PaperFort

Secluded here in my room I think of you.

Stepping aside my worries a while,

I have come to you.

I won’t bother you much, worry not:

And this cuppa hot tea is just an ally to the drizzle outside.

 

I must say this in the very beginning: I’ve come to you

Knowing not, where else to go.

I have come to say, that I always felt:

Hidden amid the words you speak,

Faintly laid, are the connecting dots to a hidden puzzle.

Puzzle which I could (may be, ought to) solve;

Puzzle which would lead me back to the treasure trove.

I always regained a missing part of myself:

When you spoke, I listened, and the world would just stop.

Guess the treasure trove, in real, was all about that.

 

Remember, we spoke and laughed for long hours?

Gossiped, all along, as if we were the only true people:

And all others vanquished in vain.

All hues of joy would then slyly enfold us and,

Conspire with the time passing by, to make it irrelevant.

Roughly, it was a game of hide-and-seek every time,

You would always hide something curious, priceless.

I would always go beyond what I knew.

To get what I never had before.

 

Things fall apart: not all things are true,                                         

You fade away and my cup of tea goes empty.

Sky clears itself and it no longer rains.

Advertisements

For all I know…

So much to say, so not much to say:

The aura of music like false cynicism,

The realm of sheer care and sanity, and

The blend of hard strife and a gliding soothe.

Guess, even the paradox joins in itself:

As a missing chunk of the whole!

So much to say, so not much to say:

For all I know is, the conviction grows firmer in itself, for

The heart has its reasons which reason knows nothing of ”.


PS: Sometimes the ‘way you feel for a poem’ precedes ‘the actual meaning of the poem’. To put in other words some verses do not have an implication. Or say, they don’t have a solitary meaning, but you can draw your own versions of the meaning for them.
I believe this is one of those kinds. What say?

Standing at the Green Delta

Sea of compelling truths ahead,

River of tied knots behind.

More silt of beliefs, the more you dig.

I stand here at the delta of my life, letting myself:

Open to the mighty brine of unknown.

PS: The transit from cosy college-life to a unknown job-life can be a mixture of awe, thrill and expectations. My attempt to depict the same. My friend says, it is important to be open to the new world, yet holding on to  the ties left behind. So true.

[A note on Green DeltaIt is that transit where the fresh waters of the Ganges meet the salt waters of Bay of Bengal, famously known as Sundarbans. Thick forests, rare animals and birds, waterways and mudflats come together to form this beautiful ending note of nature’s musical phrase. A peculiar thing about silt found here is that, tiny grains of soil collected all through the journey of the river, right from its birth, is collected forming a mudflat/silt reserve, staying there for ever. More description is here and more images here]

The Crusades of Recuperation

Things come striking back,

And, all small ideas swarm around you.

 

You must come back to me,

To solve the puzzles you created.

You must come back, for me to proliferate.

Come back to return things you never returned.

Come back, to reason out the reasons beyond my reasoning.

Come to witness my failing attempts to witness you in words.

 

Seek your stare while I pick and sketch,

Intricacy studded amid daily chores.

Be at my shoulders and I’ll paint,

All shades of grey to federal-blue.

Be there and get my equations right,

In return I’ve nothing but more equations, though.

 

Things come striking back,

And, everything else swarms around you.

assorted life

Press the bundle of grey ribbons in:

Leaving bright yellow loose ends, dangling out.

Strut out the shambling voice:

A weak crutch of loudness would also do.

Do not believe the tear glinted eyes, in the mirror:

Even when you know they are too naive to lie.

Nor let the sniffle out, off the puckered eyes.

For it may dilute the long harboured sting.

Press the bundle of grey ribbons in:

Leaving bright yellow loose ends, dangling out.

(photo courtesy; paris2london)

P.S: “Life is somewhere else is just a myth”, life is here, life is now.

Sometimes a simple grammar tense, can change the whole way you think.

P.P.S: Have my apologies, if PS doesn’t exactly go with the poem. Assorted lines with an assorted life; the title says it all. What say?