Amrita Shergill Marg, Delhi

 

I

 

Laburnum blooms whisk sanity

away from the wind; past

is a shifting

cloud.

summer

is pastel yellow-green,

picking purples from jamuns

  shedding over the jaded footpath.

 

 

II

 

Colours descend at

                                     night,

fragrance is a whore.

 

III

 

Moon becomes all the words,

where there is no language.

 

You are the silence I seek.

 

IV

 

Memories drizzle

in times of drought,

 

monsoon is still far away.

 

V

 

There is no walking on this street.

 

Minds float like lighted lamps in the

river that desires,

transposing myths and reality.

 

VI

 

The quest is for eternity,

yet time throws things

either changed or hewed,

 

for instance, that

 

proud, naked-branched tree

which used to be the muse

of our conversations;

 

a year is a testimony enough.

 

 

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An accident

The road ahead could only be cautioning,
and not belong to the world divided in utopia or dystopia
like the one I walked on thursday afternoon-

an uprising in itself, like the horse I’m riding on
gone wild in search of a tree shade in moorland-
less of a collision into a car, more of a

collision into an unprecedented faith, to which
I woke up beside tyres, in unfathomable survival
of my senses, of this life that could slip away

in moments like these, and I don’t know if
I ventured into god, but I did find myself
soaking in a different light-

that carried physical wounds and healed
internal pains-letting me see all things undone
in the labyrinth of my flesh and bones

Starting out in Bombay

I exist on the periphery of a demented crowd-
rushing, rumbling, rummaging the city in
impenetrable geometry,

negotiating life in inconceivable dimensions of
concrete and fortune

I slackline in angst on the edges, looking for an inlet-
waiting to pursue, to be moved, to be bewitched;
alternatives exhaust-there is only one voice
pouring from within and out-
plunge!

Untitled

The stillness of this night is double-faceted,
unmoved by the candle whose flickering flame is
burning inquisitive of my abundance, in a room
whose walls are dampened with uncertain forlornness

It pokes yet again, seeping through the netted window,
mumbling impossibilities of stories from other rooms
coiled up in unforeseen love; and to this, it finally
makes me preach why I subscribe to non-consequentialism,
how I have managed to preserve beauty embedded in different
points in time-living lifetimes in a few moments

The clouds have started to rise again,
the pre-rain breeze blows out the candle,
I am compelled to put my intoxication to sleep
and still, feel abundant

Untitled

One day,
time will collapse

and you will be where you should be,
celebrated in the right crowd,
acknowledged for the right work,
embraced in the right arms,
residing in the right place

Till then,
don’t distil your dreams with reality;
make peace with your struggles,
for dreams cannot be traded for
right or wrong-time dissolves the
difference in itself

Untitled

You don’t realize your own self well,
neither grant me the opportunity to do so

Yet I’ve always managed to make
those discreet endevours in seeing you,
the way you should be seen-
a magnificent embodiment of mind
and mindlessness, thoughts and action,
love and duties,
of human and divine co-existence;

even if I don’t want to, yet
I happen to plunge into the divinity
manifested in you-
The sheer brilliance in
the way you forge things to
be catered to the world

That for me you are no less
than a Godsent mired in
the cumbersome reality of the world,
only to unravel the latent recesses
of your own magnanimous self

If only you could see, what
I can see!

Migrant

I was told that it was going to take a while
in constructing the boat and sending it back to the sea

But I was not not told, that it was going to
take a longer while in reconstructing the residuals

I was told about the storms and the tides,
the moon and the time

But I was not told, of the new land and languages,
the trees and the soils

My land across the sea is like the song of the
nightingale, echoing each night before sleep

My land under this feet, is the very elixir of
my breath and its vitality, my sleep and its dreams

The boat is the postcard of my existence,
unprepared to be moored to the shore,
divided between the invincible intimacy
of the two lands

And yet, they ask me to choose one,
or, forget the other