puspangana-singh
An ambivert (bordering more on introversion) who wishes to touch the world with her bare hands, and feels that language is the breath and soul of any civilisation, and poetry lies at its crux. A grammatically correct individual, she wants to live in harmony with nature, just like her favourite poet Wordsworth.
Between you and me
I will tell you my secret,
I will let you have too
The share of your albatross;
You will have no regrets:
Everything will be
Between you and me.
Do you still remember
How heavenly our rendezvous was?
So serene, surreal and surreptitious;
The shiny moonbeams dancing on your face,
And oh, when they revealed thine eyes,
Their light was more blinding than a midnight sun:
There were a thousand suns in that night,
In that vaulted Universe
Between you and me.
Do the nymphs still visit you
Like they had from the nadir,
In the middle of our flowery bower?
They still chant to you, don't they,
The evangelical eloquence, straight from the Mosai.
And you were Apollo incarnated;
The multitudinous notes ricocheting through every precipice,
In that dark valley of sanguine souls
Between you and me.
Do the sweet breezes still fan your cheeks
As they had on that windless twilit night?
Not a leaf had rustled,
Time had stilled, and so movement:
I could breathe in and feel the air
There was thunder, and lightening
In that still, serene, surreal haunt of stars:
Everything was seething in a soothing turmoil
Between you and me.
Do you remember? Did you feel and behold
The beginning of our world?
It had begun.....
Now you are sleeping under the twilit sky,
The shiny moonbeams dancing on your face;
Now time is stilled:
The seething turmoil is not soothing;
In your dreams, do you see what has passed
Between you and me?
My dreams are crimson:
I cannot lose them with you;
I want to lose them with you;
I must not lose them with you.
Now that you sleep, you
Keep watch over me:
You haunt me; I am
Flooded in my own deluge.
Oh! But the world;
Now you are not here
Who will glorify
Who will sanctify
The infinite infinity
Between you and me?
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 11:58 AM UTC
Anxiously anxious anxiety, listen to Me;
Listen to my neurons humming you as the song,
Listen to my thoughts pleading to you their independence;
Listen to Me, as I create this lyrics of dolour for you
O anxiously anxious anxiety.
Anxiously anxious anxiety, read the book of Me;
Read the story weaved around you,
Read the epic from prologue to epilogue,
And read to me what is to be scribed next.
Anxiously anxious anxiety, hear the tunes of Me,
Hear the tunes of the Rag out of Me,
Hear the beats dying out of Me,
Tuneless, storyless, songless.
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 4:42 AM UTC
Things old and young,
All were things to be
All are things to be.
If they were never meant
To be in the future
How would have they been the past,
And the present, and again the future.
Is the future an undecided mess?
Is the future an organized disarray?
Is the future another special dimension?
The equation of future still unsolved,
The strings of future still dangling from unthought processes.
How can we be so certain, yet uncertain about the Future?
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 4:25 AM UTC
Sometimes I feel a void inside myself,
Emptiness ready to crush me with its nothingness;
And then again I open my eyes—
And the world stares back again.
My frame is a reed, hollow from the inside,
Whole from the outside,
And all I know is that I am matter.
The deafening and resounding silence
Is another matter of concern—
It doesn’t crushes; just makes me devoid
Of all the bliss of Nature’s precious notes;
It is the only sound which surrounds me
In the maddening crowd of the quintessential.
There is the numbness which confounds me:
It has the worst slap of damnation,
Amplifying the teeniest touch,
Pouring life into every cell.
It tosses me amid the tempest in the Ocean,
And leaves me battling the waves alone.
What distances me from my kin?
What is that which I am always seeking?
Life comes and goes, and here I am,
Still at a loss to comprehend the haps.
I just am, will just be; and none would lament
The real me, as it is wrapped in its shadows.
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 7:36 AM UTC
Who told you that there was something like soul-mate floating around in the depths of the air?
Who told you that even air has depths?
Was it during introspection that it dawned upon you that all shallow things have depths?
But then, the air is not shallow;
It is not deep, nor shallow;
How has the shallow air depths?
If there are soul-mates floating in the air, it cannot be shallow;
If the air is a mere mixture of gases, it cannot harbour depth.
Now turn everything around:
The air is shallow because it has souls floating in it;
The air is deep because it is a mixture of gases-
It is all a tale of contrasting realities,
And I am asked that why is the shallow air deep, and where is the depth hidden?
Hidden?
If somethin is hidden, how can I measure the depth and the shallowness?
If it is visible, I cannot see it.
I cannot see it even when I see it.
After all, things visible are invisible,
And relatedness is a centrifugal force.
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 9:20 AM UTC
And when even the crickets are still,
The leaves unmoving, the cold biting,
Innocent people getting ready to sleep,
The fire reducing down to embers;
When the clock stops at twelve,
Its hands moving yet not moving,
Then is the winter at its cruelest,
The other innocent people shiver with their blankets of the dense fog...
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 10:41 AM UTC
They say sixteen is a tender age.
I do not have any idea if that really is,
But my sixteenth was a purgatory of heavens.
You were the reason my mind suffered;
You were the sole means of release.
Seeing you was flying out in space, with no force, because there, even gravity is absent.
And what was I for you?
A science person? An uninteresting nerd with glasses which were certainly not in the picture of your lover.
But I was enamoured, tied up with you,
Whilst you never as much as glanced down at me.
So now when today you see me,
All changed, do you think that you would have any place in my life again?
That time would rewind its tide?
That my wounds are healed?
Because time is no healer;
It just hides the scars of the stitches.
And in actuality it is the layer of cells from my own body,
Shielding its inner parts from the world outside.
Time has nothing to do with wounds and healing.
Still, time. If you talk about time, then I am going to walk you down through all the layers.
See for yourself, what effect you had on me;
Judge for yourself the level of intoxication.
I used to wonder at nights who you love, or would love, if not me.
If not me! As if that was a possibility.
In my mind, in my own personal heaven with you, it was.
There, it was a truth, a stark reality which no one would have been able to alter.
I would lie awake for hours at night thinking how it would feel to talk to you, to touch you, to feel you.
Lying beside me, my mother would ask me why I was so restless.
Oh tell me, what should I have told her?
That I was trying to peel off the layers of your face?
Deep in my bones, straight from inside
I had this belief that you were a radioactive mutant walking among normal people.
I used to gaze at the night sky, thinking if the stars would die when the sun will rise.
Yes, even after being a science person,
I used to ponder over the lifetime of stars, even when I knew.
In what sort of alternate reality was I living in, or you had made me exist in?
Is it not a dark comedy that
Sometimes honesty is the worst policy.
And after that eternal heartbreak
I will say that I still love you,
That I miss analysing the curves your lips used to take when you would smile,
Dreaming how they would respond to my lips,
I miss stealing glances at your face, thinking it to be breathtakingly the most beautiful creation of God,
But I don't need you now.
I know my defenses are weak,
But even nothing is something,
And that love was more than something,
It didn't even amount to nothing in its own nothingness.
Today I lay bare the story of us for the whole Universe to read.
But as the words flow, I think, and I think,
Do our thoughts determine who we are?
If yes, who am I, an OCD patient?
If no, who am I, a hopeless romantic?
I wanted no stone unturned, and you just ensured that the Kingdom came.
I want to cry, and wash you down with my tears,
And live anew, but what do I tell the others?
What do I tell the others when no tears come?
What do I tell them when I try to picture myself with that person who had impressed me with his knowledge of English literature, my thoughts are interrupted by the inner flashing of your face?
You tell me what to tell them.
That there is no remedy for memory, and that dreams don't lie?
Even when you don't, you make me,
There is something constructive hiding in all the destruction that has been caused.
Am I close to you anymore, now that it's over?
One day, yes, one day,
I will get over this concept of you and I.
Because you are not the only one.
You are not the whole Universe, now that there have been mathematical evidences of the existence of Multiverse.
You are not the Verse, I am.
In that tale where you were no less than the protagonist,
You were nonexistent,
Just a figment of my overheated thoughts;
I was never a fortune teller,
But when today I see you and then I see myself,
I am happy that you left me alone.
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 10:34 AM UTC