Showing posts from 2015


Something interesting this way comes...

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3 x 4 Poems

The following poems were written for the 3 x 4 poetry writing challenge on HitRecord. - [The challenge was to write a poem with four lines of three words].

1. When did we
Start our lonely
Journey to leave
Each other behind.

2. Let’s keep this
White space blank
Words will just
Tear it apart.

3. Tonight I’m going
On a date
With my thoughts
Under the stars.

4. We are storytellers
Telling our tales
To a world
That won’t listen.

5. The universe laughs
At this idiot
Splendidly screwing up
All his chances.

6. It is because
We don’t scream
That our thoughts
Will kill us.

7. There’s a girl
At the stairs
Waiting for someone
Who’s not me.

8. You are a
Summer girl dancing
And spring blooms
At your feet.

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Out of sight

“What follows is an incident that occurred when I was very young; my mother first told me about it when I had come of an age old enough to understand the gravity of it. For reasons I believe the reader will understand, this incident had made a particularly strong impression on her and the memory of it has been well locked up in a treasure chest, opened every now and then to be read like a storybook, to the eager ears of all the concerned grownups and kids whimpering for a good tale”. - The author

Every day around noon, dad would come home and wait at the gate of our little house. He would then call my name and I would run to open the gate, followed by a quick climb up his bike, where I would sit at the front, hands outstretched and tightly gripping the handlebars. Dad would place his hands on mine and we would ride inside. For a few seconds, I was the driver taking my dad home.

My mother agrees it was a particularly hot summer day, lazy and dull, with a dry wind blowing across the land that spread a fine layer of yellow dust on everything it touched. People generally stayed indoors and by noon, everyone in our little town was either taking a nap or preparing for one. Except for us kids of course, who never slept at the same time as the rest of the world, much to the dismay of our poor mothers.

On hearing my father call, I rushed out of the house, but only the lone gate stood burning in the bright sun. The road was empty save for a few dogs and cats being chased by the homeless kids my mother warned me about. After what they did to old Mr. J’s chickens, I believe all mothers were up in arms to protect their noble children from what they deemed were incarnations of pure evil. If only they knew our secrets.

Perhaps it was a two-year-old’s curiosity, but, when I did not see my father, I opened the gate and went out to investigate. The boys and dogs and cats had all scurried away and vanished in the distance. Having seen my dad come home every day, I knew I had to take a right from our gate, and so I did.

My mom is largely unaware of the details of my little adventure on the road, owing to the simple fact that she wasn’t there. But she believes I must have crossed the old school playground on the way. I remember that playground quite well and all the Sunday picnics we had there, where I was allowed to terrorise old uncles and aunties for a change.

On one such fine picnic day, accompanied only by the neighbour’s kid, I’d brought home a puppy from that playground- a scrawny little stray with a pretty little brown spot on his (her?) belly. Mom hated dogs, as she does all pets, and little brownie was hastily sent for adoption to the sweet lady staying down the road. I cried like any two year old would, and only stopped after a quick trip to the toy store, where I picked the most amazing G.I. Joe action figure, and everything was roses and sunshine again.

A little farther from the playground was the grand lake. Ask any of the townsfolk what their favourite Sunday activity was and they would all chime in unison- lazily paddling a boat while enjoying a Sunday brunch that usually involved all members of the family, including cats, dogs and whatever pets there may be. Mom feared the water, so our boating excursions were rather limited, the only participants being dad and me, with mom's sandwiches occasionally making a special appearance.

Mr. H, the watchman of the lake, snored at his chair under the banyan tree. The gate was unlocked and I pushed it open. The rusty hinges creaked like a piece of chalk dragged across a blackboard. Mr. H stirred in his chair, let out a low grunt and went back to snoring. I walked inside.

I stood at the end of the steps leading down to the lake and watched the golden waters shimmering in the summer sun. The wind gently disturbed the stillness, like someone moving their hand across fine velvet. Farther out on the lake, a lone red boat rocked like a cradle.

I took a step forward. Just as I touched the water, a pair of strong, familiar hands pulled me away.

The lone red boat stopped rocking. 

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Stale Victory

Hours upon hours, you did toil
until the day was done,

Days upon days, you did sweat
until the years were done.

“Oh! Sweet Victory!” you cried
“Let me touch thee!”

But she withered in your fingers
A tear dropped on your cheek.

Days upon days you laboured,
blind to the world around.

Days upon days, hours upon hours
Were the labours all for naught?

“Nay” thy labour has its place

But, stale is the victory you earn,
When a life in labour is spent.

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The girl with auburn hair

“You are a spring breeze blowing
against a summer blaze”

She wears patched up dancing shoes
with her little toe peeking out

and pirouettes in the lonely room
with that one open window

to the sound of a roaring applause
from her estranged lover crashing

on the rocks where once
a girl with auburn hair,

stitched her dreams with rusted needles;
dreams, that never could fly.

But she dances by that window anyway
and the moonlight beams in,

teasing the girl with auburn hair

as she puts on her show.

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Confessions of an unknown poet

Each night,
I lie myself to sleep,
delusions of grandeur
deceiving the senses.
I veil my insecurities
behind words that please.

Hypocrisy. Jealousy. Apathy.
Reality hammers on these
makeshift defenses
guarding my weak psyche.
Negativity begets negativity.
No minstrel will sing
when an unknown poet dies.

Listen. Understand. Accept.

A comfort zone is
a fortress with a bad view.
Look for new sensations.
Give in to temptations.
Buddha was not born in a castle.

Why blame the universe?
Why dump my mistakes
on someone's front lawn?
The world is overflowing
with unclaimed trash.
I will not add mine.

I chased time and lost.
Some days, we walk together.
On most days, I follow.

Cry when you want to.
Don't stifle that sob.
The ghosts of dead tears
linger, and anger is born.

It's because we
don't scream that our
thoughts will kill us.

Late nights at the cafe.
Spilled ink, crumpled paper
and half drunk coffee.
I romanticise my life-
a 3AM melancholy story
reeking of booze and cigarettes.

Only worthy poets suffer
and starve in loneliness.

I am worthy.

I believe in lies
masquerading as
self-love and confidence.
We dance to the cry of.
Wagner's Valkyries.

Confessions are cathartic.
Word by word, I spill truth
on these blank pages and
absolve me from my sins.
In the throes of deathly silence,
I am the unknown poet
redeeming his soul.

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Skipping stones

A ballerina dances on silent waters,
plop plop plop, she goes,
we applaud, one…two…three…four…fi…
bloop! She goes down the depths,

We laugh as she falls,
laugh as she disappears,
laugh as we throw,
the next to her death.

One…two…three…fo…we applaud,
our little ballerina,
dying for our mirth,
on a lazy summer day.

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