Imprisoned Tears

I pity my imprisoned tears.
A subterranean voice from a distant hell murmurs –
“Liberate those crystal drops, Darling
Unleash them from the bondage.
Stifle them not for welcoming misery,
Afflict them not for being implacable,
But thank them.
Thank them for their tireless revelry.
Alas! Your spirits are so enervated.
No more gray stupefaction, prithee.
Release them, untether them,unchain them.
Let the glittering rivulet of tragedy fall free,
Fall upon the parched Earth.
Then volatilize, leaving behind indelible footprints of sorrow.
And in another clement Earth replete with love
Let your tears attain salvation.”

~❤️

I’m dying

A fierce flame scalds my mind,
All other wailings hear my groaning lament,
And someone pierces me deep, I bleed deeper.
My stone-studded ribs jerk staggeringly,
Often relenting to pull through.
Every day I droop fantastically by night-
Still I rise at every daybreak,
To find myself in splinters
Gazing at my own reflection
And in the mirror it’s not me, but an eidolon
The bleary shadow takes me to a mirage of merry hope,
Lures me with manifold confessions.
A token of troth confronts me
Then it passes into oblivion and
I am left in a rosy delusion.
I am blank,I am alone, I am dying.
I am blank,I am alone,I am dying.
And there’s no reckoning in exile.

~❤️

Back in a sad winter

It’s a winter’s night, everything so brumal and my senses glacial –
My garden bathed in fairy white,
My garden blanketed in crystalline sleet,
My garden and it’s tarnishing elegance,
My garden’s trees and lush green – withering,
I kissed the withering foliage,
My garden needs my warmth,
My breath shall touch the expounded parts of my garden and turn it blushing pink,
With intense care and superabundant loveship I shall osculate my garden until spring comes,
Until next winter and the winters to come and go,
I shall built a tiny shack by my garden,
Only my garden and I shall dwell in the humble abode.

My garden and I shall beckon to all the larks, nightingales, finches and owls that pass by,
My garden shall sing waves of melodies for me,welcoming the clinquant stars of twilight,
I shall recite soul- kissing poetry to my garden until the sunbeams paint the heaven at dawn,
Someday my garden and I will be engulfed by the wild hemlock,
Knowing our end is near,my garden will caress me for one last time,
I will cradle my garden on my lap,kiss the cold lips,
And my garden will sing his last note, will pluck every string of my heart,
Until I feel my garden’s weight collapse against mine,the song still echoing,
The song – the ultimate hymn to the love of death or the death of love,
Again after several eons of time, I will be born,I don’t know where –
Heaven,or Hell or Earth but I will again give life to my garden, I will again live with my garden,
Until another storm or some other apocalypse destroys everything, I will come back to my garden to love him, again and again.
I will make my garden respire forever and a day.

~❤️

23rd February,1821

23rd February,1821,at around 11pm –

He who sleeps there knows that the cloudburst sheds beads of tears in reciprocation to his melancholy.
He who sleeps there knows that the caelum doesn’t only mean the rising sun,the gold-baked moon or the lustre in the star.
He who sleeps there knows that a whole isolated universe waits for him,an avenue of white roses.

There lies the headstone of romance, testament of amour, anemones of suppressed cold breath, funeral of meditated swallowed pain.

How incredible it is that he vanishes before every spring and spectacularly reappears taking a rebirth from the dead leaf in every new autumn!

His art bewitches a lover’s soul.
He is himself an ode to all the odes.
He is all beauty.
He is the omphalos of joy.
He is love, and my solaced religion.

~❤️

Orchids

Freshness in thickets
Sunshine over catacombs
Orchids kiss mildly.

~❤️

P.S. – I bought some orchids from a nearby nursery. All throughout my journey from the nursery back to my house the fragrance of the soft petals enchanted me. So, thought of penning down a few lines.

Would you?

Would you stop by my house on a blizzard night?
Would you bring your ukulele to serenade me?
Would you decorate my eclipsing room with glowing candles?
Would you walk into my lounge and sit by the hearth?
Would you take me on your gondola to sail across the milky river?
Would you hold a lantern to my face and gaze at me?
Would you gently place a perfumed yellow tulip in my hair?
Would you stroke a dove’s feather around my neck for a whole night?

~❤️

This journey


Across so many miles, settlements, you have walked, and yet, nowhere could you find to open up like the ocean, fitting sanctuary?

May well be; deep maladies, they say have by now made many habitations unnatural —-  This journey then is only a continued stepping from one vacuity to a different one!

Night falls.Let night fall in all it’s denseness; it’s deep mystical darkness — to let drop the fardel of grief — veils facial lines, and all the world.

Knowing all this, I still say,look with a calmer eye, and you will see – In the faraway nigrescent dots of light glowing as fireflies—

Maybe somewhere an encampment, it’s eyes full of sleep has been waiting long to hearken the beats of your heart.

It could well so happen.Such things do.

~❤️

Superficial

We,us and ours

I spent more than half of my day contemplating, absorbed and lost in the realms of beauty where happiness blooms lonely.Most thoughts are either imaginary and melded with fantasy that dissipates in the nadir of overwhelming fancies and some are just the fragments or the remnants of past which are exclusively unornamented.

I don’t think this is a pertinent introduction to what I am about to write.But,certainly the picture above speaks itself.It was clicked in my school back in class VIII then, experiencing the first thrills of early adolescence.

Here goes the bunch of ruffians with whom I burgeoned.Limpid madness, pretty shenanigans,wily tomfoolery dominated the air.More commonly known as”Bhombolazzz”(the official name of the group),we had been the heart-throbs.Now, there’s a funny association attached to the group’s name-the word ‘bhombol’ in Bengali means ‘nincompoop’ and we were in a humor to add a Tamil twist to it just to imitate the Malayalam accent of our Physics teacher.I know this seems absolutely ridiculous but then it was a super amusement for us.Weren’t we mischievous?

I laugh with moist eyes when I reminisce all these memories.But only my laughter echoes within the four walls and my shadow often mocks at my solitariness.I wanted us to be knitted together,I wanted us to age together,I never wanted us to be a part of each other’s memorabilia.Why couldn’t we remain the same? When was the irascibility, chronic dissatisfaction and displeasure born within us?Why did we all grow up so fast so as to become evanescent with time? When had the ego seasoned itself to vanquish love?How would I know that the people who painted my childhood with the most variegated pastels would leave me so soon? I had no idea then that the promises were kept to be broken just like the false staircase of sand which collapses.We stayed,yet lost somewhere, we exist in smithereens, not so glutinous to be affixed or clung to.Ignorance has towered itself so much compelling the humongous billow of love to be swallowed up by a stupefaction.Excuses come as camouflage for the sentiments of conscience.At this point of time, I want to travel a few steps back,I want to return.Reality certifies such a desire to be impossible,so I have chosen to live in delusion,the world which truly seems gifted with blessed euphoria.The friendship which once seemed like a vast boundless ocean is now superficial.We have always loved each other,we still do but we have just let ourselves to be forgotten in the humdrum and fashion of life.