The tale untold

Concealed and cagey in the scarlet vale
elucidated a woman, of a beautiful tale.
A tale of love, togetherness and despair,
a profound secret lost in air.

Her thoughts preceded to the times of yore;
to a castle on the fringe of a shore;
where Romeos and Juliets danced in merry
with no frets or agony in their life to decry.

She saw him there, the Prince of her life
with whom she knew her days would thrive.
A man of beauty and charm was he;
with a saccharine voice and eyes pale green.

He took her hand; the ballet queen
Gliding in the ballroom, all through the eve
Like Romeos and Juliets they danced in merry
with no frets or agony in their life to decry.

He promised to return and ask for her hand
to sweep her off her feet and take her to his land.
Through fading eves she lingered in vain
on her Prince and the white horse who never showed again.

Decades later, she recalls that night
when she was depraved of love by a glorious Knight.
Whose eminence triumphs throughout mankind
but left his woman far behind

In a rugged paper she scribbles a note
to unknown faces, of her lover’s quote
Hoping to remind him, she still exists
And waits for him, for that first kiss...

She crumbles the note and shudders a tear
and blows the millionth kiss in air.
After an era, she sleeps in ease
Leaving her soul to rest in peace

The woman insane

Perhaps a moment, a minute maybe
is all that she wants, ‘tis all that she needs.
The woman whom ideally they call insane
whom they call a nuisance, a threat they blame.
What is with her? That she scares the passer-by’s
with a stone in her hand and fury in her eyes.
“Where does she live?” a child out of innocence
asks his mom as they whizz past by.
No time for the woman,
not a minute at all.
To listen to her woes, listen to ‘em all.
In a perpetual murmur she speaks out her words.
Alas! To the little lad they seem unheard.
With a courageous heart, she ought to have lied;
when she laughed through her voice, with tears in her eyes.
Are there no hands to wipe them out?
To ease the crease of her frown?
Perhaps a poet like me might want
to purge off her woes with a magical wand.
Or slap her hard, at least make her cry,
such little do we think, seldom do we try.
The lady in the bus who laughs in haste
of her son, whom the mad woman had chased.
What matters? We don’t have a moment or two,
for we have our own lives, our sanity to pursue.
Miles apart from the woman, I now travel by
thinking of her, with a tear in my eye.
Maybe I should have gone, least should have tried.
Bound by my helplessness, to ease out the pain
to resurrect the soul of a woman insane
who yearns for a moment, a minute in vain.

The November Rain

Its pouring here, its pouring there.
It’s raining everywhere
What more do we have with us
but the rain that we share

Set apart by worldly norms
are the days of yours and mine.
Tired of the infinite coldness
across the distant line.

Resting on the gliding clouds
I send my words to you.
Seize them if they come as drops
or behold the morning dew.

How I wish, I could let you know
of my heart’s aching pain.
These are the tears of an unknown woman
that descend as the November rain...

Colours

What colour is it?
A wounded badge; stained clothes,
half dead souls of yours and mine
the child’s cry, or the mother’s agony.
Imparting pain to thy brother.
Its bleeding red...

What colour is it?
For a soldier’s last breath
seeking peace, heaven and God.
Someone asking him to walk that alley,
turn left and climb the winding staircase
to the Father, pleading for forgiveness.
Alas! It’s too late
to knock on heaven’s door.
It’s serene white.

What colour is it?
A lil bird’s flapping wings painting the sky
or the sad woman’s state of mind?
Shades which follow through the day
and sink in quietly at night.
The colour of life;
infinite and impalpable.
It’s blue.

What colour is it?
The scorching heat of a summer wave
or the interminable greed for gold?
The spark in the eye of a young lad
or the morning’s colour that unfolds?
It’s gleaming yellow.

What colour is it?
The colour of the smoke from guns
or the colour of devastation?
The colour of holes left behind
by incessant firing of bullets.
The colour of death in the name of valour.
The colour of the cloud that descends.
Yes! I can see the cloud,
it’s black.

He touched me...

A morning of bliss
serenity and peace
never has this delight been felt before
waking up with an enlightening vision
of my God’s presence.
My guilt burdened soul
was put to rest
my condemned mind
to seek salvation.
My sorrowful heart
with overflowing ecstasy
And the life I lived
with wisdom.
How merciful can our Lord be?
For He sent His only Son.
To wipe our sins with the blood He spills
and to make His flesh our bread.
With every step I move ahead
The Lord, my God I have.
For every time I break and fall
in His Grace I shall stand.
A morning of bliss
serenity and peace
never has this delight been felt before
What sets this morning so apart
Is my Christ’s divine presence.

Proofread by: Vaishnavi Senthilkumar

Let it be...

Let it snow
let it fall
let it cover upon the world
let a white sheath of lies
hide the miseries of the day
let tears remain unknown
let darkness cover all fear
and seal it in a cold tomb
let the silence of a dark horse
devastate all grief
let us hide from ourselves for once
underneath the bitter cold
away from the helplessness of mankind
let a little warmth
be the only cause of comfort
let all eyes cry with no shame
let the heart with pain be numb
let the blood freeze
let the untold stories remain untold
let us accept every despair as it is; for once
let solitude give solace
Just for tonight,
let me hug my pillow real tight.
Please turn off the lights
brightness frightens.
Don’t wake up mamma
let her forget all her pain
and sleep with peace.
let things be undone
imperfect
Just tonight,
let it snow
let it fall
let the pain freeze...

Happy In-dependence day!

To be very frank, this is the most not-so-independent kind of Independence Day we’re celebrating. All thanks to the swine flu thing on the spread which has been keeping us under house arrest. I was yelling at home today accusing the govt of how unfair it is to ask us to celebrate an in-dependence day. Just then I thought of making a quick analysis to while away time on the significant changes we’ve brought upon our nation since independence. Unfortunately, our level of dependence continues to be a heart break.
We still haven’t lost the bad habit of looking up to others to seek help without giving it a shot ourselves. Be it importing daily grocery or asking a friend to settle scoffs with the neighbour. We are still dependent. Dependent on each other and dependent on others. But never dependent on ourselves. I wonder where this level of dependence comes from. Moving down to a narrow scale, this seems to be an everyday scenario at every house. The ideology of spoon feeding takes away the originality in every individual leaving no room for thoughts to grow. How much have we mentally grown is a question which ought to be answered. I am personally very happy with legalising gay rights. But the forlorn struggle seems cryptic. What a person does in their bedroom is nobody’s business and certainly not the government’s. Better late than never though. Pat-Pat India!
All of this leads to one conclusion that there is a need for more freedom of thoughts. Years of mind numbing rituals in the name of conservatism has tied us down by a vicious chain which has to be broken down. It’s high time we grow up. There is a necessity for us to think, to question, to develop a sense of curiosity wherever required. Instead of making resolutions which pile up like files at the BMC office, let’s look back at what we’ve still not done, where we’ve gone wrong and correct our shortcomings ‘ourselves’. It’s high time we move on from being in-dependent.