From The Bard's Pen

What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how
infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and
admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like
a god! the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals—and yet,
to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me—
nor woman neither, though by your smiling you seem to say so.

- Hamlet

Saturday, September 17, 2011


My verses,
Sprang to life
when she sang them.
Words hovered over her lips
waiting breathlessly
for the utterance
to achieve the beauty of that music.

Often they were rinsed
with tears that escaped from
her eyes
Making the song wet...

She dreamt like me
Read meanings into my scribblings,
Loved them with a devotion
suited to a fanatic
Gathered up bits of paper
and made collages of my words.

And she let her soul
Eat every single alphabet and pause.
It didn't burp.
I had wondered at her appetite then.

I hate the resounding applause now.
The praise is all green.

She no more sings.
I no more write.

Envy asked only one question -
Who is the Creator - I or she?

Saturday, July 16, 2011

These Walls & I

There was a time
when all I ever wanted
was to break out of these walls

To go out
and let my senses feel

To take in a big gulp of air
and exclaim with joy,
“This is LIFE!!”

My nails became brittle
shoulders bruised
and knees grazed..
The walls stared back at me

Even my tears held
no sway.

And now all I want
is to curl down like an unborn
This is a womb.

I want no birth.

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

Knocking on Heaven's Door

There lived a sheep and her little one
In mountains high and grey
Happily grazing, playing together
Thus they passed their days

One morning the lamb woke up
And found empty place beside
He searched and searched every hill and nook
But his mother he could not find

A kind, old shepherd looked at him
In soft pity he cried,
“Be brave little one, be brave my son,
Your mother died last night.
She wept and wept out of love for you
Which was so strong and pure
It gave her all she needed
For the pain she endured…”

“Where went she?” asked the little one,
Alone, sad and terrified.
“Oh!! She went to God’s heavenly abode…
Where good souls go when they die..”

The little one clueless and alone
Set out to search the vale
To find heaven, to find god,
To find where his mother dwelt.

Tired, helpless, hurt, small..
He roamed the entire plain
At last he sat and wept and wept
“My search has gone in vain…..”
“Oh mother! Where are you?” cried he,
“I need you here beside
My breath is short, my eyes dim,
Am I going to die?”

The doors of heaven blew apart
By a mother’s love and unrest
She reached the side of the little one
And held him close to her breast

His eyes were shut yet he smiled
His mother had come at last
The parting, torment, suffering, pain
Were memories of a distant past

She held him close and kissed him twice
And again when he asked for more
And then the little one along with his mother
Knocked at the heaven’s door……

Thursday, June 9, 2011

the way i write...

i have changed the way i write.
i no longer rhyme
Don’t even try to.

Pages are meant to be scribbled upon
And i’m still clueless
How a scribble becomes a poem.

Joining alphabets does not come easily
Words are mere inky feelings
And the jotting down is a permanence they shrink away from.

After a time you stop writing about love.
And the “I” disappears slowly..
Very slowly.

Hundreds of pages filled with “I’s”
Seem pathetic
Too many dots of assurance
Covering a towering me.

Now i just bow, kneel occasionally
My “I’s” still unavoidable
Yet a move beyond “me”.

Saturday, January 1, 2011

A winter of loss...

I lost too much that winter...
a few strands of hair
a dictionary
a pair of mismatched socks


................. some precious grains of love

When summers came
and the covers went off the dusty couches
in unused rooms,
I found here and there
traces of a winter sun,
little pieces of love,
discarded peanut shells
and a few moth balls....

Each discovery
was a journey back
through the cobwebs of memories
and my blurred vision
would get a clear view

My hibernating soul
refuses to leave
the warmth of that winter

A winter of broken pencils,
torn pages
and fingers stained with regrets...

A winter where
I lost it all...