I’ve been dipping my words in hot coffee & purple ink,
Since I know you like to warm your heart into them.
I’ve been dragging my bones over the skin of these pages,
Because I wanted to write you poems like I was really there.
I wanted to touch the spines of books on your shelves,
And ask you if you could feel the shiver.
I was sifting what’s left of this stardust of memories,
and I can promise you my greatest work is yet to come.
It’s when the silver bones of my mind,
will be polished down to the silence of snow on paper.
When writers love, the planet does spin a bit slower.
It lends us time to turn all our quietness into words.
There’s a lake that winds on forever.
There’s a path that no man has taken for years.
I wanted to see where it leads.
So I took a different route the other day.
I wandered a bit, honey. Even though they had asked me not to.
I took a journey to the roads that have cursed stories.
The legend says people who went there were scarred forever.
And now I have a memory weighing down on my sanity.
I came back changed. I came back scarred from the things I saw and I touched.
“There’s a forest beyond the rusty gate,” the old man had spoken.
“But don’t go in there, young lad” his words fell on my deaf ears.
How long I kept walking inside the gate, is a question now I ask myself.
All I know is that the forest got a hold of me.
I can feel it in my bones to this moment.
I saw the things stranger than ever.
And now I can’t tell the truth from the reality.
I saw you sitting cross-legged at a familiar place, once I crossed the wooden bridge.
I remember how the trees willowed down & darkness took over.
I remember it all happened as I walked over the damn bridge.
You sat on the other side like you’ve always been there.
Younger and happier as if pulled out of an old Polaroid.
In your favourite purple jacket, zipped halfway through.
You tucked your hands inside the pockets and started to walk.
I followed you like a ghost.
Beyond the bridge and into the woods.
At a place that time cannot rule.
Is it the end of our worlds or is it the beginning? Is it a shortcut to our memories?
Out there was your world that whispered to me.
I headed into the unknown, the one that felt familiar eerily.
I have come back changed now, and I can’t unsee the ghosts I have been with.
I took a little journey into the darkness, honey.
I cheated on time and now I’m being punished for it.
I can’t tell if I belong to this time or another.
I can’t help but wonder if you’re still sitting there, with your one leg crossed over another.
Like the December of 2009.
Let’s pick a black hole to plunge into,
Let’s tumble down into the black velvet sky.
Let’s spin around the planets as tiny specks,
Until we transcend the dimensions of space and time.
Inject sunsets into my arm,
Let me feel your rush.
Let me love you violently in the privacy of my heart.
Your rib cage holds an ocean,
It’s the night we drain this sea
And plant flowers on its floor.
I think you’ve become a planet yourself,
Which is why I keep orbiting you like a dead satellite.
Turn the stars back on,
Let the moonlight slice the years gone by.
A taste of the universe sits on your tongue,
Show me how many galaxies you hold in your mouth.
Pour me a thunderstorm or two on the rocks,
Let us riot against the time.
Let’s tumble down, down, and down into the black velvet sky.
It’s the night we become one with the cosmic sublime.
Poetry. She is a woman.
He ressurects her on nights that keep him awake.
She is his favourite garden dressed in black.
She drags him through the storm where the pretty things bloom.
She is made of all the sunsets he tried to evade.
She is an overdose of wildflowers stuffed in his chest.
She is his bruised knees and a pair of broken wings.
She tastes like his desires with a hint of bourbon .
They meet under the twinkle lights & he presses her against the bricks.
He caresses her like she’s his lifeline inscribed on a parchment.
She likes the way he calls her name with his hands around her neck.
She tells him things that petals confide to the Sun.
He can’t remember the first time her soul whispered to his. He knows she woke it.
But it hasn’t slept since.
Poetry. She is a woman.
A sunset chaser, star gazer.
A wide-eyed pretty little mess.
You tell me you don’t miss home anymore
You stare at the faceless portraits of people you come across
You wait until midnight to listen to your favourite song
In the new city that sucked you in
Just a month before
You tell me it’s hard for a ghost
To be dissolved in such a crowd
You tell me you can’t as much work on new art
You stare at rusty drafts that hoped to breathe life
Just a year back
You tell me you take the longer route back home
You chew on daydreams more than before
You stumble upon a broken tree and
The old abandoned houses try to pull you in
You wander the city like a ghost from another time
You tell me you don’t miss home anymore
As I get ready looking right at you
You mimic me until I smile
Then you draw a half smile in reply
I leave for the new office in the brand new town
You stay back on the other side of the glass
I remember drowning in the sea with a rock tied to my legs.
Though it was a mammoth ocean trying to claim me, I felt like a lost kite wandering off in an azure sky.
I was gasping for breath until a mermaid came to rescue me.
I opened my eyes to her face studying mine. Looking at the typewriter next to me, she grinned.
“Write a tale which speaks of a white ship. The day you finish it, a giant wave will help you find your way back” the mermaid whispered into my right ear.
I was looking for the right words to say. But like all beautiful things, the creature was an ephemeral one.
With one flip of her tail, she disappeared into the dark sea.
It has been twenty-seven days since she left me here. Alas, marooned yet alive.
Sitting with my weary feet dug into the white sand & my eyes staring at the papers flying around in a frenzy.
Ready to prophesise with my words and undo the curse from the past.
I would like to believe that I have somehow made it already in the parallel universe.
The crumpled papers in the sand have slowly begun to unfold. They are asking me to breathe life into them.
But I’m busy pondering over the stale thoughts in my head.
It is insane how we let these voices in our head devour us. The things we need to purge, we let them feed on our brains like ravenous parasites.
But I have had enough of it now. I have stared far too long at the sand beneath my feet.
It is time to howl back at the Moon. Howl back at the ghosts of our ‘what ifs’ looking down on me.
I had buried your soul in my typewriter long after you left. And I see it burn out into the tiny sparks as I hit the keys.
Like a firefly, it hovers around my head. It’s been the only light on this godforsaken island.
I sometimes wonder if you’re keeping me company or waiting for me to wither & die.
Your love had grown like wildflowers in my ribs. I couldn’t pluck it, so it spread further to crush my lungs.
Much to your displeasure, I do feel a rush now.
There is a sparkle in my veins. It travels down my spine & kindles my senses.
I sit by the sea every day where sunlight breathes warmth through the singing trees.
This is where I shall conjure angels and create magic.
I could move through the time with waves. My words will shatter distances and defy the ocean’s depths.
You know, I keep thinking over what the mermaid said.
I have been writing for twenty-seven days straight. But the story never ends.
I’m stuck in a riddle that keeps me dying and alive at the same time.
There are days it rains & I hide under the tree. I have seen how the peace exists there in a daydream.
The rain drops fall over the pages, and I silently hope the ink will find its way to the egress.
If you read the poem well, you’ll even see the silhouette of a raven on the pages. It was sent by the Poseidon to keep an eye on me.
I have finally learned that the magic is concealed in one’s belief.
Why else would the mermaid choose me? When the sea is littered with lifelines, and she won’t touch a single one. That creature is in love with the dying.
Or maybe the resurrection is her task to summon all poets & writers and bring back the magic. I will never know.
Today, I’m standing at the spot beside the river where the willow branches touch the water. I can hear the waves singing paeans on my behalf.
I have now learned to hold hands with the wind and let the words become infinite.
I can see that the crumpled pages have joined into a giant paper boat.
The quest is at last complete. It is time to sail once again and say hello to the roaring breeze.
This little place they call a writer’s block.
Would you care to pay me a visit?
I surround myself with it. I stay in it, and I sleep over it.
I have made it my home now.
Would you push open the old creaking gate,
And tiptoe down the spiral staircase to the basement?
The house welcomes you with an archaic clock.
It is stuck at the hour you said goodbye.
Don’t be fooled; they’re my eyes.
Stare at them long enough & your reflection will wink back.
The guestroom is adorned with a flame.
My lungs blow oxygen once in a while to rekindle its dying spark.
Hear that fluttering sound right across the hall?
A foolish child tied my heart to the ribcage,
said it was his paper kite that someone tried to snatch away.
I keep thinking that you’d come around.
I hear you re-read the drafts I scribbled long back,
Ask me who did I write them for?
But I just lie here in an empty bed,
And watch the wind play its dirty tricks.
Our memories ride on the paper planes,
And fly across the room in a frenzy.
Till they become the wandering clouds,
that disappear into the sunbeam.
The memories that you’ll become in years to come,
The memories that you already are.
Give me a typewriter and some black coffee to complement it.
Make it drizzle outside my bedroom window and let vapors of caffeine flirt with my head.
Allow me to ponder, as I wipe away the drops of first rain from the window pane.
It will take some time, some giving-up and then some pulling-myself-up again to begin.
But the blend of rains and coffee shall suffice; it shall be enough to bribe my heart.
To spark the thousands of tiny street lamps in the corners of my brain.
And then I will write, I will put you into words, I will cage you into a stanza and I’ll only give you the keys to the egress.
I will write you into something that will carve your heart out of its rib cage and place it onto your hand and ask you what to do with it.
Dead poets will listen stealthily to my plans from behind the bookshelves.
They’ll stand witness to you tearing me apart with those stares and to me fucking your brains out with lyrical armaments.
Take off the clothes of sanity; my hands are itching to write, to send shivers down your spine.
Allow me to slide my hands into your hair while it drips off dew shining along their edges.
The beam of sun punches holes into the blinds and illuminates your wet neckline.
The slow fuck escapes your lips as you watch me and read yourself.
Love might take another form but the smell of first rain remains the same.
Melancholy to your sighs and reminiscent of your breath.
Teach me how to inhale this world and exhale it as art once again.
Orange sunsets hid in her pockets,
Storms of tomorrow lurked dormant in her eyes.
Draped in nothing but a sly grin on her cheeks,
Her lips whispered sins belied with amorous smiles.
A muse for a poet, a prose for a writer;
A perfectly composed symphony of laughter, moans and sighs.
Like a flickering flame she was.
Kindle her spark just enough,
And you’ll be pleasured by her warmth.
Provoke her fire a little too much,
And she burns you down to ash.
She was not meant to be conquered.
Or to be borrowed from the Gods of light.
One had to be brave and foolish at the same time,
To set themselves ablaze for few golden moments of her time…