misery finds me
   the common bird

perched upon
   branches of autumn

waiting over me
   such an old friend

hidden herein
   casket of heavy air

how i wish to embrace
her edges

with what little is left
of me

that wants to stay
awake


@writeweird

tethered to her ivory wings

nestled in arms of a corpse

and to her lover she does sing:

a song of the white horse.

from her tower of purple pearls

she weaves her a sky of plume;

wherein distance morrow whirls

weary of the yester silver moon.

she lays upon an emarald gale

another spell to cast in bloom

for her love is now old and frail

becoming of dread, death and gloom.

19/6/2022





Dreams, eyes wide open, she said
to me "there's only an abyss underneath the bed," and grey clouds, against the blue skies, "that is just a thought in your head," she said to me.

"what is noon to solitude?," she whispered to herself, "what is a forest to the moon?," and the curtains set themselves on fire; "it must be the heavens knocking on our door," i said in a hurry.

the angels plead for discomfort, how quickly the pedestal invites scrutiny, how slowly the day fades from benign existence - is that how autumn expends herself every spring? waiting to find a lovers arm to stop breathing?





@writeweird

how beautiful must you be to reject the Gods?



there is more to a painting
when you know how it ends

every stroke made in haste
and for no one else

where the world is made and
broken down for someone else

words fade perched upon the
pages for someone else;

deep into the forests helm
where an orphanage thrive

rains that fill the oceans
before it is time

devouring the sunset deep
into a submissive grave

where the beasts fall in love with
the wandering mermaid;

how beautiful you must be
to reject the Gods?

the very essence of what
it takes to birth a heart

is captured now in still water
and cascading waves

perhaps one day we could
swim carefree

into the same melancholy
that makes a home inside the
swirling storms

maybe home isn't what keeps
us from the outside:

it is us playing make belief
on the sullen porch

guarded by salt walls and
lashing tongues

the horrid stain on every artist's
discheveled desk,

wrestling with dreams
and thoughts;

how beautiful must you be
to reject the Gods?

@writeweird

6/6/2022

to you, from the slopes of Shivalik





Nestled between two hills flows the river Tawi



"you should see my city in autumn," i say to an old friend in his new apartment in Gurgaon.

In the bastion of the mighty Dogras, nestled between two hills flows the river Tawi - daughter of the sun

and there i was, standing on the old bridge overlooking Bagh-e-Bahu, "you should see the great Tawi during heavy rains, you should see her might when no one is looking"

the very might, of a son, that saved the king of the serpents, and in return the father crowned him the lord of the virtuous slopes of Shivalik

"she flows here from kailash kund," i tell him with a smile, "to the land of my father, of his brother, and his sister"

the land where the maharaja once saw a beast and his prey - bowing together, quenching their thirst in the month of June; free from shackles

"you should come on a sunday, and have some Rajma," as we take out the foreign bread from a local joint.

"maybe we can have some khatta meat too, if you decide to stay," i say to him as i take another bite.

for long have our forefathers told us to take pride in the soil of our birth.

they know of the threads that bind us to the place that has come before us.

some escape, some never come back, and some carry with them, always, the colour of their soil.

before i left, i too, stood on the old bridge - on my way to the old city; bowing to the Goddess at Bawe, as she looked on, ever present -- in the land of the Dogras, in her ever lasting abode.

"you should come see my city in December," i say to him as i take a last bite.

Nestled between two hills flows the river Tawi - daughter of the sun, nourishing land of the Dogras




@writeweird

in Jammu: the city of temples, there is a house.

On the other side of Tawi, past the old bridge, i sit in my memory;

she's talking to me, "earn so i can be free," as my heart drowns in summer.

"it's unbearable," i say -- "the weather hasn't been kind to you"

i wait for her to say something but she's busy again - "i have so much to do.. why don't you settle here and make my life easier," she says with a forced smile.

On the other side of Tawi, past the old bridge, i sit in my memory;

perhaps one day i can give her the world, the one she is promised.

here on the foothills of the mighty Himalayas, on the other side of the tunnel, i wonder.

perhaps i can leave while i still can, younger than i remember, or have i been old and it's merely a dream?

have the city swallowed my memories to keep her relevance alive.

is she just a figment of her many tangled roads, the tree sitting on the three hills, and disjointed neighborhoods?

by the river Tawi - where i once spent the evening swimming in the sweet embrace of liquor, and in ***** of a welcoming morrow.

overlooking the new bridge, thinking to myself, 'how beautiful is home today'.

or making out in the backseat of a confidant's car as we travel through the sidhra road, and she says to me, "do you think this will never end?"

and before i can tell her the truth - i see a fleeting glimpse of silver; and there i am -- in tomorrow -- far from the edges of the mighty Himalayas.

i take out my phone, i need to see what time it is, and there on the screen, it says it's 32 degrees of summer in jammu, still -- and i burst into tears.

On the other side of Tawi, past the old bridge, i am my memory.