Tuesday, May 30, 2006

The walk back home

"How does it feel to have the rains wash down your wounds?"
"It has been a bright long day after so many dark long days."
"Is there any water left in your bottles?" "Any food remains?"
"Did you ever think we would live through these harsh ways?"

The soldiers blabbered on in their voices loud and clear,
It has been days since they had spoken with such a smile,
Victory enthuses and infuses such energies in dying men...
Wounded, hungry men, dragging on that extra mile...

"I would have dropped down my guns and died long long ago"
"It could have been much worse had I lost my other leg too"
"But here we are through battles - worn, torn and yet alive"
"My friend, victory and rains come together for a very few..."

They had won it for their smiles, for their homes and more,
To take back what is lost is a feeling that words can't explain.
The walk to the gardens in their homes won't be so long
As the walk through the battles. Even through the rain...

- Anubhav

Monday, May 29, 2006

Agonies of delight

Agonies of delight, fantasies of my flight,
Would you take me? Would you step aside?
Ravaging my thoughts, silent in the noise...
What flavours would you add to my pain tonight?

Rivers of my tears since I was only six,
Flowing down my face, down to your hands.
Your fingers taught me how to write long ago
Now they feel like piercing pricks of pain.

I was just seven year old that day in June
You could not care about my screams...
You would get me candy with love some days
Now I am all wasted at just thirteen...

There was a day at the river, that afternoon,
When you made me sit on your lap.
Now its so scary every time you ask me
I just feel a cold shiver down my spine.

Sometimes I wonder if there's life in me
In some dark corner that's yet not touched.
I try to find those ugly parts of me
That would remain virgin till I am loved.

I keep them safe like my treasures everyday
My pieces that you've not pillaged yet
That you don't find worthy of your touch
The only vernal parts of my wilted self.

There is a pain in my smiles when I see you
A hatred that I have known for years.
There are no flights of my fantasies
My agonies of delight, no wings to fly...

- Anubhav

This work has been featured at coolavenues.com

This thought hit me this morning... The feelings of a young girl who has been abused by her own father... I don't know why or how but I stepped in her shoes for a while... And I felt her pain...

Thursday, May 25, 2006

How silence speaks...

How would silence speak to me in dark stormy nights?
Would it disguise itself and come hiding to me
Tip toed, in the little pause between the thunder strikes?
Or would it be too scared and remain quiet like itself?
I wonder if it would tap me over my shoulder gently
To whisper its cognitive thoughts into my ears
Or if it would knock me over by its sheer presence
Like it usually does; Silence is so subversive sometimes.
It has its effervescent presence all over my life
Rolled up as water in little huge corners of my eyes.
You would feel that its docile voices would vanish
Within the voids of the tempest's hesitations.
But it lingers on through the fading dawn
And walks with me into another silent day.

-Anubhav

Wednesday, May 24, 2006

I am a whisper of apologies

I am the blue wind in the grey white sky at dusk,
Like the lust that is lost before love sets in...
Just like the fading taste lingering on
I won't be known once the coffee's done.
Once it was bright in my sun lit afternoon
Now I am a cold and dimming evening sun.
I am the kiss that evanesced in young desires
Or whose dream to melt on tender lips
Met reality midway to die on a forehead.
And the breeze that blows the white petals
Of the lovesome daisies into your face.
I am the whisper that tells you apologies
That the flowers were never meant for you.

-Anubhav

Wednesday, May 17, 2006

Time flies by in paranoid whispers

Who found the blue eyed boy in you that early day in June?
Who told you to strum your guitar a little slower than before?
When you walked in with little steps and ran off to your room,
Smiles lined my face when your little hands knocked the door...

The undertones of silence wouldn't make for a song
If it were not for you and your grey eyed thoughts.
Through the looking glass, down the rabbit hole,
There were places that we went on Sunday afternoons.

Little fingers gently crossed in my coarse hands
Deep eyes looking at the world with so many questions.
Sometimes I reclaim my imagination and remember
How I had things to tell you and you would teach me life...

I had a little son once who is grown up into a man
The young man in me has grown old since then.
How the young rushing blood slows down to stillness?
And silent fading memories replace blurred euphoria.

When times fly by in paranoid whispers, nothing remains
Of you and me but faint memories to dream and smile.
Like an eagle in the sky, time's been watching over me
Dropping in a little tear drop every once in a while.

-Anubhav

Saturday, May 13, 2006

Of faith, writing and voluptuous women

When words would cease to form the swirls at the hems of the skirts of voluptuous women dancing in the richly blossomed gardens of the wealthy men. When there would be no more clefts left in my uncanny ways both with the pen and with the stratagem of aligning the race of humans alongside for a cause. I would then rise from the deep dreams that I now indulge in, not for pleasure and not in the least in the pursuit of desires but by the forces of need such as is felt in times of deep peril. I would rise, yes! And I would walk into oblivion through the thick fogs of the blue inks that lead the way to the heavens and hells of the virgin mind of yet another writer within the bounds of myself. To exploit the untouched realms of the new world and march another armed race through the corners of its peaceful green lands. To echo its quiet mundane rivulet scattered countrysides with the quivers and roars of the cannons of human anger, ambition, greed and more.

Rebecca could be the name of a woman that would cross the street and end up dying with flowers scattered all over her blood stained dress. That would make for a stunning poetic scene. That would make for a painful reality. Someone's life can so deeply be altered by such an event. Skip a scene. Rewind. Skip two rather. A girl buying flowers for her lover at a flower shop. Dreaming of a candle light dinner. Her fingers gently fidgeting along the flower shop's window sill. Her eyes fixated on a certain collection of daisies. Fresh and white. They had met over a business lunch. It was a rich ambience. A garden full of flowers. So unlike these at this flower shop. Young women and men dancing around to an orchestra. The skirts flowing around the garden much like poetry. And here she was in love. Her mind forming a poetry of its own, selecting words like flowers and choosing flowers from the window sill of a flower shop...

We all know that down the story she would be dead and there would be no candle light dinners. Such is the agony of the pen that must drag on against the irony of knowing and yet pretending not to know. Like a blindfolded man peeking through gaping holes in a game of hide and seek. The pen slips on the fluid surface of deceit. That is how another virgin mind is ravaged. Its screams echoing in the words of the writer. The breaks of the punctuation reflecting his own shameful glances at his ravaged virginity....

Faith often is a transcendental truth. It needs neither logic nor power to assist its struggle to the epitome of greater glory. I say greater for want of an argument more than anything else. Words often are driven by nothing more than faith. That it would all conclude into something meaningful at the end of it. There would be a moral to the story, a conclusion to the discussion, a proof to the theory or a conjecture would at least follow the hypothesis if not an experimental truth. The pen struggles against not just friction but much more including negating thoughts, preconceived notions, prejudices and the forces from the cosmos (yes that too!) amongst other things. Faith is what holds the flow so to speak. And the voluptuous women dance on in scantily clad attires in the richly blossomed gardens of the rich men with the words flowing along the hems of the swirls of their skirts. Poetry is thus formed by faith. Nothing but faith. And love too...