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.

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.

my brain is useless.
it is my eyes
that run over
the edges of your mouth,
greeting the sky,
when i watch you
watch the birds
fly towards
their innocent idea
of a home.

my brain is useless.*
my ears hear
the quiet sound
of your laughter,
when it tries to peek
through a steady stream
of my babbles.

my brain is useless.
it is my arms
that i trust
to not miss a single second
of encapsulating your
every word,
   every glance,
       every movement
        that you lavish
        on me.

my brain is useless.
it is my words
that do not fail me -  
i can dress you up
in the prettiest allegories,
the most mesmerising
of metaphors,
the most flattering adjectives.

my brain is useless,
but you
have the power
of rendering all my syllables
an extravagant waste,
an unnecessary hindrance,
with
one
   single
       word.

*(or maybe three)

I cross seas
of tired backs
with broken bones
and stretching haversacks.
an ocean of people
f l i n c h i n g
 at invisible attacks
from a faceless few,
a layer of dew
s e t t l i n g
on morphing faces.

veins that appear
blue,
   green,
       yellow,
            red
on the skin of this city
often pop out and disrupt it.

where lives change
as easily iron tracks,
where lives are organised
into shelves and racks,
when a chain pulled
is a life lost,
or
losing.

two eyes looking for hope
two arms reaching out for you
one heart - empty handed.

You find an old trunk
In the attic of your nani's house.
Bravely braving the dust and
Creepy cobwebs, you tip toe,
t i p p y t o e
towards this testament to the ages.
On the heavy, heavy lid
lie the introductions of old stories -
tucked beneath discarded truths
and gilded lily lies.
You push the heavy lid up
like the brave, brave child that you are.
The only sounds -
a massive groan,
and the absence of your breath.

Tucked within are treasures.

The first layer -
a thin film of castles
royal drawbridges,
a high tower,
several dozen horses,
gold necklaces,
of Kings and Queens,
and the in-betweens.

A second sheath
Decorated with tales of conquests,
a victory here and there,
tales of rigid tests,
a problem to be solved
by the truly good,
and the uniquely pure.

The last layer sits happily at the bottom.
An age-old invitation to all
who seek solace.
Mumma's old dolls sit beside
Nani's soft sarees,
faded like her hair,
and like her memory.
This layer gives warmth.

No, it is warmth.

The last layer awaits your weary heart,
It holds the secret art of
curing every bad day.
This layer will caress your worries
And fold them into
itself
         into oblivion,
or perhaps
into a Happy Ending.

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.

There's few spaces
in this world where
a sea of faces
doesn't scare me.
There's fewer spaces
in this world where
the faces turn up
to me and smile -
real, actual smiles -
and not the fake ones for shady profiles.

I love you guys.

I see Open Eyes -
filled with a thirst
to know more,
see more,
be more,
be better than before.
Eyes that do not blink
at the introduction of something new, views that don't flinch
when given something
to think about.

I see Open minds -
welcoming the creation
of a brand-new world,
one where art doesn't
have to shuffle along the sidelines
of a room,
where society can leave
 its guidelines at the door.
 I'm sure that we here,
today,
are the first to realize
that art creates a life
beyond the arbitrary
beating of hearts.

We're children
 of the first thinking generation,
 catching on to swinging anchors
from sinking ships
 to swim up and
 breathe in the first gulps of art.

I'm proud of my words.

In secret, mostly.
Loud lights and
open mic nights scare me,
to write the truth.

The things i write
and the things i say
live in two different worlds.
one - where my mind has its
own way - telling me to
keep mum at least today - s p o k e n

the world i try to hide in
on paper
is forgiving.
it will never shun me
for living
under layers
    upon layers
         upon layers
of curving words that i created - w r i t t e n

i pretend to think
of the rhythm that should inhabit
the empty space between words,
but then i fail,
almost
by force of habit -
as you can now very well see
or hear?
Mics aren't as forgiving as people.
when the speakers blast
my trembling breath
into the corners of a small room,
i think i understand
why a mountain can be named
Mount Doom -
it's the same amount of effort. - s p o k e n

What do i do, then?

Then, i run.

i clamber over steps
stumble over wires
careful not to trip.
i leave behind the small room
with big people
and laughing lips.
and i run, run, run.
i close the door behind me
as i break into my own
castle of ink and unsaved notes.
i thank the chineese
for turning trees into
empty screens waiting
for me to empty my thoughts
onto them.
thank you, darling Egypt
deceased trees make me feel
better about myself
every single day - w r i t t e n

I'm proud of my words.

In secret, mostly.

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?

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

single book of matches
gonna burn what's standing
in the way
a lone flame might look like
a pitiful part of an inferno
that perhaps was,
but never will be
a l i v e.
you can try to magnify
warmth into heat
using all sorts of transparent things -
one* - a glass,
two - your face that can't hide what you think,
three - the lone tear the dresses your cheek in the night;
but let me know
when you succeed at
caressing cold embers into
a living, breathing fire.

burned out flames
should never re-ignite,
but i thought you might
i hoped to the patron saint of
hopelessness that you weren't
beyond her saving grace.
**** falling stars, i wished on
burning planets to see
if i could salvage the last light
from their core
to plant their fire in yours.

*i will never be your cornerstone

याद पिया की आए

i  miss you.
my disgruntled face,
constant gnarling at the sun
might have already betrayed
how much i hate the summer.

i hate the summer,
i miss you.

i miss your movement across the earth
as you
t i p t o e / march,
tread lightly* / thunder in,
caress / trample,
r e j u v e n a t e / strangle.

most of all,
i miss you because
i wish you would rush in,
darken the skies with clouds
like kajal for a goddess.
shove the sun
under a celestial carpet
woven from cool water
and colder skies.

i miss you.
my hatred for the sun
only progresses with the months
till july, till you descend.

they say that when love arrives,
you can hear a hundred violins,
you can see the colours in every living thing.
when you arrive,
i see only joy -  
pure liquid joy.

i miss you.

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.

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

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.

a lapping wave,
sea of ink colours pages
today is poetry

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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 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.

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 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 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.

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.

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.

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.

click
    click
clack
On a white marble floor
If you're a woman,
you already have
one foot out the door
of a room filled with
all the conversation
and opportunities
that a man can afford.

This is a scene we've all seen before.
Paid way less
when you're told
that you worked way more.
I'm sure a client will adore my face
in a meeting,
but what do i do with the horror
when he hears me speaking?

I'm reeking of the sour aftertaste of everyday misogyny.  
My worth measured
by the distance between
my skirt and the floor.
And when I protest,
politely, of course
Being told that I can do better,
I can be more than a bore.

My skin revolts
From the last time a colleague
brushed his hand accidentally
against my everything.
My strength and independence rot
in catacombs made from begrudging wombs,
waiting for their lives to begin
before building a tomb for another.

My ears hear no corporate conflict.
My eyes read no unjust verdict.
My knees wobble of no panic.
My voice even now is not frantic.
I try to use my woman card as a shield,
But they already know I'll yield
Because sadly
Feminism, safety, and my daily routine
don't get along very well with each other.


If I could stretch myself to my full capacity;
Correction.
If you'd let me stretch myself to full capacity,
I'd be taller than these nine yards,
Stronger than this silken thread ,
Darker than this black,
Louder than this naked mic.

My worth is equal to the number of folds in this sari.
Uncertain.
      Defined.  
           Redefined.
                Ever changing.
As I shift move walk stumble run shuffle sprint
Dive
Into the storm.

Riot chhod,
I'm a civil war of colour.
Black sari
Black eyes
Black bindi
Golden jhumkas
Red lips
Multicoloured sword at my hip
Swinging at the shackles they placed on me.

Din ke dus dangey lad jaati hu mai,
Saal ki solah siyaahein bharke ruk jaati hu main,
Kabhi kahin khade rehne ki jagah mil jaye,
Toh iss duniya ki acchhaai se thak jaati hu main.

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.

Begin anew.
Start afresh.
I want to go
to a place
where there is nought
but my heart
splayed out like
waves over the rocky beach.

My emotions will flow as
the waves caress,
gently,
each grain of sand,
every grain of sand
in the teeming lifelessness
of the sea
that cannot be
fathomed.

The tides ebb
and the tides
flow;
but the water moves not.
It is still and will be,
for change does not
skim the beach.

Begin anew?
Start afresh?

You try it first.

The waves will,
for once,
wait
and
watch.

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.

Your neck is bruised and red and raw,
dear dream.
Your pulse is feeble, last that I saw,
dear dream.
Your eyes, they have lost that light,
dear dream.
Your soul has given up this fight,
dear dream.

This you know in your heart,
dear dream.
That you were never meant to be a part
of the soaring hope and flourishing start
expected of you by them,
dear dream.

The noose,
It tightens around your neck,
dear dream.
They’re telling you you’re a wreck,
dear dream.
You are given marching orders, ‘
dear dream.
You are given reckless borders,
dear dream.

The noose,
It tells you how to feel,
dear dream.
It tells you when to heel,
dear dream.
And when I tell you to run,
dear dream.
Catching you will not pass for fun,
dear dream.

The noose,
Waits for you in light and dark,
dear dream.
Waits to douse that spark,
dear dream.
Flee, my dear,
dear dream.
Hide, my dear,
dear dream.

The noose,
It waits patiently for its due,
dear dream.

In shaking verse
She writes down the gifts of his divinity.
Her trembling meter pays homage
To the ruby red circles seared onto her skin.
Every stuttering syllable is an offering
That she conjures as a devotee,
Who has defaulted on the repayment
Of words, now long overdue.

He demands epic proportions of gifted wisdom,
He asks for legendary lines in his honour.
He demands for glory to his name,
Written in red.

The patron saint of inspiration
Retains his light,
And casts gifted shadows over her,
As she struggles to her elbows,
Drowning in loud, blank papers.

The patron saint of inspiration
Waits at the altar of poetry,
Watching tributes flow in,
Mounted on her fragile skin
And faded rhymes.

The patron saint of inspiration
Inspects the fabric of the writer's soul,
And passes judgement
On the worth of her tears,
Ever smiling, ever watching.

The patron saint of inspiration
Lures her to the gates of Eden
Only to have her trace her words
In the eternal dust of the ephemeral
Gods that gathers beneath it.

His grace against her fatigue,
His divinity against her anguish.
His grand schemes against her hope
His knowledge against her intrigue.

The patron saint of inspiration
Watches her from the walls within.

The patron saint of inspiration
Encourages her divine sin.

I'll **** you out someday.
When tangles of roots
and tangles of branches
and tangled wisps of every breath
we took together lie
tangled in the wild grass,
brushing our knees.
Please believe.*

One day, I'll **** you out.
Poison Ivy of your thoughts
runs up and
d
o
w
n
all sorts of walls,
there's ivy draped crumbling pillars
to every hall,
and poison dripping out of your mouth
and I feel
small.

But trust me - one day, I'll **** you out.
Secrets lie in every stalk of
seacress you stole from the sea
to dress underwater labyrinths
that you planted in my barren mind.
Secretive looks wound up
in secret sighs and
secret smiles,
and what do you think
and what do I feel,
all locked up
inside sea green boxes.

Of course you're leaving my space,
I told you,
I'm weeding you out.
There's moss on gates
that have held shut cemeteries of loss.
Moss covered stones line pathways
that crisscross to form the shape of you
thinking about the afterlife.
Moss greets cold concrete
with promises of lost stories of you,
recounted with
every
mood
I've ever seen you in.

I know I keep saying this,
but I will **** you out.
Till then,
I'll save the darkness
under light leaves
for an eve that talks to me
of the wonders you held in your eyes.
Leaves that will ease me
into sleeves of warmth
made from the last time
your arms found mine.
Till then,
the last light from your words
will fight to shine through the overgrown grass,
now knee high,
till I can sight it
from a 100
                 light
                        years
                                away.
Till then,
the seeds of a heart you planted
will start sprouting into a mighty tree,
its branches spreading
a r t
across time and space.

I'll **** you out someday.
But that day is **not today.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Je serai poète et toi, la poésie.*
I will be the poet and you, the poetry.

But it is not the words
That I scribbled out in arduous hand,
The slopes of my letters,
That quite encompass
The ***** of you leaning against
The pane of my window in the rains.

Nor is it the soft cursive
In which I gently wrote down
Your expression when a flake of snow
Soft and tender;
Rustling through the branches of fir
To land on your nose,
Ever so gently;
That can quite tell the world
What your clear laughter does
To an hour of gloom.

I knew then,
That my mind, with its fractured
Concepts disjoint syllables and tripping verse might not be capable
Of putting pen to paper
And recall your fiery eyes,
When they pierce the veil of
Young melancholy
And beckon me to act my age,
And not a morbid royal spinster.

And I thought of how you knew
In far more precise details how
After a weary day, I flopped down
On to the couch in monotonous exhaustion
Wiping my brow, shaking off the
Metaphorical dust.
You knew, far better than me,
The blurred movements of my hands
As I traced words in the air.

I watched you watch me
Move and I watched as you noted
The crest of every breath I took.

And I thought.

Tu sera poète et moi, la poésie.
You will be the poet and I, the poetry.

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 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.

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.

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.