The Mundane Artist

Long time ago,   When the oceans were of a safe level, When the greenness of the trees overshadowed the concrete of the buildings,  When the air we breathed was, in fact, air we breathed and not a toxic mixture of many,  There lived a trickster who was famous for one of his many tricks.  Lovingly referred to as Mr Trick,  He preferred a name that did a one above, Trick-Master.  He lived under a grassy hill,  Away from most of the population,  But his jovial self could not stay away from the crowd for long;  Because as night fell, His legs did, too; his hands tinkled, for  The result of his daily trick lit a fire in him such that it must, it should, be satiated immediately.  Every evening he would take a walk around the market, People would greet him, scream a warning, “Mr Trick is here!” And hide, they would, but only from his gaze.  His gaze held the power of the trick.  Look at them directly and lo!...

The hour glass is pouring its sand to the other side and   You’re sitting in front of me.  There’s a candle lit and the shadows it makes  On your face, nay,  The way it highlights your face, every inch and corner like someone sat down and painted you whilst you sat  Still  Gazing  Calm  Smiling  I don’t think you can see me  I’m a ghost of a past you left in the past and never tried to bring to the present  Leave the past in the past, they say, but  How could you not even try to bring me to your present bring me to my present because now I lay dead and cold  Fluttering away grey and  Translucent  I see you  I see all of you  But you see through me  I have panic written all over my face  I glance at the hour glass and then at you  I asked for one last chance to look at you  To try and get you to bring me to your present  I wait, anticipating Every twitch...

To die a death in love, who can ever recover after that shove?  You stand and watch it unfold, thinking to yourself, "I'm so bold! Nothing can hurt me now!  I've prepared so well for this, wow!" But the first glance over to your lover, you will finally discover, that your love wasn't enough, it was unneeded,  someone else filled your shoes, they were heeded-- This reality you seem to accept,  then what is this pain in the chest that intercepts?  Soon you realise that someone has stabbed you in your heart, with the sharpest knife from the cart.  That will be the first time you will die, unfortunately, protagonist, there is more to come, sigh!  Can I protect you from the pain?  No, impossible, it'll all be in vain!  I will tell you why this try won't fly.  Once fate has decided that this is to be,  who am I, who are we?  It is a dance & we are spectators,  Love, fate & all, are like dictators!  The second third ...

under my feet the crunch of snow   5 degrees or so  The lights are getting brighter or  My eyes are getting warmer  It was brief  Subtle  Did it even occur?  There is no evidence except  The feeling of warmth in my body while I’m  Surrounded by the coldest of  Nights  In my town  . You were like wine  From the moment you touched my  Lips  And then swished into my mouth  Gulped you down like  I was separating the alcohol One by one  And it settled in my stomach  Like a toxic hug that  Shouldn’t be there  And you stayed  For a night and  Disappeared like we didn’t exist  .  The evidence of your being is little  But the feeling of your existence is significant  I’m back home now sitting in front of  The fire  Trying to finish this  Poem  But I’m so cold

 

My eyes were closed but if you would look closely you can see a slight movement which is equally fascinating as it is weird. My body felt limp. But now and then, my legs would jerk in a manner that would not only feel like I am falling but there would also be this feeling creeping up my legs telling my brain to keep moving them. And for what? It's called restless leg syndrome.  Amidst all of these activities happening in my body, you came into my dream. Your presence in my dreamworld was totally uncalled for but I guess it was just a matter of time for you to show up. Maybe I had been thinking about you or put you way behind in my head that my brain was forced to bring it back up so it doesn't burst out of my head.  It was a strange phenomena. Somewhere in the universe (we're back there, and certainly, I still don't know much about it), we were floating inside a prism. You were on one end of it (up) and I was on the other (below, one of the sides). We were ricocheting f...

I don't know much about the universe. It's like someone who lives in my neighbourhood who I know exists but feels so foreign to me. I know that only 4 percent of the universe has been discovered so far. There is so much out there and so much that may just be a figment of our imagination.  I don't know much about the universe. But when I closed my eyes and went into a deep sleep, I was transferred into something that felt like the universe. It had a dark highlight to it that engulfed everything but it also had these twinkling somethings and colourful twirls that distanced themselves from each other so symmetrically and yet, so randomly.  I don't know much about the universe. But I know that it was a pathway built prior to my entrance into this world towards you. I tried to make sense of it but I couldn't and I just went along with it, like I was floating. It wasn't just my body that was floating but also my mind. It was in a daze; a daze that felt like love but i...

Warmth.   That's what I feel right now.  I am sitting in my balcony, in my comfortable white chair. There's a cup of peppermint tea on the table. And I stare into the scenery.  The sky resembles the ocean today. The sky's colour makes it look like a poem about philosophy. The birds are swimming and returning to their abodes. There's an occasional aeroplane floating through the sky, on its way to its destination. The rumble of its engine, when it moves through the clouds, makes it feel like the clouds are producing this sound. The naked eye cannot see the litter. You'll have to dig deep within the sky to know what litters it. As I said, the sky resembles the ocean today.  A warm breeze passes by, and I take it as an indication to change my observation.  I always wonder, which is the perfect brown to fill the mountains on my canvas? Do I want it to be a deep brown or a light brown or another brown? But, will the mountains like it, if I choose to fill it with a c...

According to Britannica, poetry is defined as "literature that evokes a concentrated imaginative awareness of experience or a specific emotional response through language chosen and arranged for its meaning, sound, and rhythm" (Nemerov, 2020). The above is a formal definition, perhaps for the purpose of academia. It may not be important if at all.  To me, poetry has been everything that I have wanted it to be. I have defined poetry for myself and that is the beauty of poetry. It lets you define it. It gives you itself wholly and unapologetically.  Poetry is my life. It has given me so much. It has helped me.  I am writing this because it is officially National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) but also because this is something I felt like writing about. I feel like I owe poetry this much for all it has done for me.  Poetry has helped me through dire times. It didn't matter how subjective or objective the time that I was going through was. If it w...

You.  A year ago, you were on your bed, hardly speaking or moving. But still, you remembered us, some you called the diamonds of your eyes.  A year before that, you were on your feet greeting us with the tender kisses that was your trademark on meeting us. You wobbled through the house doing all the chores that you loved doing, that made you feel alive and well.  You.  You, in your blouse and petticoat (the blouse of myriad colours but your petticoat white, always), going about the house feeding the other human being in your house.  You, in your blouse and petticoat, sitting in front of the television watching the news or "travel TV" as you liked to call it, showering us with wonder of the places you'd visited through the television.  You.  You, in the kitchen, cooking my favourite dal with peanuts in it, or screaming from there to ask me, "Hiranshi, inda banavi aapu?" ("Hiranshi, should I cook you some eggs?")  You,...

"How is it?" I asked her as she tasted the dal khichadi I made. I was never much of a cook. But all those hours that I spent binge-watching food videos was inspiration enough for me to try. One moment I was just watching, and the next moment I was hell-bent on wanting to try out at least one of the dishes.  I decided to make dal khichadi because it is my comfort food. There's no beating it. Maybe mac and cheese and fries do come in between my commitment to it, but most of the time, on bad days due to whatever reason, it is my saviour dal khichadi that comes. "It's pretty good. Not bad for a first time," she said. I squealed in excitement. She looked at me and smiled. "What are you smiling at?" I asked. "Nothing. Just happy to see you excited for a new hobby! I can see you take this the long way," she said. I walked back to the kitchen. I put the plate down and breathed for a moment or two. Things have been difficult. We...

At this point, I did not know what was happening. I had come out with him ? I mean there's nothing wrong with him but I have never hung out with him. How did this happen?  I entered the bathroom, looked at myself in the mirror and just stood there. The only thing that was missing was a cigarette so I could spend at least 5 whole minutes doing something because this was weird to me.  He looked dazed and I felt the alcohol hitting already. The only weird thing was that we had just arrived and the first thing, before even going to our table, that I did was hit the bathroom because of how spontaneous this plan was. So, yeah. I had no alcohol in my body but I still felt... inebriated? And not the good kind. The confused kind.  After spending 5 minutes, I let out a sigh and decided to just go ahead and let the night take me wherever it goes.  "Sorry. Have you been waiting out here for a while? Did we not get a table?" I asked him.  The restaurant wa...

We decided to meet at the beach. He was a few minutes late so I thought to set everything up. I called out to the sea. No reply. I was baffled. It usually answers my first call. I called to it again. No response. I was just about to call out again. But this time I was responded to. A sprinkle of water on my face. And I smiled. I asked it to rise by saying that one magical word: rise. That simple, isn't it? Communication. It is so important to communicate in any relationship. My relationship with water, therefore, was... simple. I call out to it in the easiest manner possible. And it shows. I walked closer to the water. I was rather slow to walk because I was zoned out thinking about what this majestic body would show me today. I reached the edge of the shore; where the water teases you but doesn't touch you. Finally, I had reached my destination. I took another step like the men on the moon. Lo and behold! The sea parted for me. It doesn't say much. But ...

When I opened my Facebook memories notification dated July 2 nd , I did not expect to find a memory that was of one of my best friends posting about how we were always out on this date, from two years ago. I took a screenshot of it and forwarded it to my best friends. Both of them showcased a desire for that status to still hold true. My best friends and I have been in a long-distance friendship for more than a decade. Yet, we have been best friends for more than a decade too. I shifted to another country ten years ago. Then when I shifted to India for higher studies, I was finally in the same state as them, but alas, not the same city. It was the closest I had been with them for a while, and honestly, I would take this than being in a completely different country, again. Long-distance friendships are hard. I know how dreadful I feel when I leave for college, knowing I will not be able to see these two homo sapiens who fill my life with so much joy for days, weeks or months. ...

"There is one benefit, though, that outshines all others. It's 'bonding', a transcendent emotional experience that is uniquely a woman's. When an infant suckles, when it feels the nourishment—life, itself—flowing from you, and associates it with your closeness, your warmth, the perfume of your body, your touch, the light in your eyes, the embracing and the cuddling, a bond is forged that can enrich your life, and the life of your child, all your lives. It's the bond of love." -Feed Your Kids Bright by Francine Prince and Harold Prince, PhD. 

I think of you as I stand here; The flow of a river has never been this serene. I remember looking at Beas river when I visited Manali. I looked from the balcony of my hotel window, a good distance away and yet, The ferocity of the river frightened me. Now I stand at the edge of the river And I have never been at peace as I am now. Is this some magic that you have cast through your words? Or is it my bias that is dictating my feelings? We will let it be. I hold it in my hand; The thing that is your solace. I wish you were here today. It is real, this day. The Jhelum looks “so clean, so ultramarine”. The day I came to know you, I promised you that I will take you home, Didn’t I? I promised you I will not let Kashmir be abandoned in the mailbox, And here we are, I fulfilled my promise. Now here we are, This is YOUR home! This is where you belong. I hold your solace, the postcard from Kashmir. I know your soul is buried dee...

"...and while there may not be a book in every one of us, there is so often a damned good short story." - Jeffrey Archer, And Thereby Hangs a Tale by Jeffrey Archer. 

"Ghazal The only language of loss left in the world is Arabic- These words were said to me in a language not Arabic. Ancestors, you've left me a plot in the family graveyard- Why must I look, in your eyes, for prayers in Arabic? Majnoon, his clothes ripped, still weeps for Laila. O, this is the madness of the desert, his crazy Arabic. Who listens to Ishmael? Even now he cries out: Abraham, throw away your knives, recite a psalm in Arabic. From exile Mahmoud Darwish writes to the world: You'll all pass between the fleeting words of Arabic. The sky is stunned, it's become a ceiling of stone. I tell you it must weep. So kneel, pray for rain in Arabic. At an exhibition of miniatures, such delicate calligraphy: Kashmiri paisleys tied into the golden hair of Arabic! The Koran prophesied a fire of men and stones. Well, it's all now come true, as it was said in the Arabic. When Lorca died, they left the balconies open and saw: his qasidas  braide...

Hyperbole  West opened  East ran to South.  East-West left timidly; they could have done well.  but  South chances  the king of hearts.  this is no exaggeration one declarer in a thousand would succeed  West neither led nor shifted  to  East. 

"midnight blue"  navy -blue navy unobtrusive dark blue  a down-to-earthness