A Dull Poem

There is the crowd and here is me,

In an attempt to find unity --

I bridge the gap with eager steps,

Jostling for a place in the mesh.

It's hard to breathe.

It's hard to see.

I feel so tiny in this throng of human bees.

Buzzing and moving, to gather, to store,

An array of minds all synced to a single core.

I met Jack, on his way from work,

He’s a party loving and hardworking clerk,

He hates to be dull, and thus makes sure --

Like everybody, to follow the new haute couture.

His wife is happy, his second car works fine,

His boss laughs at his jokes and in fine hotels he loves to dine,

He hoped I was good, but didn’t ask for more,

His chaps were waiting with beers and cricket scores.

As Jack waved me bye, vanishing in the swarm,

Leaving me thinking, for a moment and few,

As I stood aside, watching the crowd pass by,

I wondered why Jack was called dull,

--- and not me nor you.

"Sleep No More!"

Shakespeare, the dude, always had it right. Do a hard work and baam! "Macbeth hath murdered sleep!" and he can't sleep no more! And they called it poetic justice!

But it’s hardly the time to make interesting remarks about life or the surrounding events, global or local.

Neither is it the lovable pleasing atmosphere, to tell lines of a pink romance or a cherry lip kiss, beneath a golden moon, beyond the city skyline.

It’s just a long night, creating droopy eyes and overactive brain, a night which, like any festival, is rare in its occurrence, but also unlike the festival, isn’t met with any whatsoever mirth and/or  smile.

It is the night of the eve of exam!!!

*apologies for the lack of thunderous background music. we are desperately short on funds*

I now am emblematic  of that particular feeling when you know that a single more word will blow your brains to small, not at all pretty looking, bits and provide food for ten winters to the ants in your room. I stand sit, as example and proof, that there is no such existence of a peaceful sleep that refreshes your mind and prepares you for the impending exam, with a brisk and invigorated outlook.

MYTHS!! LIES!!

Worse than the Santa Clause scam!!

Countless years, with even more unaccountable exams, have I experienced and that refreshing sleep has always eluded me. It’s as fantastical to me as my dreams to ride an unicorn, while i munch on a ham sandwich. But you didn't have to know that. Moving on...

Reader, don’t bore yourself further! If you are no student presently, and face no impending exam, be on your way.

*Male readers – Dude! Seriously!! Is something wrong with your testosterone levels! Not the site to be! Go incognito!!!*

My ramblings have helped in certain ways, to vent out the excess of words which have been bothering me like a crown of flies, found at the posterior of a holier than thou cow.

Don’t give that corrective attitude and a lecture on how a year long study helps. I can’t think of a smart retort right now, but I am still not agreeing with you. Sympathies please! I have studied for eight six umm, some straight hours.

Well, I feel less bored now.

I still find no sleep though.

I can so empathize with that Macbeth fellow right now.

Anyhoo! Enough of talks! I need to save some words for the exam.

Peace out!! 

Family

The leaf shrugs off the persisting chains

Farewell to parental bough!

Blows away with sailing breeze

Dispossessed, aimless.

The leaf knows not its solitary fate,

Destined to wither in some foreign earth.

An Original mistake, not time enough to learn, but suffer.

The wind blows away, to scavenge another soul,

 Stealing the vestiges of a happy dream,

Suck the hope from the shivering dawn,

Caress with a cool finger, those warm cheeks,

It flies hence.

Dispossessed, aimless,

Eternally unloved.

Dreams within Dreams

In some nook and corner, there was this world,

One painted with my dreams,

With dragons and gingerbread men, red apples and princesses,

Castles, meadows and clear, whispering streams.

Where the autumn red leaves, fell with a hush,

Covering brick roads with rustling carpets,

And the sky was always coloured dusk,

While the lark flew into the sunset.  

And as you walked by the river, in the green glade.

With flowers dressed up pretty, for a masquerade,

You may find me there, alone,

Smiling, sleeping,

Lost in another forgotten world,

Dreaming.

Smeared Red

Pretty smelling cream on my cheek,

Glossy paint decorating chapped lips.

A streak of black,

To sharpen my glance’s attack,

Earrings and bangles,

My hair falls in beautiful shambles,

The saree draped,

Like icing on a cake,

A practiced smile on place,

Smoothening tears with powder on face.

I am ready, my conscience freed.

Time to satisfy lecherous greed.

Awakening

It’s a dark narrow corridor, both the sides lined with closed doors. I walk to the nearest and open it. The walls are of a motley of color, shifting between grey and blue and yellow, marred by pictures; pictures of a smile, of some tears, of a mother and an empty cradle. Its a mad, pleasing random change of the colors. I walk out. 

Another room. Trophies. The head of the woman I hated, the blood still fresh, dripping from where the rest of the neck should have been. A bench along the right wall is adorned with glass jars. I see eyes; eyes which had longed for me with carnal desires. I see tongues, which have tasted me, and then lashed at me. And there are the fingers, oh the sweet caressing fingers of that loved one, whose head now graces the bloody mantle. I like this room. I touch the wall and feel the wetness I relish so much. I smile as I smell the blood in my hand. I flick my tongue and taste it. The blood still tastes fresh.

 The room beside is locked. I try pushing the door open, but it doesn’t budge. I give up and try the other one. Its door is slightly ajar. I peek in, it’s dark. My fingers fumble on the wall to search for a switch. Found it. The room lights up. It is a mellow light, a light that reminds me of a sunny warm afternoon. There's the sound of rushing stream, and the running wind is trying to wound me as I rush ahead of it. There's the tree and chirps of the baby birds. A speeding stone and perfect aim and some pained, final chirrups. I remember my younger brother being pissed about it. Happy memories. I linger a bit in the room and after a few moments, find myself in the corridor again. I look at the entire length and I can’t count the number of doors I see. I look back, and vaguely I am amazed at the hundreds and thousands of doors crossed already. There's a sound, a dull thud. Another thud. A steady beat. The loudness increases as I walk to the unopened source. Eager fingers push open the door. It’s all black. No fragment of light nor darkness exists. The absence of everything. A living, breathing, inviting black. I walk inside. The door closes behind me.

The crescendo erupts monumentally. People yelling with joy. A cacophony of loud war cries, of roars of lions and bears, and screams of monkeys, and more drums. Millions of drums. Someone screams, “Lanka is saved. We have nothing more to fear”. 

Time to end a dream.

Kumbhakarna awakes.

My Glasgow Smile

They said it would be easy,

As easy as breathing‘s supposed to be,

Stretching a few muscles, to banish all pains,

A dose for a day, a few more to keep sane.

For Mother declared she was worried ,

And it displeased Father to see me lost;

My friends lovingly mobbed around me,

And over charred emotions, my smile embossed.

And I smiled as life rolled on,

I smiled at its mandates and jargons,

I smiled for the days to end,

I smiled for it is easy to pretend.

And I thought --

May be shadows do lighten the dark.

And bullets fly, for they love the beating heart.

But I feel them now, closing in,

See their fingers and arms stretched,

The corners of my mouth twitch uncomfortably,

And my blood boils for selfish carnage.

Some hold my lips,

Some pull my chin,

They spread my mouth

To a hideous grin.

My eyes pop out,

Something quietly dies,

I face the world,

With my Glasgow smile.