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

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...

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...

"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

Aries:  work                 family  a whirl- wind romance                  empty        lone- ly lost and dissipated. 

Sunrise                Sunset  Moonrise               Moonset 

Collision  A collision of  Sunday and Monday  braked just a short distance  beyond the signal

when we shifted to this land, complaints and formal letters creating traffic jams without permission. it has been more than six months we have not received a reply, and they call us illegal.

attack  the bodies (are)  known to attacks. 

Super Cup  final round; ready; neighbouring teams; under floodlights. 

"NATURAL RESOURCES  4.  Could you imagine a world of women only,   the interviewer asked. Can you imagine   a world where women are absent. (He believed he was joking.) Yet I have to imagine  at one and the same moment, both. Because  I live in both. Can you imagine,   the interviewer asked, a world of men?   (He thought he was joking.) If so, then,   a world where men are absent? Absently, wearily, I answered: Yes." -The Dream of a Common Language by Adrienne Rich (Poems 1974 - 1977). 

Dark blanket shrouds over me Highlighted with subtle lighting; The hubbub of the city. The diamonds shine, Multiply, When I look up with my naked eye. My neck strains As it tries to catch the trail Of the diamonds. Soon I am on the ground Laughing at my misery Of inflexibility. The boisterousness that we throw around About how the intelligent beings we are, And we are But are we as significant As we deem ourselves to be? We are but the same; All homo sapiens aside And all others on another side. We are a side of the same coin. Our probability has been higher; We have been lucky. It’s only a matter of time For the coin To end on the side We exist. 

i sit at my window sill on an early rainy morning.  i stare down at my empty cup filled with hot, steaming tea priorly i am hypnotised.  i can hear the raindrops fall on my roof i can feel the presence  of the sheltered birds  i am hypnotised.   i look up from my stupor  to fall into another  the fairy lights on my neighbour's window  i am hypnotised.  my eyes shift to  the next movement  the swaying of trees  in unity  i am hypnotised.  the sound of thunder, a flash of lightning the earth tries to  shake me out of my stupor i am hypnotised.  i sit with the cup still in my hand  i sit next to  a broken dream  i am hypnotised. 

Breath Visible in the cold evening Next to me. We look in front Without distraction Deep in thought Yet Aware of each other’s presence; Two strangers. Crickets chirping; People walking In their coats and mufflers and gloves. In the oddest way, In the 21 st century, Their silence Met And They fell in love With each other’s silence In the 21 st century. Smiles crept up on our faces, As we left Nameless.

"The Love of Two Stars Two stars fell in love. Between them came sky And ten moons and two suns riding high,   Before them the nebulous star-crusted Way,  The silence of Night, the silver of Day.    A million years passed, the lovers still glowed   With the brilliance and fire and passion of old,   But one star grew restless and set off at night    With a wonderful shower of hot white light.    He sped to his love, with his hopes and his fears,   But missed her, alas, by a thousand light-years. " -Ruskin   Bond's Book of Verse .