Sunday, January 15, 2012

Of the gust’s groans and the heart’s moans

When the icy January gust groans
And to its haughty beats the heart moans
People dream of weaving stories
So through misty windows they slip into reveries
About people, places and rivers
Where in the blue winter sky shimmers
A star that glitters like a golden leitmotif
In a poem about lovers who’ve never had a tiff

Friday, January 13, 2012

Ode to a Woman with Words.

You brewed like whiskey, more so like Scotch for you are exquisite, of course. Like the azure spring wind, which gently sieves the taciturn chill in the air, and effuses a breath of calm neutrality to nature. All the while, as I kept nipping at pettier elevated experiences, and dreamt about clear blue skies, you kept blending into a headier mix of withdrawal and acceptance, much like a language without honorifics. Honorifics, mundane and superficial, set rules and pronounce codes of conduct. 

There are birds, they say, you can see from the roof these days-colourful ones. It amazes me how people get drawn to colours when all they can see is black and white. The seductive shade of unabashed grey that you had painted with those confidently delicate moves of yours stands out though, like the solitary star in the sky that twinkles in sync with someone’s heart. The illicit fruit of rash pleasure is short lived but like most things forbidden stays with one longer than it should. 

The brown expanse of your demure body may never melt into my restless eyes, and our hands will, perhaps, never be interlocked in a knot of snug embrace. It’s seductively enticing actually, for the chase will never cease and the tease, I hope, you’ll keep it playing. Fools read the climax- the story is always best undeciphered. The fire shall keep burning longer, and if I’m lucky, forever.

Rumi praises the one who created the difference between insomnias stemmed out of presence and absence; I wonder if he was just exaggerating for the embers left off by all kinds of fires seem the same to me. 

Nocturnal Musings

Sometimes on particularly dreary nights
After a lot of whiskey and some stray stimuli
He tries to write, what he says, a poem
On love and even shoddier frivolities
But the whiskey never cascades,
Like the river back home
Into words that would make his muse proud
And as he sleeps to the taste of a shared cigarette
The morning, he knows, will never tell the same story.