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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

never and never my boy,
riding away and away
from the land of the hearthstone tales
to never look back,
fear or believe
that a look cast into the past
might trip you up ahead.

never and never my boy,
fear or believe
that your Troubles,
dressed in cloaks of Joy -
snarling and snaking,
roughly and blithely
shall leap -
my boy, my boy -
into a home under new trees
in a sunlit year
to eat your heart
in this house
in your whole new world.

sometimes i make the bed for my bedfellows -
worries and fears are tucked in
quite happily,
and sometimes,
i kiss them goodnight -
with love,
and with the knowledge
that they are asleep,
away from me.

i close my eyes,
and revel in my sleep
knowing that they won't bother me -
i'm not in that deep.
with ease,
i cruise through
the landscape of my mind,
wary of what might face me,
accepting of what i might find.

it is wiser to not challenge
the faces and voices
you hear and see,
you owe it to your dreams,
a half-awake debtor,
it is wiser still,
to happily avoid loss -
the less i know,
the better.

worries and fears
make for strange bedfellows -
they hold your hand,
as if to soothe you,
and then whisper into your ears
a long list of names
of the people who loathe you.

i try not to be bitter,
i try to escape mental quicksands.
but here's when i don't mind
being called a quitter,
at least i have time,
and my own heart in
my own hands.

when my bedfellows turn
to talk to me in the dead of night,
i turn too - a blind eye,
no indication of despair or delight.
it is better that they rest
in a bed together,
i'd like to run as far away as possible -
the less i know,
the better.

hello, you -
tucked in soft covers,
your head on fluffy pillows,
your name in the prayers of lovers,
your light dancing in willows,
hello.

you can't see it,
but you paint the sky
every night in lush silver.

you can't see it,
but every lonely eye
every solitary sigh
looks to you for comfort.

blue moon,
your light cups its fingers
around so many sullen chins,
you, a night vision,
dance on so many fiery skins.
blue moon,
you're making a joke of distance,
you're making night blossoms bloom.

blue moon,
now we're no longer alone.

today i proclaim
with absolutely no shame
that Gilette straight up lied to you.

they promised you the best,
but let's put that to the test -
let's see what my wit and wisdom can do.

don't be sad, or even mad,
have patience,
and you'll be glad -
i'm the best stress buster you never knew.

and in good time,
with some reason and no rhyme,
you'll find that you'd like some of me too.

hi, it's me -
you probably don't know
that I live in the lanes that you'll never cross -
in life, or in your mind.

i make my homes
in all the corners that you couldn't bear
to care about,
except for appearances.

you don't have to apologize,
not that you ever will,
for forgetting that i breathe in and out
counting the seconds and minutes
since you thought of me -
and so my breathing would seem relaxed,
because i'm in no hurry,
and clearly,
neither are you.

hi, it's me -
i don't expect you to dramatically turn around
one fine day
and realize that i was always right here,
a part of me just hopes
that you'd realize
if i was ever missing
(but i know that's asking too much)

hi it's me -
you hurt me,
but that's okay -
i don't expect you to realize it,
because i've made that mistake
for far too long -
the one where i hope you'll come around.
(never works)

hi it's me -
and i know you won't answer,
but i'll say hi anyway,
and i'll hope anyway.

skeletons in my closet
find that it is rather easy
to scuttle and shuffle,
to twist and hide
among piles and piles of doubt,
and the odd dress or shoe.

they rattle and rumble,
shift and crumble,
only piping down
when someone passes by.
they fold and clatter,
chitter and chatter,
but are deathly silent
when you don't turn a blind eye.

skeletons in my closet
know just when to shrink,
when to dress down their size,
to save themselves
from indecent exposure,
or me
from a pair of extra-enthusiastic eyes.

skeletons in my closet
live together in harmony,
and i know i shouldn't be scared,
but they're the ones who know it all,
and i couldn't clean my closet
if i dared.

i have two(2) friends,
and we are all far apart,
we see different suns and moons,
and we breathe different air,
and we drink different water.

i have two friends,
and one wears a golden hat to all parties -
she will walk and talk
and see and be
with love and power and glamour.
her hat is magic,
it gives her the power to go crazy
and cause organized chaos.

i have two friends,
and one is a cool cat under a tree -
she needs words,
and she reads words,
and she loves to steal tea.
her eyes know what the universe doesn't-
and she hides wisdom
in the most ridiculous cat corners -
under fifteen books on a teapoy,
or in her sarod case.

i have two(2) friends,
and we all live together
in the great big unknown,
under the same abstract roof,
sleeping in the same abstract bed.
my two(2) friends and i built our home
on tears and twine,
on fears and wine,
theirs and mine.

my body already knows
that not-light lies behind
door handles that are cold
to the touch,
skin is not stupid.

the door swings open,
the crescendo of blood pumping
in my ears
screams to a stop.
there is quiet, but no peace -
there is silence, but no comfort.

wiry arms made of nothing
reach out,
hidden,
yet so clearly visible -
dancing around my ankles,
measuring my shoulders,
wrapping themselves around
the air that i
so sparingly
exhale.

there are eyes watching me,
their sight made sharper
by the absence of light,
finding shards of black
along which they trace their way
to me.

my skin revolts,
but my limbs aren't mine anymore.
my eyes are wide,
but my brain cannot see anymore.

the dark isn't a state or a condition -
it lives and breathes,
hunts and hounds,
it has fingers and a mind of its own,
it rests in shadows,
but also makes a home of its own.

people aren't afraid of the dark
for no reason -
they only fear
that it may just be more human
than they are.

to my dear ghostwriter,
or whosoever has to carry
the burden of my unfinished thought,

if you're nothing like me -
and i hope you aren't -
you'll make a list.
a list of the things you think
i would want to say
even when my voice is still not silent
and still echoes in sceptres
of my favourite words,
even when they come out of your mouth.
don't worry when the numbers
in your list start to crumble -
you see, even the ghost of my presence
does not like structure.

dear ghostwriter,
if you're nothing like me -
and i pray that you aren't -
your first step after writing
would be to edit what you just wrote.
thin peals of laughter will echo
in your ears when you do,
ignore them,
that's just me laughing at the idea
that raw thought
can be made more powerful
by taking pickaxes and hammers to it.

alas, if you do turn out to be
anything, anything like me,
dear ghostwriter,
know that you are allowed to wander,
your words are allowed to escape
and run amok,
you have the freedom
to do literally whatever the hell you want,
as long as your defiance is written down.
then, i suspect,
you'll begin to sound a lot like me.

yours,
in death and in shadows,
in spirit and in words,
shivani lalan.

i live on the line
that is supposed to divide
fury and peace,
but i studied theory,
and binaries are overrated.

i dance along the madness
of a zone where
functionality meets sadness,
and let me tell you,
i get so much work done
when i'm hurt.

i run across fields
where ruins of patience
are overrun with the
violence of life -
reds and blues and greens
bloom and disrupt
the unnecessarily calm earth.

i am a study in dualities -
of smiling rage,
of cold fury;
a filled laptop screen,
a blank page.

i find safety in numbers -
how many emotions can i fit
in my head and still survive?
i'll let you know when i do.

what seems like a superhighway
paved with ethics and morality
is more often than not
a testament to
the mortality of your own **** patience.

the high road may seem like
a one-way ticket to sainthood
but to buy the ticket,
you trade in tears and frustration,
some anger, some jubilation,
some friends out on some vacation,
some pacing around the house
with no destination.

forgiving and forgetting
sound like two different things,
but on the high road,
they make for unusual companions -
one sits wistfully in the back
of your mind's carriage,
and the other struggles and riles
against the very doors
meant to hold it in.

on the high road,
memory can be a painful mistress,
tempting long sessions of reflection -
turning into an affliction that
l o v e s
to cloud your sense of history.

the high road
was built on backs of practice -
a labour of hurt, a labour of defeat.
the high road
offers exits at so many points,
but they're all marked
with the danger sign.

at first,
i assumed that the universe
is like a table at one of them fancy conferences -
where the screens are shiny
and the water is packaged for no reason.
i thought i'd have a place card,
one shade darker
than the cream-coloured tablecloth
it rests on.
i thought that everyone at my table
had their own too,
placed as if by magical premonition,
or something even more abstract
like cosmic preordinance,
or something even weirder,
like fate.

and then i grew up,
and someone told me
that places and spaces
are found, not given,
and that i could make my own
from whatever i found.
i had no help from fate,
or cosmic preordinance,
or even magical premonitions.

you see,
i found so many places
and so many spaces
that all seemed like home.
you see,
it's not all pretty cafés
and painted nails,
it's also smiles and laughter
of the people you love;
it's also rain and hail
and a grey sky above;
it's also wide eyes
and open arms;
it's your love that lies
in lucky charms.

places and spaces
are everything that you want them to be-
the universe can always, always
make room for more.

stories often like taking strolls
sometimes in solitude,
sometimes in the company of
some others,
so long as they are happy and their
sentences seem to
subtly dissolve into one another.

stories talk to each other the most -
summarizing days and nights
stuttering on some horribly
scribbled words,
squinting at some alien scripts,
sure to trip on half-baked lines.

stories are the only ones who truly and
surely live in the moment.
somehow, they are fully aware that
sections of their lives may never
see the light of day.
still, they persist in haunting
sleepless souls burning all kinds of oil
so as to make their homes on
semi-wrinkled,
       semi-stained,
   semi-torn,
semi-ingrained paper.

stories often forget that they might be incomplete -
so they dress up,
stars and strikes and notes and all,
sashay down pages - company or alone,
slowly turn to you and almost
silently tell you to have hope.
someday, they promise,
someday they will return to you, in the
shape of an unknown familiarity,
silhouettes of a dream dreamt at 4 AM, or
shower thoughts
spelt out on walls and curtains.

stories have a habit of making
sure that no matter when they leave,
some parts of them will always be
safe with you.

stories don't mind leaving,
so long as you promise that their lives will always be
seen in the
shadows of what you promised you would write.

i remember moving
in my mind
as if it was just yesterday,
but my limbs seem to stutter
as i begin to utter the prayers.

there is a rift between
my words and my feet,
like a curtain
between the felt and the seen.

i want to write an elegy
to the way my feet knew
just how loudly they must land
to match the beating of my heart.

i want to write an elegy
to the unspoken oath my back took
to never let me look like i was let down -
to always curve and arch like
the weight of the world wasn't on my shoulders
at least for an hour.

i want to write an elegy
to the wonders that my hands created,
an assortment of fury, love, shame, and passion -
hypnotic
in the way they followed the music.

i remember breathing in dance
like it was the only air
in a sea full of fear and despair.
i remember feeling the floor change
into a sentient being,
giving me strength and joy as i moved.

there is a rift between
what my body remembers,
and what my mind wants to remember.
i can only hope
that i don't have to write an elegy
again.

instructions:

hold the door open when she arrives -
she will either storm in or hesitate,
and you must prepare for both.
she will either drift away or gravitate-
you must decide this,
for she can only move when you do.
her hands may be tied,
but her presence can both
arrest and resuscitate.

smile at her when she steps inside -
she will walk into your home,
not knowing the words you will use,
she might either be wound up too tight
or shaken up too loose,
depending on how right you thought
you once were.

let her breathe -
in anger or in exhaustion -
either way, she will wait for you
to settle down first,
and ask for unspoken allowances.
give them to her -
it has taken her time and patience and tears
to get here in the first place,
just like you.

say hello, and maybe throw in another smile -
the pain only stops
when your fears and her tears drop
to the ground.

hold her hand -
she is either raging or grieving.
either way, your hand on hers
means that there is a way out
from the cycles of loss that you find yourselves in.
(both of you)

listen to an old song with her -
when she is finally ready to leave,
she will either mourn you
or take comfort in you.
the words and voices of those wiser than you both
will guide you in this growth.
she is a part of you,
you are her home.

When Hurt leaves,
just ask that the next time she must visit,
she brings Hope along.
Three voices are less lonely together
than just two.

my days love to count themselves
on hands of a clock -
not time, not hours and minutes, no -
but the passing by of days
and running by of nights.

my days love to shapeshift
as i wake up -
from being nebulous cotton-candy noise,
to words that can broken down in
any given table or flowchart of your choice.

my days love starting with the very thought of beginnings.
what gives me strength is stacking up
on little, little tasks -
breathing too, becomes too big of an ask
if not jotted down before bright sunlight can attack me.

i love the idea of a routine,
to have a dedicated slate,
every day,
to wipe clean.
i love the comfort of knowing,
the idea of carefully sowing seeds
of whatever my body needs to do,
and my mind must dwell on.

my days, you see,
love being the last lines of colour
inside a drawing's border.
skipping beats is only useful to a heart in love,
the rest of my worlds demand law and order.

Some love was made for the lights

Love is a four letter word
that has mastered the art of bringing
every other word to its knees.
Every other syllable begs and pleads,
every other thought is wounded and bleeds,
and love carries on,
healing and hurting over and over.
This love is meant for stories
that don't end once the curtain falls.
This love demands  all eyes, all hearts,
and whatever few tears are left to give.
This love will dance on cemeteries of hurt,
finding sure footing in the dirt and dust
of whatever loneliness came before it.
Some love asks that you greet it with pride,
with hope, and half a handwritten letter.
Love will ask that you do nothing more, but
act like you've been here before.

Some kiss your cheek and goodnight
Love draws back the curtains just enough,
so that the gentlest of light falls
on sleepy faces.
This love shifts just a little so you and I
can sit in leaf-hooded lanes and talk about
absolutely nothing.
This love is the ghost of your hand in mine
when I cross the street.
This love asks for sweet slow surrenders,
for arms and hearts - open and tender.
This love grows with you and me,
unfurling and curling around silences
that are your old friends and my peaceful dead-ends.
Some love wants nothing more than
dandelion days and no-plan nights.
Love will comfort you and your weary eyes,
and ask you to
come back to bed.

You are bright orange sunsets,
and I am the dipping glow
over the horizon
when no one's looking.

You are fields of flowers
and a flying phulkari dupatta,
and I am the mandolin's four notes.
You are the power
of perfect plum lipstick,
and I am trying to learn
to take beauty in my stride.

You are all the joy
in a 90's bollywood song,
and I'm trying to catch up to the beats.

You are the changing of the seasons,
a single-handed romantic autumn,
one scent of the rains embracing the earth,
and I am the blissful passerby.

We both drown in danced-away evenings with loved-away songs,
and wished-away wishes.

You are bursts of joy
spread across the sky,
and I am a dumbstruck witness.
You are elegance
draped in nine yards of whatever battles you last conquered,
and I am lucky enough to watch you walk.
You live in the depths of happy explosions of stars,
and I make my home
in your wonders.
You are the strength
of a thousand sunny days,
and I am the memory
of rains on the earth.
You are the everlasting promise
of a shoulder to rest on,
and I am a weary traveller.

You are the light of so many lives,
and I am a shivering flame
hoping to stay in yours.

We are both dancing in the downpour, drenched in love,
awash in our own glow.

I will hide myself in cute gifs
on your phone, I will live in the tone of your happy voice,
I will make my home in "what if
she was here",
I will lurk in the background noise
in your earphones.

I will secretly settle down
on the collar of your white shirt,
I will quietly circle around the small of your back,
I might lack subtlety,
but my invasions won't be seen,
they won't hurt.

I will pull covers over my head,
I will snuggle into your perfume,
my hair tangled
with ghosts of your fingers,
A loving web lazily designed.
I will make my bed in your dreams - sleep and I are old, old friends
- I'm sure she won't mind.

I will draw up a chair next to you,
in the hopes that you let me stay
and if you get used to my company, forget that the chair was empty anyway.

Gushing breath,
joyous death,
toes half-dipped in happiness,
your secret signatures on my neck,
I am a function of the love you give me,
a happily bruised in-love wreck.

I sway to so many tunes,
I dance like so many sand dunes,
all you do is draw a horizon across my waist,
and I can taste the last dregs of unbound tears of joy,
hidden away at the back of my throat, love is a four letter word made of your two arms around mine.

Dorothy's lucky charm, my own invisible shield,
your presence dissolving in mine,
and mine in yours,
your lips on my forehead,
twenty years healed,
twenty more sealed
and tucked away.

We're built with lego pieces of light and love, and I have an eye for the little things.

Sea of turning heads,
burning glances,
semi-hidden shadow romances,
child's aisle-play-prance-dances,
on-screen France, off-screen trances,
eyes on you,
you practicing in-love stances,
one-second-when-no-one-is-looking chances,
slipped sights,
speakers-are-too-loud, a/c-too-cold circumstances,
your eyes on me,
my heartbeat on the screen's expanses.

Plots, characters, twists, turns, music,  
Arm, shoulder, skin-
Advances, advances, advances.

Two unending endless
Unbridled riots of joy
two reasons to laugh

we're not yet drunk on July showers,
we're yet to dance in August rains,
muddy and cool with pools of dreams
pooling around necks and ankles,
cloud-kissed flowers,
green hooded lanes.

we're not yet dizzy on thundering verses,
we're yet to feel the cold walk down our eyes,
assuring lines of certainty,
a definite landing on collarbones,
half-swallowed heaven's curses,
half-heard storm's lies.

we're not yet awake,
we're yet to bloom
the sun keeps us at bay,
warmth drives us away,
we're sheltered in each other's wake,
ribs forming a dripping room.

I think I like you best
when you come to me
on wings of purple hazy drunken nights.
Cheers of new years,
flowers and happy tears,
a few far aways,
but almost all so-nears.

I think I like you best
when you drown out the sound of my worries
with one look.
Stolen stairwell kisses,
cupid's gold medal - all hits and no misses,
3 AM rug-on-the-floor blisses.

I thought I loved you best
when you came to me
in my memories.

But here you are,
and I think I like you best
when you're here.

On most days
poetry feels like a testament
to your breath running away with mine.

On most days
poetry is your arms around me,
my own little shrine,
a heaven more than divine.  

Lazy writing like this can barely hold together my words,
because on most days,
poetry takes them and flies away
into your eyes.

On most days,
poetry knows she comes second,
she falls in line.

stars traced on our skin
we little, little dreamers
dance to the moon's ball

pure constellations
we little, little dreamers
pour down, drink it all

swimming in galaxies,
we little, little dreamers
learn how to fall

step by broken step
brick by broken brick, one day
it will all fall down

eye by closed eye
soul by closed soul, one evening
it will all fall down


destruction knows no
real obstacle
except for the softness of love

I am power

I watch eyes leave the ground
and walk up to her lips.
My magnetism has them lingering for longer,
hoping for a stronger look thrown at them.
I see double-takes
and furtive smiles,
I see her glide through crowds on clouds for miles.

I am war paint

She has no smile on,
her jaw is tense,
and you better not approach her
without an answer to your question.
I have nothing to do with defence,
I am a shield
but only to brandish her strength,
don't worry,
she won't reach for your jugular
till you do.

I am grace

I am an involuntary parting of the sea,
I see her bring down empires of doubt, and thrones of inadequacy.
She has no smile on,
but you hope to see one anyway.

I seem to have that effect on her.
She seems to never pick her battles without me,
and her wars are somehow always smudged with my name.
She refuses to be tamed,
she says the others don't suit her the same. 

I am constant support.
I am faith.
I am visible signs of the strength within.
I am deterring, I am inviting.
I am living legends played out on her lips, I am quiet histories whispered into no air. I am fire and rescue,
I am hope and destruction.

My name is Red.

Weeks pass by,
and the sun vomits days
onto a calendar and I spill onto blank computer screens.
Two windows live next to me,
kissing the ceiling,
and reaching down to the floor.
They live in perfect harmony
with the skies,
and are shy only of the setting sun.
Every evening,
I look at windows and the planes they carry
and wish I was the window.
To have people and stories
and paths to tread on, arms to fall in,
to have a destination to go to, sighs to breathe in.

I wish I was the window,
framing perfect fleeting moments - an eternal second,
the blink-blink of evening skies
clink-clink of mugs,
orchestrating the perfect symphony,
always in disarray but never of tune.

I wish I was the window,
to be shifting sand dunes of visions,
to be home to slightly changing constants,
a broken delta sign -

I am so close to being a window,
but your eyes are yet to look through me.

hundred mediocre verses,
ten worthy poems,
one golden idea.

i want to write you down
in so many strings
across so many thoughts,
frantically trying to connect the hollows in your shoulders to my fingers,
the small of your back to my arms.

i want to lay you down
in so many words,
across so many pages,
measuring your skin with my eyes,
your chest with my breath, your voice with the beating of my heart.

i want to write you down in so many poems,
that you take root through my pages, deep down,
in the depths of memory.

बूँद-बूँद बर्सू मैं पानी-पानी खेलूँ खेलूँ और बह जाऊं

Are clouds allowed to settle into the sun?
is rain allowed to curl up
against warm rays in the evening sky?
will rains be rains
if they aren't a messenger anymore?
will the earth miss sieges
yearned for?

In the eye of a yellow storm
in an afternoon canvas,
is rain allowed to un-spill?
To un-pour, un-cascade,
un-fall?

लब तेरे यूँ खुले जैसे हर्फ थे
होंठ पर यूँ घुले जैसे बर्फ थे

Is fire allowed to be consumed by soft snow?
are flames allowed to find a home
in the heart of winters,
nestled along heartlines of ice,
cosy, never cold,
will red still be red
if it is painted over by peace,
orange still orange
if the sun sets on stubborn fears?
In the embrace of gentle snow,
is fire allowed to un-burn?
To settle down in comfortable ashes,
to un-spark, un-engulf, un-destroy.

मैं आसमान, तू मेरी ज़मीं

You are silent storms
in balmy summers,
and I am a drizzle
rushing down to
embrace the
tepid earth.

You are
steady hands on
a keyboard and I am
haphazard syllables
splattered on pages.

You are knowing nods,
I am half-laughed
arguments.You
are the stillness
of the sky,
and I,
the
rippling river.

You are the
strength of knowing
what colours are willing
to listen to, and I am the
unexpected blooming riots of paint.

You are red evening skies,
and I am three and a
half lonely stars
- a heart, a soul, a mind,
and whatever lies in between.

You are the changing of the seasons,
and I am a foreign wind on
your skin. We are both
autumn, and what
it feels like
to fall.

technicolour troubles
weary blues, dreary dark green
riots are never grayscale

letters begin with a greeting, don't they?
how many worlds can I gather in my arms - one
for each tongue that builds it - and shower them
across parts of the motherland.
how many lives,
just how many lives won
and lost,
does it take it build bridges
to cross over from the experience of one tongue to another?
my eyes hover over words
that sound more like themselves
in another part of this nation,
and my eyes know not to hurry.
my hands try to feel the authenticity of a maatra,
lying just below the surface of italicised english,
half-sure of finding the sound of the earth
pulsing through the page.

there are so many worlds
that I am yet to gather in my arms
- how can I look beyond the horizon
if its shadow lines lie just beyond my vision?

Under hooded lanes on my skin,
you're making homes
to house each memory
you breathe onto it.
No door is shut in these homes,
No window latched,
No bed unslept in,
No cry unheard in.

Swirling concrete,
******* hearts,
And the faith of young people -
Three impossible stories that you're teaching me to read.
Word by shaking word,
Syllable by foreign syllable,
I learn these stories slowly -
Your heartbeat is my meter,
Your shut eyes are my verse.

We're learning of new tongues drenched in alcohol,
forbidden by the weight of countless accidents.
Fallen-star-paperweights,
Slurring-satin-papercuts.

We're tasting new lives,
new times,
new seas and pools,
and all they can say is

*we're speaking easy.

Many days,
Poetry will not coax me out of my stupor
with the zest of a child
on the first day of summer.
Many days,
she will not make a sound
as she runs through a house
made of my words - no anklet tinkling against silvery feet,
no soft swishes of her dupatta across the sofa.
Many days,
Poetry would like to leave me alone
- in my home of rust and rubble,
in the middle of technicolour trouble,
me surrounded by blunt edges
of half-chipped words,
half-baked rhythm (never rhyme), half-sighed syllables onto blank paper.
Many days,
Poetry sees me accept complete defeat,
with art gathering dust
in the pages of notebooks that will never need filling,
with pens that will never be picked up, with ideas that will never be strung into a poem.

And yet here I am.

Picking up frayed string ends,
trying to tie them into a verse,
to leave it on the first shelf for her
to hopefully pick up.

It might be time for Poetry
to take 29 slowstumblingstuttering steps towards me,
this is me taking the first.