Lost Causes / (n) (plu):

1. Streets leading to dead-ends.

2. Children cursed shortly after birth by their fairy godmothers.

3. People diagnosed with last stage cancers.

4. Women you know are bad for your mental health and must chase nonetheless. Women, pretty, pretty women, with good hearts, and good intentions, and invariably bad decisions. Strong women who make you weak in the knees. Women with loud laughter who you know might make you cry for years afterward. Women, glowing, luminous women, leaving only darkness and silence in their wake. Lonely women looking for more loneliness.
Women needing love and not believing in it.
Women causing lost-ness.
Lost-ness causing women.

Winter is so much colder when you're alone,
so much colder when you come home to an empty house,
dark, and you've to turn on the lights yourself,
when you know that no one has been waiting for you.

Winter is so much colder then,
when you bring a bottle home, in a black plastic bag,
and sit drinking on your bed, wondering
why the liquid that burns your throat
doesn't warm your heart at all.

Winter is so much colder then,
when you wake up in the middle of the night,
your feet freezing cold, and you know that holding them
in front of the heater will not be any use:
they--and you--need the warmth of somebody's flesh,
need to play hide-and-seek with another pair of toes.

Then, winter is so much colder then, when you're alone.

When the centuries begin
to cycle back
and jingoism rings
through the streets,
when the civilized veneer falls
and false saints rise to power,
do not despair, dear human,
do not think you are alone,
remember, know in your heart that
art will save us.

In a world full of sheep
as we fight back to back,
against impossible odds,
against numberless hordes,
do not despair, because,
through the blackest of filth
sunshine will still reach us,
art will save us.


When we have no more strength left,
when of reason we are all but bereft,
a strand of music will float over to us:
a poem, a prayer, a battle-song,
a peaceful landscape will come to mind,
a childhood home,
a summer house,
a lazy road outside the public library,
it will all come to us like a memory, and
art will save us
If, however, we are parted
by fate or foe
and you are caught alone
in the swarm of flies,
where every mouth that speaks to you
is nothing but a bowl of lies,
when they tell you
that liberty is now ended,
and freedom is forever lost,
do not believe them, my friend,
do not despair, remember:
art will save us.


When the old war begins anew,
and us men of peace,
go to war,
as we bleed
through noble wounds,
as religion’s sword
comes down upon us,
and even as we are forced
down upon our knees,
do not despair, beloved sentient beings,
because always,
art will save us.

Remember, you are not alone.


Though they may be few,
and far between,
there are humans in the world yet,
there are free lands yet,
men,
and women,
who will die before liberty does,
poets,
and painters,
who will never let the rot fester,
and neither you,
nor us,
are undefended, because always, without fail,
I swear to you upon my soul,
it will come to our aid,
it will rescue us
and those who come after us,
art will save us.

Poetry is not written,
poetry is found.
And there’s a secret
to finding poetry,
and I’ll tell it to you,
but only to you,
and the secret is this:

When it is October,
wait for the rain,
and when it rains,
sit
besides the rain,
and when you’ve sat,
search
for words and dreams
in the space between
the drops of rain,
and when you’ve searched,
look
for love and madness
in tiny streams that run
through the cobblestones,
and when you’ve looked,
see
hope and faith
in blurred reflections
of yellow-white lights
on the wet cement floors.

When you’ve done all this,
then, at last,
get up,
and walk into the rain,
hold out your tongue,
taste the world,
and let a little rain fall
on your paper too,
so that the ink runs
like tiny black streams
through paper-stones,
and the words blur
like the lights’ reflections,
and meaning melts,
like rainwater into mud,
and just so,
and only so,
Poetry is Found.

The headlights blaze,
a horn honks,
I look at the traffic light, I wait,
at a signal, in a traffic jam,
stuck.
Soldiers storm a university,
in a book a dog dies,
a girl fights tumors in her *******,
the world turns,
and in a traffic jam, I remain
stuck.
Later in the night,
in my bed, I lie scrolling
Instagram stories follow one another,
a quick progression:
outrage on an atrocity turns and
becomes 40% Sale on a fashion brand, turns and
becomes the best biryani in town, turns and
becomes a friend at a pub, turns and
becomes my office desk, turns and
becomes an empty page, turns and
becomes a traffic jam, turns and
does not become anything, and I remain
stuck.