The Appointment

Not now

not yet

the moment is still throbbing

the corners still damp

the sun still heaving

the silence still speaking

talk to me when you listen

touch my hand with fingers dry

try

not to come with aspirations

walk in, just as you would

unannounced

startle me

wake me up

but before that, 

let my eyes droop

let my sight wash off

the grains of collective prism

and relish the blankness of vision 

let me not see

what is shown

let my senses navigate

touch - soft or coarse

smell - sweet or putrid

sound - reverberating or dead

do not chart a path ahead

or decide where to be

let us just arrive

somewhere

and hope

we meet

Staying Afloat

words are frivolous

silence is stifling

conversations void

letting go is a skill

holding on is a reflex

one step in front of the other

an inch on the seams 

one more knot to tie two ends

of being and becoming

of holding on and letting go

of chatter and quiet

of solitude and being alone

of knowing and realization

mechanism well rehearsed

propel the ship onwards

braving the wayward 

waves,

saves

what cannot be destroyed

yet deceives

and the deception wins

the knot tightens

and between the two shores

the ship ambles

but stays afloat

THE WAY I SEE IT

 

The way I see it -

And you don’t,

Fills the void, between our words

for me, it reverberates,

- the sound of each syllable, echoing

  till I see it walking up, 

  step by step,

  towards memory.

The way I see it -

And you don’t,

- Is the trick of the mirror

  that shows you what others see

  hiding in plain sight

 the self , the soul

 that has learnt the trapeze

 of hanging in balance,

 One tiny step 

 from the eternal fall.

The way I see it -

And, you don’t

Makes us who we are.

Two complete beings -

connected yet free.

The rainbow unfolds

with color of thoughts,

no white, 

no black 

or gray in between,

Our vision is colored

not homogenous 

or of one hue -

for it is me and you

that make up the we.

 

Legacy of a Wandering Soul

the dry bed of a river is fertile,
lush green foliage spread unbridled,
while the stream changes its course,
flowing with passion
or trickling listlessly,
yearning for the wet touch of rain.
It weaves its way
towards the heaving breast
of an ocean,
that drowns
the unrequited love of
many a rivers,
turning their sweet longing
to coarse salt on drifting sand,
the sand that bears
my footprints -
the ephemeral legacy
of a wandering soul.

Giving Birth to Poetry

Some days,
you know
the words won’t come,
Yet, you scribble
and strike through-
and scribble some more.
As if,
the sheer persistence,
the repeated carving
of ink on paper
will birth a miracle.
As if,
a poem will be born
of restless pursuit
of an illusion.
As if,
the verse will flow,
where words run dry.

Itihas dohrata kyun hai

Jo kisi ne kaha sadiyon pehle
Woh aaj bhi kyun sach lagta hai
Us waqt baha azdad ka khoon
Ab nasl-e-nau ka behta hai
Sadiyan beeteein per duniya shayad
Raati bhar ko bhi badal na saki
Siyasi chira dasti se
Ek baar bhi toh sambhal na saki
Kisne kaha, yeh aage badhi
Yeh to bas rengti rehti hai
Ek aag ke gole se bandh kar
sadiyon se ghumti rehti hai
Yeh aag ka gola siyasat hai
Yeh aag ka gola mazhab bhi hai
Yeh aag ka gola dharti ko
Ek din shayad nigal hi jaye
Us din shayad sadiyon ka yeh
Khooni kissa khatm ho paye

Bekhayali

tanhai meri mujhko akela nahi karti
teri tarah yeh mujhse khela nahi karti
main khud hi apne khwab se jag jati hoon aksar
chandani chamakti hai, savera nahi karti