one name
  followed by an address
      with a number below it
         and unapologetic confessions
        
that's all it takes to
lend wings to your words
so they may go and caress
their memories.

you scroll through stories
that you don't care about
that don't matter to you
and they never will

you talk about love as if
you're done with seeing your
fair share of it - as if
you haven't touched it
and it hasn't touched you
and it never will

इश्क़ मोहब्बत धोखे जुदाई से जूझते दिखते हो -
क्या कभी किसी के लिए दो शब्द एक खत पर लिखते हो?

old men settle
like the last ashes
of a strongly worded editorial
in a newspaper -
burnt,
crumbling,
but carrying reminders
of words once powerful.

old men huddle
in centres
that have long since lost
their magnetism.
centres that once drew
the most powerful thoughts -
now host
shuffling cards,  
     shuffling gaits,
          shuffling shoulders.

old men whisper
wars can be won
and fortunes can be lost
with all that they have to tell you
if only you
listen
observe
absorb.

old men gather like continents
much like the mass of land
holds everything above it -
rooted
stable
*sure

I save up the best ideas for a poem
in a bank,
trading thoughts like currency,
hoarding the best ones
for birthdays and
rainy days.

i count the amount of effort
each one will take
with two interests -
one being the love i invest in you,
and
the other being the joy
of your reaction
that i get back.

i keep thinking that one day
i ought to save up my words
and my thoughts
to string them together like a necklace
not of pearl, but of precious things -
memories, stolen smiles, lost glances.
i try to save my poetry for you,
only to end up poor at the end of the day.

oh but how not to feel like a pauper when i lavish my last words on you?

There's something about
opening a bottle of colour -
knowing
that any way it spills
won't spell A-R-T at your hands.
let's call it the audacity of trying,
and
move on.

Same thing for a lump of clay -
lying in front of you,
waiting for creative violence,
but you know that your thoughts
don't have fingers,
your ideas don't have arms.
let's call it the pointlessness of wishing
and
move on.

Don't look at the camera -
the eager buttons waiting,
glinting in the hope of your touch
a lens waiting to be turned -
knowing that your eye can never
translate your sight into art,
your vision will never equal
an image.
let's call it the imperfection of waiting,
and
move on.

My last hope is a pen.
my fingers rush over it,
finding solace in known grooves
where my fingers have settled
time and again.
i call it the comfort of a story.

and this time,
*i stay

What a funny thing to be Time,
To go back in history and change any rhyme,
To make "yours" into "thine",
But never you into mine,
What a funny thing to be Time.

Poetry carries the weight of
ten thoughts,
     nine feelings,
        eight emotions,
                seven sins,
                     six thoughts,
                         five complaints,
                            four heartaches,
                                three joys,
                                  two heavy eyes,
                                       one pouring soul.

Poetry fights her way
through layers
and layers of jargon,
through depths
of useless words just floating,
skimming the surface of nothing.
she claws her way
through overgrown shambles
and tangles
of unnecessary parts of speech.

Poetry slashes her way
through tumbling creepers
falling from broken terraces.
she drives away unimportant thoughts
from fertile fields of words.

i see Poetry survive against all odds -
against joy - that sweet, sweet burden.
against rationale - a double edged sword
against doubt - a ghoulish green monster

i see Poetry survive.
no, rejuvenate.

and then i know
why poetry takes a feminine pronoun.

Imagine if all stories were all on their way to becoming something.
a narrow lane moulding the setting,
a small street lined with people,
a great big road paved with dramatic pauses.

Imagine if all stories were all on their way to becoming anything.
crossing seas
with w a v e s of laughs
lining the shore,
traversing plains
with fields of memories
growing tall,
climbing steep ghats
with a mountain of sorrow
on one side,
a        v
              a
                 l
                   l
                     e
                        y
                           of fears
                            below.

Imagine if all stories were all on their way to becoming everything.

i m a g i n e