Of Another Season...

On a day like today
when an abrupt monsoon meets
A delighted Sun,
I think of you,
like the dew drops on the petals -
the freshness, eternal.

On a day like today
When my Neruda can sip coffee
with your Joyce,
you come to me as if
memories were more real than now.
They always were, are.

On a day like today,
When the translucent streets of my home
gets wet and hears a tram go by,
your thoughts occur.
I feel you
beyond those concretes and raindrops kamikaze.

On a day like today,
When my words seek no grammar and
chases no metaphor,
I think of poetry and I think
of you.
With or without, I wrote for.

On a day like today,
When I am diseased and all burnt,
I want you to forget me as a season.

We will meet again in summers,
in our little ways, before Sunrise.

SoUmY@

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Untitled

Two nude people are gazing.
The picture is on the orange wall in
A frame made of Mahogany wood,
One that smells of a burnished past.

They are discussing paintings.
Oil paintings they are. Colors are abrupt,
sudden and strong as the saddest nights,
Soothing and polite as promised whispers
Or whispered promises of colors, that have faded.

Art in its essential, is pure;
So they wish to be the same, nude.
Of Adam and Eve,
Of Prometheus; art is fire.

Pictures come and go.
They sit on wrought irons -
sophisticated, minimalist, sharp and nude, like them.
And here it is,
a face under a veil.
Dark black it is, tanned skin, eyes
speak of a thousand pain and a single humor,
or vice-versa.

Interpretation is an artist's pride,
deciphering is his patience.
So they are visibly restless.
Apparently immovable two souls
stand and try gazing what is under its veils.
Desperate, nine straight lines on their foreheads,
each.

In this artistic liberty,
they don't understand that
nudity collides with nudity in flesh
and what radiates is restraint.

They bring down the picture from the green wall
and one tears off the veil.
The other looks at the eyes. Still,
A thousand humor and a plural pain
or vice-versa.

While they tore it off in naked ambitions,
It dawned, even the skin is a pretense.

Hundred reflections of a broken mirror lay on ground,
in disbelief.


SoUmY@

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Belgian Glass

In that 4' * 4' glass house,
Colored fishes roam about
alien trees, look at this side of the world
where living doesn't create bubbles,
Neither do they burst.

Two souls live in a bigger cage
and take care of the 4' * 4',
Happily taking pride in sheltering
orphaned dreams, that come so close to the glass house
and go back nudging the belgian wall.

They pity, they laugh.
Fishes can't cry.

On some other days,
Satin hopes rejuvenates with candled romance.
The two shadows become one.
Their souls lie on the white carpet
where conjugal stains used to frequent.
Cleanliness is so unworthy at times.

Around the time, that
ticks-tocks and ticks-tocks,
upon hourly insecurities of a clock
that mumbles and counts the path it has traversed,
ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong -
they keep track of absence and quarrel.
Presence instigates bitterness of the two.
The clock stops at times, or whispers low.

It has two helping hands.

In the bed they sleep, distant.
But dreams are not measured.
Surpassing their sedated unwillingness,
one comes into the other's world.
Silk is what is in between.
They see through each other.
In orchestrated awkwardness
one comes to sense
And helps the other to erase the smile
that was hanging in the corner, unconsciously so.

They start from the beginning, again.

Now one prefers perversion to take hold of his.
The other fights and kills and dips her hand in blood.
No one wakes up that night.

There comes the morning.
Souls enact strangers.
With a perfect red apple and
scrambled as the egg is,
coupled diseases suffocate.
They run, not for the proteins
but of congestion of some deeper viral.

Amongst all these, during the remaining course,
they depart with the same keys
and use the same surname at promotional pages,
guarantee each others' presence in gatherings
and leave a neat nameplate and a postbox.

Over the mutual agreement of some common things
such as above,
One clock, a handful of colored fishes, a neat household,
unstained bedcovers and carpets
reflect sadness over a mute pretense...

... that took an oath of being real around the fire, someday.

In a 4' * 4', fishes cry.



SoUmY@

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Uttaradhikar

Uncountable battles you have won behind the back,
Prudent, shrewd the soldier you are,
the anarchist - as some will say.
And the others who spit on your name
for the deities you have maligned.

The armour, embarrassed it reflects
hundreds of bodies stampeded by Mughal rampage,
where brave rajput souls still lie in dreamy eyes,
and their women - long been fed to satisfy.

The person you were, a predator
who never believed in his own blood,
could not have asked history to redeem you
of the fatwas that you once made, oh so coldly.


But tell me Aurangzeb,
today as you see the gallant successors
of yours, ominously lurking, possessing
whatever or whoever is affront,
Do you feel you were never a history?
Or it was just foolish of us to blame you.

Blood never bore the Mughal descendance.
It was always a stoic asset.
And so, in the name of uttaradhikar,
We have inherited what was already inside,

... history that we, ourselves despise of,
but possess, nevertheless.


SoUmY@

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