"Let's waste time, chasing cars Around our heads. If I lay here If I just lay here Would you lie with me and just forget the world? " -Chasing Cars, Snow Patrol. ------------------------------------------------------- HALF BAKED POETRIES AND SOME PLASTERED SMILES.
I'm painting my nights with happy lies And, tessellating the pavements with rotten goodbyes. On cracked dishes of half- baked poetries, I serve your name wrapped in crumbs of stale Chapattis.
On nights, when street-lights go blind, And, mannequins waltz behind frozen bars; Do you still lie wide awake, as racing trojans sing chasing cars?
On dawns, when dew drops veil the face of moss-laden alleys; Do you still lie wide awake contouring her gaze on the lips of leaking ceilings?
On evenings, when diurnal birds are homebound And, the lazy sun sets in the eyelids of your hazy vision; Do you manage to snitch a pinch of sedation, from her cotton-candy cheekbones?
Or are you still wide awake? Spinning lullabies from the cacophony of silence; While, yarning fabrics of euphoria, from the plastered smile of a raconteur.
(P. S. I was away for a while. Shifting places and adjustment issues amidst pandemic feels really hectic. Trying to adjust and cope up with the new schedule of my fast paced life. My end sem exams starts from 21st. Will be free after 28th. I really apologize for my unavailability over here and my delay in reading y'all. I'll get back to you guys,soon. Stay safe.)
"There are a lot of children in Afghanistan, but little childhood." -Khaled Hosseini, The Kite Runner ---------------------------------------------------------- FOREWORD: This poem is an ode to the countless Afgan children whose childhood has been trampled by the hands that never touched the face of humanity. May the Almighty give those innocent souls the strength to keep breathing. I'm totally broken and devasted after everything that satellites have been broadcasting to us. ----------------------------------------------------------- POV- of one of those unfortunate fugitive child who returns to his city to catch the glimpse of the face of the cradle where he was born.
(P.S. my offline classes will resume in a week. I've been really very busy trying to cover up all my backlogs. Pardon me for my unavailability here. I'll surely read y'all once life gets into track and gets in pace with the motion.)
ENTRY:23 All written rights reserved. 6th of August'21.
"Dead people put on weight, it seems to me; both in their flesh and in our minds, they put on weight. " - Stephen King, Bag of bones
DEATH OF THE DECEASED: A VIATOR
What do you think? When you think of the deceased. Do they really die? When their fragile vessels give up.
Or they persist, in the tunes of our favourite song, What do you think? We bury their flesh under the land where, they once walked to consider them dead.
But, can you bury them under the floor of your cardiac ballroom where you both had once waltzed? What do you think? Will you then consider them dead?
Time continues to suture those lacerations, With fibrin threads of wise words, And lay granulation tissue to seal the wound. What do you think? Can we ever leave it unkempt for the wounds to heal without scarring?
For, everytime we take their name, We scratch those wounds Only to bring their flashbacks to life and let blood spurt out and blemish the serene sheets. What do you think? Do we heal in pain or in peace?
Can you ever consider them dead until you die? For, long after their bodies are gone, they still continue to Breathe through your lungs of longings; See through your eyes of memories; And feel through the freckles of your rumpled skin. What do you think?
(Postscript- Granulation tissue is new connective tissue and microscopic blood vessels that form on the surfaces of a wound during the healing process. Fibrinogen is a coagulation protein from which fibrin is formed. It basically strengthens the clot. laceration is a deep cut on skin or flesh. rumpled means something that can be easily wrinkled. by fragile vessels, I mean the human body which is vulnerable to death unlike memories which live on and on even after people are dead.)
ENTRY: 22 All written rights reserved 5th of August'21
"If there could be an invention that bottled up a memory, like scent. And it never faded, and it never got stale. And then, when one wanted it, the bottle could be uncorked, and it would be like living the moment all over again. " -Daphne du Maurier, Rebecca
TO CATCH A SIGHT OF, THE FALCON IN FLIGHT.
Contouring the highways, they stood; And swayed with every gust of wind that was splashed onto their face, As the cars raced and chased.
What do racing cars chase? The fleeting view of the ever standing spectators; Or the tail of the rainbow: a mirage that bisects the face of the crimson offing?
Is life a Fibonacci sequence, Of moments touched and to be touched? Or a palindrome shaped in the silhouette of a sinusoidal curve(?).
Maybe, life is a series of moments that are tied to the wings of a falcon in flight. Else, why'd it fade at the first sight?
Maybe, life is but a soap bubble of moments, Which when touched, in the wink of an eye: Morphs moments into memories; Faces into photographs.
Maybe, life is all about the few moments, When our hands continue to waltz in the ballroom engraved underwater Of the fleeting stream of time.
In the eternity of universe and space, What does the fleeting pace of time chase? That moments, alike the stream of water, slips through the web spaces of mortal hands.
Segregating time into hours, days and years, Or stalking calendars of bygone years, are but futile endeavours of the mortals, To catch a sight of the falcon in flight.
Probably, life is all about embracing the moments, Before the views lose all its hues And landscapes turn into polaroids, Only to be locked in the monochrome city of imagery.
//Let's waste time chasing cars around our heads. //
While, we live most of our lives, in our mindscape Chasing the 'what-ifs' of every road taken, We often miss out on the infinitesimal moments, When the 'falcon in flight' pauses for some millisecond, To smirk at the mortals, who expends the allotted time-lapses re-painting polaroids in pigments of their ruminative figments.
@torqoiseink17 @clichepenname @heartsease @aleesa @calm_chaos (P. S. I've been very busy over these days. Bear with my delay in reading your posts.) P. S. S. The lines between //...// is from the song CHASING CARS by Snow patrol. Over the last few months, I've been listening to this song on loop.
Entry:21 All written rights reserved. 3rd of August'21
Gone are the days when happiness had a face as bland as a boiled egg, presented on a crude plate where salt of sophistication couldn't manage to skate.
//Unfurling the ragged sails of the fragile vessel: human-body;//
//The soul expends itself, voyaging on the sail of evolution.//
Assimilating radiations to fit in and read between the lines of cryptic paragraphs In the modernised textbooks of unruly sophistication; How long do we hold onto the bland yet heartfelt attributes of life?
"Survival of the fittest": the universal face of Darwin's evolutionary puppet. Mutations in the germ-lines; carving robotics in a body of bones and blood.
Alike arthropods, Maybe, our traits evolve on the crutch of ecdysis. And with each episode, We accrue adaptive tactics, To keep in pace with the chameleon taxies.
//What is bartered to sail in Darwinian sea of fittest? //
Camaraderie dwindled to a trickle, Humanity held at the edge of a hand-sickle.
ENTRY:20 All written rights reserved. 2nd of August'21
"Everything you've ever wanted is on the other side of fear. " -George Addair
ON THE FACE OF FEAR
Fear invaded my mind like a brood parasite, that clomped down the stairs, To lay eggs on the nest my phobias.
The hatchlings cackle and feed on my nerves, To swim in the pool of Cortisol, that floods my mental chamber.
I was afraid of the dark: Nyctophobia, they'd say; The relentless tick-tock, at night Kept my weary eyes wide open.
For, darkness had a face, Where uncertainties gargle, And anxieties continue to hiccup, Both of which, I fail to shoo away.
So, the next time it was dark, And fear rang the 'ding-dong' I took to stargazing And darkness felt serene.
I was afraid of the heights; Acrophobia, they'd say, My feet would tremble, And chills to run down my spine.
For, taming the jitters, Wasn't a part of my trade, Critiques would kick me off the cliff, I had grinded my bones to ascend.
So the next time, my toes go cold; And judgements honk and blare, Someday, I'd stare it at its eyes, And say aloud, " Heights had views: worthwhile."
I was afraid of falling in love; Philophobia, they'd say Through the eyes of an impostor, I was just a hollow phrase.
Hearts bleed worst, When it bleeds in love; Empires fall apart; Mosaics bite the dust.
So, the next time, my throat get sore, And my cochlea reverberates with amore; I'd let the shards of my broken heart, Strum melodies on my feeble chordae tendineae.
Maybe, poetries on blood-tinged lanes, bloom the best With words assembled at a vagabond's behest. For, when hearts break, it bleeds poetry; Only to induce telomeres in cell-lines of half-written stories.
Line: I'd rather weave poems with your leftovers memories than...
All written rights reserved, 21st of July'21
TO DIE A COMET'S DEATH
//I'd rather weave poems with your leftovers memories than,// Incinerate the ruins to cage the ashes in the forbidden chamber Of the sandcastle where we had once lived.
Ever since your departure, My quill remained jailed In the Iambic aperture Of longings and belongings. Did her nerves get necrosed? Or is she still waiting to die a comet's death or meet the Dandelion's fate?
The love we nurtured, Died on the gridiron of expectations, Where we had roasted Worldly predicaments. And toasted the world I had viewed through your intriguing amber eyes.
Ever since you left, I didn't change the wallpaper of my phone That said, //go laugh at the places, you've cried; Change the narrative. //
But how could I muster audacity To walk the lanes, Where vultures sing your vulnerable name?
Stranded on the crossroads, Today, my spine trembles again, This time not with the fear of losing, But the tremor of keeping A time bomb loaded with Your whiff and mischiefs!
"All's well that ends well" you'd say, Everytime we traced the tail of an ill-fated shooting star: Shining dead through the sky Flickering hope in the dead man's eyes.
So, I filled my pockets With the last beams of The homebound sun, To graffiti onto the walls Of that dilapidated sandcastle: //Endings can be beautiful, even when beginnings are painful//.
Tonight, on the wick of your white lies I shall set ablaze the polaroids Which had captured the happiest of our days; Gulp the time bomb which ticks synchronised to your heartbeat And, retrace the frozen trails, To salvage my quill and resuscitate her lungs, While injecting into her Jugular vein, The potion I brewed Stirring the cauldron, With the broken bone of Your hollowed promises.
Your departure is the painful beginning, Only to lead my quill to a beautiful ending; Maybe, to let it die a comet's death, Or help it meet the Dandelion's fate!
"The trouble is that we have a bad habit, encouraged by pedants and sophisticates, of considering happiness as something rather stupid. Only pain is intellectual, only evil is interesting. This is the treason of the artist: a refusal to admit the banality of evil and the terrible boredom of pain." -Ursula K. Le Guin Excerpt from: The ones who walk away from Omelas
The other day, my thoughts raced the crane in flight, The clouds froze, while I was stargazing in broad daylight. The wings delivered sunbeams, that couldn't thaw Helios succumbed to frost-bite, caged in sleet, he failed to gnaw.
Will it precipitate into droplets on leaves that rustle? Or shoot fireballs to murder the inmates of my air-castle. Queer, isn't it? For a frigid sky to shoot siblings of asteroids than frozen motifs!
Maybe, life is a series of stark negatives and antonyms, That we smudge onto our lips like sugar-coated symphonies. Else, why'd he eulogise love that trampled his limbic cortex? Or laud the red on the funeral of murdered roses.
Now his heart: a graveyard of sunflowers, And his eyes: gateway to the Necropolis, He forges on his mind, to hang portraits, Of bygone lovers, who plucked thorns from his unfenced garden of rose; And daub the shingly walls with hues, he snitched from the thorax of Monday-blues.
While the ruins of romantic conceit are extolled; The anecdotes of vermilion deceit are paroled With incandescent garlands of glory, On crinkled sheets : pink with an innocent story.
Maybe, our vagabond spirits go destitute, Sneaking ways to relish happiness That pedants tag as tomfoolery.
While true essence of happiness is underrated, in the modernised textbooks of sophistication; A quest for minute contentment, in the era of flamboyant exhilaration, is viewed by the dogmatists as a hopeless appendix dangling at the edges of a bored caecum! (Maybe?)
Pain is claimed intellectual, For, a potion of pickled grievances can bloom poetries on drought-stricken lands; While the kohl of treachery when smeared at the corners of hazel eyes can cause death to stop by and stare in an intriguing guise.
Maybe, poets and artists weave masterpieces on stiff threads steeped in blood: Of heartbreaks, Of grievances, Of resentments, Only to let their imageries get tattooed onto the walls Of beholder's cardiac chambers.
The infamous nuances of banal evil, Or the flicker of vigor in // terrible boredom of pain// can be savoured only through glasses tinted with saccharine metaphors; Or hands that carve enlightenment At the altitudes of trepidation.
The lush green forest went bald, Advent of the fall, they herald. The icy blasts slapped their face, turning pale, On graveyard of dead hopes; frostbitten, they fail. Why do trees discard their verdant hopes, When the sap has to walk the tightrope?
Maybe, in the transience of life and its ways, We surrender to adversities, when blinded by haze. Only to nurture buds in their bosom, They bury dead hopes in the mantle of microcosm. Alike, how long do we cling to voices that go dumb? And grieve on graves till our senses go numb?
Maybe, Autumn is the testament that, Bereaved hearts burn, in the flames of yearnings Clinging to necrosed faces, evading macabre learnings. Alike the deciduous Great Oak in marcescence, We hold onto hopes even when they succumb to dehiscence.
The bright autumn colours are but reprieve Only to free ourselves of grief, we grieve. Only to let rosy buds on axils, blossom; We let the dead leaves be phagocytosed off our bosom.
Alike the deciduous trees caught in embryogenesis and abscission: the vicious cycle; Or a cell trapped in mitotic cell cycle Waiting to hit the Hay-flick limit; How many rivers of death, we gotta swim across, To finally lie(die) buried under the Holy Cross?
I use the veil of dark night to cover myself, to hide in; I wander around masked in the chaos ! I pretend to be fine living in the castle of lies ! This armour is too heavy that, I can't carry it anymore; I am tired of this, want to get rid of this; This suffocation is not bearable anymore!
I feel crushed inside something, unable to take breath. I want to get out of this for a while to intake the fresh air ! The want to be caressed by the cool breeze, Feel the scent of dampened earth once more, To let loose in the wild, connecting to each living soul is burning inside !
Alas I was able to remove my armour ! I know that the moment I take it off and show the vulnerable me, Arrows of betrayal will pierce my heart relentlessly ! Will I be ever able to do so consciously? Will I ever able to show you the naked me living in the disguise of forgery ?
*The first belly dancers were a group of traveling dancers known as the ghawazee. *Salah Jahin was known as ‘the poet of the revolution’ as a lot of his work was greatly inspired by the 1952 Egyptian revolution. __________________________________
The Ghawazee (Belly Dancers)
A hindrance to dancing silhouettes A hindrance to rustling zephyr A hindrance to ballet and ballerina A hindrance to soaring poetries
Banished they wore sandals forlorn Banished they flamed the woebegone Banished they cut spaces and stories Banished they halted blazing culpability
Clandestine cocoon on their belly skin Clandestine cocoon to carve carcasses Clandestine cocoon for giddy moves Clandestine cocoon as for later consequences
Dancing in cups to brew the culture Dancing in clouds to optimize the sky Dancing in canvases to suspire sunrises Dancing in deserts with warm breeze
Egypt sways with brooks of books Egypt sways with Jahin's poetic revolution Egypt sways with Great Sphinx Of Ghiza Egypt sways with dash moves of belly dancers
Flip the pages when dance was God Flip the pages when quick belly motion crowned Flip the pages when this art was worshipped Flip the pages when thin body wasn't needed
Ghazals gurgles the silence of solace Ghazals gurgles that moving demeanor Ghazals gurgles beleaguered to haiku-hours Ghazals gurgles when belly's devour the beats
Healing prowess some tied with songs Healing prowess some gulped through clowns Healing prowess some find in temples Healing prowess some whirl through capering
Inked the destinies in the bottled promises Inked the dreams on the wings of butterflies Inked the destruction at the 3:00 am tick Inked the despondency in their oscillation
Juxtaposition of rainbows and phantasm Juxtaposition of ghunghroos and gajray Juxtaposition of pleasure and passion Juxtaposition of sashay and allemande
Knightly stars when weave dark constellations Knightly stars when shone with chimera Knightly stars when beautified poetries Knightly stars when whirls in moonbeams
Looting nuances to dug the puddled abodes Looting nuances to catch sparrows and fireflies Looting nuances to stitch yellow daffodils Looting nuances to learn the art of twirling
Manoeuvring on vertiginous wine-fields Manoeuvring on stages of alchemy Manoeuvring betwixt chapters of history Manoeuvring at the glimpse of poets
Nosepins meandering with rosy l(h)ips Nosepins meandering with balladry of hair Nosepins meandering with twitches of stomach Nosepins meandering with circling feet
Oasis their orbs carry two sunsets of cadavers Oasis their palms to say adieu to autumn Oasis their shadows complimenting blackness Oasis their ringlets moving with permanence
Pulchritude gypsies dabbling bizarre fables Pulchritude gypsies cursing the backasswards Pulchritude gypsies trembling with symphonies Pulchritude gypsies dancing in The River Nile
Quadruplet to couplet their sways concoct Quadruplet to prose their journey bedeck Quadruplet to sonnets their tears envelopes Quadruplet to limericks their soul sails
Rollicking through the crest and trough Rollicking through the stygian eclipse Rollicking through vague allegories Rollicking through ballrooms and kingship
Songs are upbeat to rock and royals Songs are brimming life, death and glee Songs are susurrating on broken lyrics Songs are radiating beauty in their sculpture
Twinkling anecdotes pirouetting with verses Twinkling anecdotes painting out treasures of sea Twinkling anecdotes gulping the Titanic screams Twinkling anecdotes highlighting their physique
Utopia till Mughal's Mahal stole the galaxies Utopia till Martin was chasing fireflies Utopia till Van Gogh captured the starry night Utopia till The Ghawazee were quilling tactics
Voyages to engulf the shawl of summer Voyages to understand every motion Voyages to feel magic and dance in nature Voyages to learn the hidden staircase of passion
Waists underpin with woes and euphoria Waists underpin to frozen moon and glamorous sun Waists underpin with winks and cheers Waists underpin with eddy and billowing cadence
Xibelani dance hit the right strings of heart Xibelani dance engrossed the crying garth Xibelani dance for cavorting on horizon Xibelani dance portraying sand and swings
Yesteryears chewing the flow of chorus Yesteryears burling the crisp creases Yesteryears to birl the body like combers Yesteryears cascading aurora of gyrating
Zilch one cleave in arduous streams Zilch one clad in vivid imageries Zilch one feel to endure the void Zilch they rotate with blooming belly .
i I sat under the yew tree holding a cup of cold heartbreak and some glided lies of my beloved. Some tilted dark clouds were there covered with gulping night and murmuring trepidations. My fugacious childhood was there behind the darkness and watching me with silence and a breeze of twenty third monsoon, was imbuing my panoply.
ii I mixed them inside its fleshy berries of that yew tree by its needle-like leaves. The mixed colour was so different. Neither blue nor green. Neither white nor brown. I had never seen that kind of colour anywhere. A harbinger was passing by while my heart was beating too loud and I couldn't listen the whispers of phantoms.
iii Abhorring the cunning fragments of furtive life, I started to write something on the palimpsest of a Laurel without a beam of sunlight, without a room lamp. A firefly helped me to see my quill in the blackness. I wanted to write about truth but they buried it inside its abdomen.
iv Again I wrote about the lies of love and euphoria. My galaxy was crying because of stolen love. And I, an ungrateful human, was portraying love with lies. My couch was mourning for lost euphoria. And I, an unthankful menace, was painting the sky with azure euphoria.
v A poet, I'm , who was portraying lies on woebegone boulevard and some humming sighs were there to listen to the melodramatic exhales of my freakish despair and intractable ennui.
//I told you darling not to break my heart. I'm very good at poetrying//
. I drape ciphers of life with confetti whenever manuscripts ask me about the fragments of my existence, I drape nightmares with reality and epiphanies with silence, when my dreams guard the shores of algorithm.
I drape pew galaxies with synergy and unity with cosmopolitan, I drape smoke of cigars with trailing winds and rage of mariners with rippling moribund.
I drape skies of rivalries with meteors of diverse nuance, I drape boulevards of poetries with vagabond thoughts and streetlights of imaginations.
I drape hope around twice blooming home of same breed with no more divergence, I drape faith around smiles whose curves are bleakly evanescent, and some days I forget to drape myself with the connotation of who I am?