It was written in deep magic -
in tongues that danced in shadows
of bubbling cauldrons
as green smoke filled the air -
that no witch will stand alone.
It was said that we will stand
and stand together,
down to every drop of blood,
down to every dry bone.
And stand we do,
for the night brought on by Man
is not the easiest to melt into
a new dawn.
Stand we do,
for our first lines of defence
are the very hands that we bring along.
Never bring a sharp tongue
to a witches' fight,
it is said -
for our quiet strength alone
can bring your downfall,
as long as we stand together.
And stand, we do.
May 2, 2019
May 2, 2019 at 9:50 AM UTC
never has the sky looked down
and declared that today,
dreamers must find new sights to see;
that birds must find
new places to be.
never has the sky decided
that a million wires
are enough lines to cut across
its silken expanses,
he always makes room for more -
neatly dividing spaces
that everyone is allowed to
dream in.
and so you ask me,
why the wires to cut in
to his beauty?
and i'll say,
it's because he knows exactly
how they carry words to him,
which may otherwise
never be said again.
May 2, 2019
May 2, 2019 at 9:42 AM UTC
humans are silly, silly creatures -
we need this, that, the other -
oxygen and purpose
and other such silly, silly features.
we love being exactly
where we're not supposed to -
making home in ice, in fire,
in the depths of the earth,
even ******* space,
and everything else
that we're fundamentally opposed to.
call us stubborn or rebellious,
or just plain crazy -
humans love to declare their residence
in places where Nature
might have been especially lazy.
all we do
is throw flowers on a table,
set in the middle of nowhere
and call it home,
and then we concoct a new fable -
so other homes may feel less alone.
Apr 30, 2019
Apr 30, 2019 at 4:06 PM UTC
sometimes,
my brain finds solace
on a sweet picnic table -
set up for a short tea,
on tatami mats,
in a garden with half a blanket
of pink-white blossoms
sleeping on the earth.
on such days,
my words settle into
seventeen sweet spots -
no fuss, no muss -
like schoolchildren after a field trip,
too tired and hopefully
too content
to rebel.
sometimes,
my words come to rest
as if my heart and my hands
are all weary travellers,
and i sent them to retrieve riches
that are way beyond
belonging to seventeen neat corners.
and so i apologize,
i call it laziness,
offer some food for thought,
and a warm place to rest
between the
three
simple
lines
of a haiku.
Apr 30, 2019
Apr 30, 2019 at 3:51 PM UTC
the art of procrastination
is just that -
exactly what it says
on its faded, beaten label -
an art in itself;
a weathered process
that has divided humanity,
much like its more
celebrated
brethren - painting, dancing,
maybe even writing poetry.
the art of procrastination
makes no bones -
it is made of unequal
and ever-changing parts
of chaos and consistency,
passion and practice,
destruction and discipline,
all at once.
it is learning that
you can train yourself
to not feel fearful of
whatever doom is upon you,
but also struggling to stay
just barely afloat
when the tides of said doom
sweep you off your feet.
it is both vain strength
(to think you can outrun Time)
and smart cowardice
(to trust that you can hide from Time)
the art of procrastination
does not beat around the bush -
to master it,
you must walk on the serrations
of a double-edged dagger -
both balance
and falling beyond measure
can ruin the practice
of the oldest art
in all of existence.
Apr 30, 2019
Apr 30, 2019 at 3:38 PM UTC
the written word
will never do justice to a woman,
and yet i try to capture
the movements of strangers
as their lives weave in and out
of each others'.
with what ink
can i write down the colours
of a woman's day,
as she goes about her day -
measured movements,
silent prayers,
unsettled glances.
what metaphor
can ever perfectly capture
how she navigates tides and tides
of love and loss
and everything in between
like a sailor without
a North Star.
what verse
can perfectly worship
her strength, her fears,
her joy, her tears,
and everything that lies
in the middle of nothing,
nowhere.
i try to write down
a woman,
but my words,
any words,
will never be enough.
Apr 24, 2019
Apr 24, 2019 at 2:29 AM UTC
i do this thing
where i let people
make their homes
in the midst of my words.
they are cordially invited
to bring their joys into my home,
(sorrows optional, if you do not
have sorrows of your own,
some will be provided to you)
i am always excited
to have new inhabitants living
in electronic pages of my memory,
if only for a night.
i love it when i know
the weight of a soul
just enough
to set it down gently,
surrounded by literary furniture
so it feels at home.
i love to watch from afar,
patiently,
while these people
find their bearings
in the monstrous maze
that is my poetry.
they get lost sometimes -
in mixed messages,
messy metaphors,
silly sentences,
violent verses.
I am in awe of how gently
they can navigate my mind
and come to rest
in a corner that they make
for themselves,
and no one else.
i do this thing
where i let people
make their homes
in the midst of my words -
a small colony,
a peaceful civilization -
with the occasional war,
a rare skirmish.
their homes have windows,
and on most days,
i don't mind
letting the world have a peek.
Apr 21, 2019
Apr 21, 2019 at 12:43 PM UTC
i think they saved you up
for my rainy days -
collecting gentle drops of dew,
(your heart)
the peaceful dance
of raindrops on my roof,
(your voice)
the warmth of my bed
on a gray day,
(your arms)
soft sunrays breaking through
dark clouds.
(your smile)
i think they saved you up
for my rainy days -
you,
with an eternity of love,
a gentle tide
to wreck ghost ships of tiredness
that live inside me.
you,
a serene potion to drink
on days when the other stuff
just doesn't work.
you,
head cocked to a side,
laughter clear and calming,
hands sure and soothing.
i think they saved you up
for my rainy days,
it's funny -
they forgot how much i love
the rains.
Apr 20, 2019
Apr 20, 2019 at 2:00 PM UTC
to shruti krishnan, on her twenty-first birthday
you rest easy
in hidden corners
of obscure library shelves,
your footprints
play with the dust -
disrupting and adorning,
all at once.
you rest easier
in reflections of your
many, many selves,
quiet passion, fierce silences,
bubbling pages in your diary
bursting at the seams,
half-smiled silliness,
half-charmed eyes.
you rest easy
in stony silences -
silences made of
silver filigree thoughts and
bright colourful conversations.
you rest easiest
in shared sparks of comfort -
dancing in and out of both our fingers -
pale yellow sunshine in yours,
and dark blue moonbeams in mine.
you rest easiest
in staccato laughs
and handwritten notes,
for your voice is clearest
when it becomes
the voice in my head.
Apr 20, 2019
Apr 20, 2019 at 1:33 PM UTC
my words are used to having a destination -
a conversion rate,
a like-to-click ratio,
a saved post across timelines.
my words are used to being weighed
in golden showers of praise
by would-be strangers,
by eyes almost in a daze
from the internet and its dangers;
my words are more than happy
to be forgotten the next day -
they get that from me.
what happens when your words
fail to tip the scales
in any direction?
what happens when measuring fails,
and the mercy of others
is your only salvation?
what happens when your words decide
that their life is not one worth living?
if a heart breaks
and bleeds words onto a paper,
but no one reads them,
did it really break?
if words spill onto a page,
but no one saw them being spilt,
was a poem even written?
Apr 18, 2019
Apr 18, 2019 at 2:08 PM UTC