attempt to savor them all, he spoils each and every.
And, that's what we have done to relationships. To us. And, the world around us.
Ten days prior to my thirty-first birthday, I quit my only source of an assured, secured income. Seven days into turning thirty-one, my first and my only novel was published. Quitting the job was a good idea, for it gave me time. A lot of it. To reflect, to think, and, to start over. Writing a novel though wasn't half a good idea. Deciding to publish it was even worse. The novel sold twenty-nine copies in three months, and soon enough, it was off the shelves. The book launch didn't do my ledger much good, but definitely did me a thick lump of good. For, that's where I met my second wife.
It's tough finding love. It's tougher not finding love.
Names find newer habits. Faces find stranger doors.
But hope...
Hope stays.
It is often impossible to decipher how two lives so entwined could suddenly fall apart, and still no one ever sees it coming. Or maybe, they do?
We were divorced mutually. Ironically, when you get divorced is when you realise the oxymoron in the very essence of the phrase "mutually divorced". We were intense lovers. The separation just couldn't be plain bland.
When you have lived with another skin, in another skin, day in and day out, for years together, it isn't fondness or even the desire to belong. It's a habit. And, you know what's worse than a habit? Another!
It was 2016. Falling in love, indulging in lust, seeking redemption - they were all cakewalks. Or so I thought. And so did, the voices around.
Technology was the answer to sex apparently. You knew technology had raised its bar a notch too high when sex and food sold for similar stakes.
Love had shifted from elaborate spaces of letters to constricted windows of chatboxes. I was freshly divorced, with an unlimited internet usage plan. Definitely not the best of couples. Before I knew, I was under the weather.
In times when people were rigorously opposed to the idea of arranged marriages, it was ironic how the idea of virtual intimacies not just took off, but became a household phenomenon in less than no time. It was funny how it all operated on the principles of recruitment, almost as if you were hiring a partner on rent.
I was never specifically good looking. Moderately built around broad shoulders, unkempt hair, an otherwise sharp nose with an unusual dent, eyes that were neither quite elaborate nor too precise. Words therefore were my only weapon. Born off two generations of poetry, wordplay came to me naturally, I guess. I'm not quite sure they were poetic enough, but I hoped they would get me across the line this time.
Six months of every woman being an apparent prospect, six months of pretended conversations, six months of random sex, and a couple of almost relationships, I was tired. I was tired trying to escape the scathing temperature of the actuality, I was tired trying chasing nothing, I was tired of what I had become.
And that day, I realized the truth of it all. Every single day technology made another indelible mark in the pages of history, we grew apart, a bit further. From each other, from our own selves. We are all broken, we are all damaged, we all have our own share of baggages. And, most importantly, all of us, every single one of us, are utterly lonely. The only ones hearing us are the pale walls of our affordable existences. It's just that we have options, quite a few, quite a many, to buy ourselves more and more nights of unwarranted company. Complete strangers who would vanish into the thin air of a feeble dawn.
Our parents were never in love. Some of them were in awe of the idea of love; the rest of them just stayed put hoping love would happen eventually. While some espoused the idea, the rest got married to the hope. Theirs was a time of rigid faiths and stubborn beliefs. Ours was a time of traded loyalties and shifting stereotypes.
Major shares of our adulthood have been spoilt in choices. From rebellious careers to obnoxious partners, we've had too many to choose from, all of a sudden. Ever wondered what happens when a starved child, who has gone without food for days, suddenly chances upon a lot too many food? In an attempt to savor them all, he spoils each and every.
And, that's what we have done to relationships. To us. And, the world around us.
Ten days prior to my thirty-first birthday, I quit my only source of an assured, secured income. Seven days into turning thirty-one, my first and my only novel was published. Quitting the job was a good idea, for it gave me time. A lot of it. To reflect, to think, and, to start over. Writing a novel though wasn't half a good idea. Deciding to publish it was even worse. The novel sold twenty-nine copies in three months, and soon enough, it was off the shelves. The book launch didn't do my ledger much good, but definitely did me a thick lump of good. For, that's where I met my second wife.
It's tough finding love. It's tougher not finding love.
Names find newer habits. Faces find stranger doors.
But hope...
Hope stays.
Tuesday 18 September 2018
Monday 17 September 2018
Saturday 15 September 2018
Dear Death
Dear Death,
Could you kiss me like this was a love story?
Could you hold me in your arms like this was a love story?
Could you sing lullabies and put me to sleep like this was a love story?
Could you make this last a little longer than a mere forever like this was a love story?
Could you kiss me like this was a love story?
Could you hold me in your arms like this was a love story?
Could you sing lullabies and put me to sleep like this was a love story?
Could you make this last a little longer than a mere forever like this was a love story?
Wednesday 12 September 2018
Saturday 8 September 2018
The Study of Poetry
poetry is freedom
limitless as the west wind
an untamed wildling
a rush of the uninhibited
the innocence of an adolescent rebellion thought
and then one day it was all gone
times had changed
or maybe just grown up
poetry was caged
bordered in wrinkles
balancing acts of faith divided lives
being was a choice of the choicest
prose is more affordable than poetry in coming of age
limitless as the west wind
an untamed wildling
a rush of the uninhibited
the innocence of an adolescent rebellion thought
and then one day it was all gone
times had changed
or maybe just grown up
poetry was caged
bordered in wrinkles
balancing acts of faith divided lives
being was a choice of the choicest
prose is more affordable than poetry in coming of age
Friday 7 September 2018
The Faces
faces
so many
faces
so few
faces nevertheless
carving out one last and one more
faces carved into faces etched with faces behind faces
faces
too many
faces
too few
how many would ever be enough
so many
faces
so few
faces nevertheless
carving out one last and one more
faces carved into faces etched with faces behind faces
faces
too many
faces
too few
how many would ever be enough
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)