When all desire at last and all regret
Go hand in hand to death, and all is vain,
What shall assuage the unforgotten pain
And teach the unforgetful to forget?
Shall Peace be still a sunk stream long unmet,—
Or may the soul at once in a green plain
Stoop through the spray of some sweet life-fountain
And cull the dew-drenched flowering amulet?

Ah! when the wan soul in that golden air
Between the scriptured petals softly blown
Peers breathless for the gift of grace unknown,
Ah! let none other written spell soe’er
But only the one Hope’s one name be there,—
Not less nor more, but even that word alone.

I am the Bird of Hermes,
I devoured my own wings,
And that is how I keep myself tamed.

Like a dark ghost you haunt me,
Wherever I go, your memories stalk me,

You think you knew me,
But the reality is far from the fantasy,

You have just seen the worst in me,
How would you look at me now?
A piller of strength,

One, with dangerous potential,
in the end, it's all sequential

Part of the tragedy is that life is unforgetful,
So strong that others fear my potential,

So dark and timid, yet so calm it offsets,
the storm that goes where I go,

To the point where I have to bite my wings,
And stop myself from soaring,
Cause this is not the story of Icarus,
But of the Fallen Bird that outgrew the master,

Yes, I am the Bird of Hermes,
And I devoured my own wings,
So that I remain tamed.

The king and queen cried
“Bless us! We cannot conceive!”
And “blessed” they were.
Their heir, a miracle, a vision of royalties.

And so a celebration was in order
(as is most pertinent in events such as princess births)
to adorn the little lamb with gifts.

“Gifts”.

Whether the blame lies here or there
our princess lamb heir stands the most to suffer
in cases such as forgotten friends.

Or unforgetful vengeance--

So spite screeched an everlasting “CURSE THEE TO DEATH ON THE ***** OF A SPINDLE!”
And with a turn of its heels shock
set       in.
...shock
sinks
in.
The well-intentioned sprite attempts to soften the wolf’s blow on our little lamb heir--

Only a nap--
only it would seem such in the conjecture of events.

Now no longer is she princess baby heir then does a spindle come alive
X winters later!
(convenient, one might say--in all the land one’s but burned, temptingly locked away in the curious tower)
Insert fainting sounds.
Insert crowded gasps.
Insert “told you so!”
And the sheep follow our little lamb’s sleep.
One hundred year sleep.

Hair follicles sprout a slimy green, and not-so-royal fungi flourishes--
brash brambles tuck in the herd as if to say
“Sleep tight!
Don’t let the mites bite!”
But not our little lamb.
Reassuringly beautiful princess lamb heir keeps
like red wine.
She is only to be drank up from the
right cup--
a proper lamb.
Prince Lamb.
Whose worries consist of much different things than our lamb heir--
but for another ‘lore.

Our Prince Lamb dips, sips,
lips on lips
and she is awake!
Beautiful princess lamb knows exactly what to make
of all this?

The sheep herd rises,
and their “joyous” bleating reverberate
and penetrate
cold castle walls and break down the thorny cover.

And they lived happily
(and most originally)
ever after--
as sheep tend to do.

Ever thought how these four years would turn out for you??

Classes, proxies and birthday surprises,

Or ‘Junior– senior’ interaction which was a ragging in disguise!

The unlimited Gangtok trips-

Which was a first step towards your relationships!

Momos, Thukpas, Jalebi and Falay,

Which you would have it without any delay!



Kaalrav or departmental fest,

Which you would attend with utter zest!

The 6.9 turbulence-

Causing a whole lot of turbulence!

People seeming like refugees-

With no phone networks to contact friends, relatives and families!

Those 14 tiring sessionals in total

Which you crossed, thinking it to be a hurdle!

The placement tension-



And getting a job was the ultimate question!



Aahhh! These four years of igniting memories are just too wonderful,

Which  are definitely unforgetful!!!
(Meanings : Kaalrav- College fest
Momos, Thukpa, Jalebi and Falay- local cuisines in the state of Sikkim, India
Sessional- mid-sems)

April showers bring May flowers,
yes this is true,
but what do Mays’ flower filled days bring?
June.
And what is June to me an you?
June is Summer.
June has that one single day where the bell finally rings,
and you swear you hear angels sing,
but really
its everyone's insane screams.
June is all those wonderful sticky hot days.
Sticky hot days that you can’t possibly seem to get enough of.
June is sunny
sleep overs,
sprinklers,
and
summery goodness.
Summery goodness, how can you explain that vibrant feeling?
I don't think there is a real experience in life
that could equal up to that feeling.
If i had to guess,
It’d be exactly like dancing on a rainbow
It’d be just like flying in a room with a thousand fire flies.
We all know that feeling
of unforgetful, fascinating fun.
Everyday is like a new book, just waiting to be written in.
And every Summer is like a lifetime,
try and look back on one single day,
you know its impossible.
Your mind soon fills with
every other day there has been
and every other day there will be.
Sure, you may have stacks of pictures,
and you may have written in your diary
about that one moment of pure bliss,
or a special kiss.
but those summer days,
no matter how special they may be
could never possible be explained.
and that's what makes those days so special to you.
So, April showers bring May flowers.
Yes this is true,
but what does May bring?
Its way too wondrous to explain.

When the crushing today turns burdensome, I recline-
When the uncertainty of my tomorrow haunts, I reminisce
back into those days of unceremonious past- yeah!
that's where I go, for my short afternoon siesta.

Miles away from the town; friends, chit chats forgone;
Fragments of home, picked up; Remnants of self, left behind.
When cherished memories perish, the past-me withers away.
Singing the songs of the dying soul is the living me!

away from home, the longer I kept -the irony of our times!
away from self, the longer I moved; the irony of our lives!
As time moves on, relationships slip away; and
before strange gets familiar, the familiar turns strange!

Thinking of home; that everydayness of my childhood;
Ordinary, yet profound; Silly, yet unforgetful!
into that tenderness of the amateur soul, I ride back
to fetch the phantoms of that juvenile heart.

Forgotten old times and forgone loved ones;
Week end phone calls and weakened ties;
Amidst exhaustive past and the extravagant future,
Deep within, I wonder, what is left of me?

A Product of the Middle-class aspiration;
caught in the illusion of career progression is I
homeless in the foreign land called modern times,
orphaned by circumstances, I feel, I'm my own refugee!

Archived memories don't make home; love and affection do!
Internet and Instagram don't make home; intimacy does.
Bank balances don't make home, brothers and sisters do!
Money and wealth don't make home, warmth of a mother does!

Come, let's go back home! our folks are waiting;
for, to return home is to reintegrate our broken self.
awkwardness of anonymity, all over; let's flee the gadget sanctuary!
for, to come back home is to give a break to our senile spirits.


Saravanan

Startled and horrified by society,
A silhouette of a petrified soul crumples in the darkest corner of the night,
In tears and remorse,
With slit arms and blood flowing through each wound,
Droplets of tears and blood drip, forming a pool of water n' rust,
The scars on her heart deepen and stain her body,
The dark circles under her pale eyes, moist,
An urge to smoke or drink escapes her lips as a sigh,
Not caring about what's harmful and what's not,
Just a sip or a puff of smoke can shackle all her hurt,
Vandalized from within,
Completely shut and worn out-
Thanks to one mistake they take her innocence away,
An unforgetful dread, a frightful nightmare!