Thoughts Like Shadows

Thoughts Like Shadows

An empty darkness spreads over the realm
of my scattered thoughts that have gone astray
like the shadow cast by a setting sun
on the ground at the end of a bright day.

Shadows of the foliage and yonder hill,
receding from the sun and her warm light,
keep getting longer, forever until
even the plains too are shrouded by the night.

But a darkness all around lets us see
the wonders above, hidden by the sun –
the whole universe and her history
back to the moment her tale had begun.

So on behalf of my scattered thoughts, I
belligerently bid the sun goodbye!


A Sense of Love

A Sense of Love

I did not love her for the curls of silk
on her head, cascading down like a stream,
that watered the dried out plains of my heart.
Nor was my love for the sparkle in her eyes
twinkling like the beacon from a lighthouse,
that showed my drifting soul a destiny.
I loved her not for the warmth of her smile,
radiating like an Autumn afternoon,
supple, mellow yet reinvigorating,
that healed my ageing spirit’s chronic wounds.

 

But why did I love her then, and for what?
I loved her so because she truly was
what I have always wanted my female self to be.
So loving her was like loving myself for me!


 

We Are, Both!

We Are, Both!

No,
please
do not shake your head

in kindled vehemence
we are not angels,
neither God!

As human beings with consciousness,
latent at birth and later
buried miles under
the mounds
of stories,
we are
both
good
and evil,
enlightened
and ignorant.
Our thoughts can be
both vicious and virtuous.
The contrast lies in our acceptance!

If knowledge does not admit her ignorance,
if virtues do not confess her evil thoughts,
and if light never meets the darkness
on the other side, the ignorance
overflows and the evil inside
in silence grows,
brought up by
our reluctance
to wake up and
open our eyes.
And evil, overgrown, lurks
in our subconscious minds,
as we live our conscious life
without a shred of conscience.
With only our virtues thoroughly
and consciously emphasized, the evil
permeates our thoughts and feelings about
all others, everyone, except the face we see
introspecting, or in an ordinary mirror on the wall!


Beauty, Amplified!

Beauty, Amplified!

“Where is she?”, a voice wailed inside my head.
“There she is!”, another, moments later, replied
in ecstasy and my pupils dilated
at her sight, haloed by the rainbow colored lights.

 

Indeed, she is far prettier than our prettiest dreams,
more beautiful than pure beauty can ever be,
for her other half, forever dark and unseen,
turns beauty to a feeling, mere eyes fail to see.

 

A feeling, reverberating across
our synapses, remaining lodged within
a few neural paths, waiting for a stimulus,
or a set of stimuli – sharp, blunt, serrating,
is better than a mere sight, quicker too
on the release of all the rest with Dopamine!

 

And beauty, when all pure and absolute
like that when with impurity she overflows,
is often only half as beautiful
as when she is in harmony with her darkness,
like knowledge that knows the depth of her ignorance…
Don’t you see, the most beautiful time of the day
is when darkness unites with the shimmering light,
once at dawn and once at the dying hour of the sun?


 

To Poets!

To Poets!

Dedicated to all the unpublished poems in the world.

 

Have you ever written a line,
as penetrating as those of Shelley,
a verse or two as sublime as Walcott’s?
Neither have I. Still you and I,
nevertheless, are poets of course,
perhaps of a different kind, or not!

 

Perhaps we are historians, but unlike
Herodotus or Thucydides, recording
atrocities and kingdoms of the bygone days,
we take snapshots of the now on a plate,
smeared grey with silver nitrate from the past
and hold it out against the future’s effervescent light!

 

Perhaps we are social critics as well,
but unlike Fareed Zakaria or Yuval
Harari, we want to keep it brief, we do not explain!
Perhaps we are like Florence Nightingale,
a statistician turned healer, or Keats,
an apothecary, healing the human souls instead!

 

Or maybe there is no reason at all,
that compels us to write, save that we are
madness incarnate, with countless thoughts buzzing in our heads
and emotions, by the name of hormones
flooding our hearts and until we unsheathe
our humble pens for blood and to bleed, we simply cannot rest!

 

But for every word that we write
there are always two or three we must hide,
and another bunch are buried underground,
like those pillars we do not see
traversing the visible structures around!
But they’re there, thankful in their thankless duties.

 

So, let us celebrate those words, unseen,
for without them, poetry could not have been
the iceberg that sank the Status Quo of Titanic!
And to all the heroes, unsung, who bled for writing it,
let my humbly audacious pen sing this unworthy song –
Hats off to you and your words, soar as high as you can, for as long!