37 lines

I am withering in form.
Can u see?
Life mocking at me.
How can I be?
Dark must,
Of a hollow pervasiveness.
A devil deep in my dwelling.
Scaring and scarring.
A nightmare coming true in its casting.
A ghost livening up in masses.
A death tolling in the middle of dances.
A life blowing in glances.
Messed up are my chances.
Spirit lost in the sand glasses.
True blue in the grey of the matter,
Not a spec of colour lasting.

How many times do you sew a linen?
Ravel the threads of my clothing.

Deep injuries casted.
Mania surrounding the masses.
A body conjured,
Lost in the movements of moments.
It’s dead. It’s holocaust.
Don’t carry it to the Halloween frost.
Dead should depart.
Compelling it is nothing of art.
It’s done, it’s off.

I am free I can not be framed.
Freedom from fixture..
In the freedom of soul I swim.
Seasonable is this gain.

A Death Foretold: By Ministers: Bombay Blast and Its Mysteries

The “democrats” could have narrated this blast beforehand; just as well as Gabriel García Márquez unravelled it in A Death Foretold; i.e., with the power and insight of the plot writer. Politics is getting too dirty, and people are looking at this incidence with a critical view, that holds the government in the dock. It is a call for us to stop behaving as snobs with technique in our head, and money in our pockets, and rather take up a responsible position in this “save
India” coup.

Monsoon Again

When hard luck n a fat chance build your way...
When it is like standing on a crater crust,
Which can spue fire any day,
You can predict
You can not commit
Better get carried to a destination
where it takes you today

A desperate urge to fly
A relentless heart to get high
Once it wanted a calm stay among shy leaves
Like waves of a restless sea,
My heart rattles and rambles this dusk.

The day I left your shadow.
I knew there would be no sunlight for me.
There is layer of dark clouds in the sky.
And the monsoon is back calling again at me

Identities and Shadows Behind

A part of the "Dear Lucky Agent" Contest on the GLA blog at www.guidetoliteraryagents.com/blog


"A child is not a poem,
A poem is not a child.
There is no either/or.
However."- Margret Atwood
(A canvas can lodge your subtle thoughts and ideas. But you need more than a canvas to reach here)

Just to introduce myself, I am not struggling with my identity, like many others. But there are a few things that do divide me. I don’t like taking the cover on my face, and colliding my face with the mask, to give impressions of me. Yet I take to conceal myself in various ways. I know there are things which are better left unsaid or suggested. And I leave the responsibilities to the subtle strokes of my paintings. Hope you like them.

A confident smile cutting the sides of her well formed lips.

Applause followed the long perfectionist’s speech. Being a successful artist in 40s, gave a power to Momita over her senses. Confidence sells the quality in you, and even the headstrong trust in yourself for that matter. Her dad called her paintings rogue and senseless, when she first started it at the age of 14 years. But she did prove a point in favour of her art, did she not? It was the 22nd painting exhibition she was holding and…

A Cracked Image

We identify ourselves in a mirror image. Find symmetry of our being, in the physical reflection that we see in the glass. Imagine your mirror broken by someone. And your rush to the clown mirrors (mind) of a circus (world)… where reflections (ideas and beliefs) change every moment…Where would you find yourself in this screening? Fit into someone else’s frame?


Worst you want to do with someone?
Crack his/her image.
Hurl a stone and crack it.
Let go, and ask people to mend it.
Go and try to identify with a carnival mirror,
And find ornaments in the corners.
An Adonis. An Aphrodite.
Hide a darkness of a face in the illuminated Mirror.
Rush to a Spherical Mirror!
And find symmetry in anatomy.
Hide a short height.
Hide a flat size!

Find a flat mirror,
and move far from the virtual.

A refraction of you reflections.
Reflection of the clouds of other's vapours……

Ageless?
Frame yourself in the silver frame of time.
Surround with flowers around with beauteous rounds.
Fit it in the silver frame of your like….
A smile caught just in time
And immortalize the pulchritude.

My Virtuous Mirror

As I looked into the mirror,
It looked back at me in silence.
As i tried hard to see the things,
It beautifully revealed to me
I asked if I were beautiful
It said it was harder to find a little blemish in my flawless beauty..
I asked if I were virtuous enough
It said I was an angel
I asked if I were happy
It cracked somewhere and said I was not
I asked if I should be happy
It grew on the corners and coronated me
I was wondering and thinking to myself
I was self absorbed
Whatever I did, it was cherishing me in itself
As I adorned myself,
It was constantly taking care of me
Always around me
My lover mirror looking at me..
I shed silent tears as his love swelled in me and brimmed over
It answered everything I asked about myself
It knew how I felt all the while..
It helped me mend my broken pieces
It created in me where I was developing
My virtuous mirror,
Saw me as a princess
He made a princess of me....

A Piece Of Life

It was not a dark night, but quite the opposite actually. ‘Celestial’. Yes ‘celestial’ was the defining word. Thought Ginny, as she criss crossed from among the vehicles, on the red light. It had been drizzling the whole day long. The persevering consistency of the little rain drops, gave a sense of momentum to the time and place, while the life slowed down to a soulful silence.

As she walked along the hedgerow, she looked at the people swirling around. The racing cars, subduing each other’s voice by heavy blowing horns. She thought, can there be a place for dreams in this world? Here, where matter mattered so much… the place was certainly was the foundation for the dreams, but the reality of the time failed them miserably. Dreams dreams dreams, she almost chanted it faithfully in her heart, as she stepped under a tree. In the conclave, she typed the first stanza of her poem in the inbox of her cell phone.

What happens to a dormant dream?
Does it hover in the sky?
Like a lost lariat?
What happens to a melted one?
Does it evaporate?
To condense when we sneeze?


Stewing along the road, she rushed to the mall.