Artist

December 6, 2013

‘His summer sketches are a must see!’, ‘The
compositions  are nothing like what we have seen before’,
‘Way  ahead of his times.’ – the famous critic claimed.
The word was out and all the enthusiasts
flocked to see the him paint – at the Tuileries Garden.

Near a favorite bench, away from the crowds,
like always – he set up his canvas, and prepared
his paints. He was hoping to have a calm study session.
He was imagining a Sunset over a lake,
the lake in soft ripples, surrounded by pines.

A couple in their thirties discovered him.
They recognized his long hair. They dared not
to disturb him. And then, another young man
also found him. They all watched him in reverence
and from a distance, as the artist immersed.

He soon realized that a crowd was standing behind,
watching him paint – speaking in whispers.
At first, it troubled him – for fame was new,
but then, he liked the attention – it is only human.
He smiled at them and someone nodded back.

They were eager to see the painting complete.
In a slow ballet – the pines trees, the ripples,
the Sunset appeared, and the crowd finally figured it!
They gasped as they saw a genius in it all.
He turned back – confused and misunderstood.

The painting felt incomplete to him.
He persisted. A hundred more delicate strokes -
dangerously close to over doing. And then,
adrift the lake, midst the shadows  - a canoe emerged.
But no one else noticed – the twinkle in his eye.

What will never be

September 20, 2013

I wish I told you,
that you tingle me inside,
with your little long looks
and honey dew eyes.
That your smile calms me,
like a white soft pillow -
where I can finally rest
and stare back into you,
for curious warmth.

But I drift. Lost in dreamland
of finding you – I fade.
There are days, when I wake up,
and punch myself, for having it,
and losing it all.
What will never be – is you and me.
Perhaps love will find us both,
If not each other – someone else.
Someone fearless.

To G.W.

By the riverside

July 26, 2013

I watch the Sun go down,
I see the Moon awake,
and listen to the river gently run,
The people are hustling.
The boats are sailing.
The geese are flying North.
Even the strollers are going,
And I sit – by the riverside,
relishing the world go by.

Stolen hunger

July 26, 2013

It is about finding a taste -
An exact taste of delicate food.
A yearning for a specific kind,
of a simple gravitating composition.

A flirty sweet, a zestful sour.
A texture melting to reality,
A mouthful of symphony,
Food that makes you happy.

The young man roamed the streets searching for a taste.
A taste he could not describe but wished was understood.
He tried the best places, he tried the best they had.
He tried till he was full, and it felt so empty.

It wasn’t his song and his hunger was stolen.

A little less meaningless

May 28, 2013

Aisles either side filled with books,
dangerously overloaded by their weight.
‘Byron, Keats, Neruda, Emily … ,
Frost,  Shakespeare, Wordsworth …’
Like a child searching for a rare sea shell,
her eyes jumping between titles,
‘Not in the classics. At least not yet’,
‘Perhaps in an another section.’

And she walked to the new arrivals.
A million authors softly reading their works,
incomprehensible and intoxicating lines -
A paradise of treasure chests.
She stopped at a thin white book,
“A little less meaningless”, the title read.
With a nervous smile she pulled it out.
‘So … how was your first day?’, she asked.

Dear Calvin

February 23, 2013

Life goes on eh, Calvin?
You have all grown up now,
You have made new friends I see.
I am left here, piling dust. Forgotten.
In all the vanity,
If life ever finds you alone,
I in your quaintness,
for an adventure, await -
your imaginary friend. Forever.

My Monroe

January 13, 2013

The dying foam was dripping off her, wetting the floor beneath.
She held her unfinished whiskey and picks an old thick book,
and glides across the room to the fireplace - the only light in the room.
The whiskey spilling at her sway, yet gracefully remaining in the glass.
Like a girl plucking a flower, she listens to the crackling sounds of fire,
Opens the book and calmly puts it into the fire. The room suddenly dimmed.
The fire hushed. Its dying cries echoing in her eyes – reflecting.
But slowly a new light soared – beaming warmth into her, as it burnt,
She walks then to the thick brown curtains and pulls them off.
A blinding light rushed in. Ten thousand fireplaces at once! And through
her hair, over her water drop crystalline body, a Sun filled the room.
Like a bud, she opens her eyes, and half smiles. Over the mole side.

  

Nameless

December 10, 2012

All his strengths would not matter. His wisdom was useless with this enemy.
Amid meadows, scores of people that he loved stood behind him,
he guarding them, like he had in all his life, never looking back.

The wind was blowing into him. He, who was the bravest of them all.
The people he fought for in all years, comrades who owed their lives to him,
were all helpless watching. Not one, not them all together could help.

Hastening his heavy breaths, raising his face, slowly drawing his katana,
He opened his eyes, facing his lone last battle, he stood no chance.
“Oblivion! Here I come!”, he yelled, as he ran towards the setting Sun.

Fireflies

April 10, 2012

I lay on a bench gazing nowhere, ruminating thoughts.
A calm June night it was – monsoon about time.
Fresh clouds from far away, bringing balms to summer earth.
And Moon, through cloud-en cracks, oozing soothe light.
A zephyr sets in, the leaves in welcome rejoice.
Then I saw, small green blobs, blinking slowly.
Surfing in gusto. Hymning songs of light.
‘Where to you go? Why do you go, little men?’
From loneliness I glide, into solitude.
Vain though it all may be, its a joy being alive,
In contemplating, in participating -
the duteous dance of cosmic tune. Breathe.

- To my best pal, Rohit Ravichandran a.k.a. Multi

Bitter Sweet

February 24, 2012

The people you think of, at breakfast, in those -
long pauses between sips of your hot coffee.
You are silently smiling to flashes of them.
To a gush of questions, you cozily drift.
‘What if?’, ‘I wonder how?’, ‘But …’
A wise verse asks if it all were for a reason.
You amuse, there are none. Merely lessons.
You only wish you told, what they meant.
You realize you are talking to yourself.
‘Its easy to be lost. Wriggle up ye fella’
The coffee turns cold, and you gulp it all-
Your last sips of sugary cold coffee.

- To, Invisible twin


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