Category Archives: prose-poem

Tagore’s The Post Office and the living

I lay on the bed
for the better part of the day 
looking listlessly  out of the window
the wire mesh blocking the view
partitioning the sky into small squares.
Sleep eluded me
pain overpowered me
I longed to die.
I felt my heart thudding
hanging on to dear life.
Death laughing sardonically
watching with cold glee
whispering in a thin voice

your time is yet to come.

Continue reading Tagore’s The Post Office and the living

(Not) In Judgement

A judgmental person is shown the mirror.


Judging people sitting from a high throne
Who are you?
Have you never made a mistake?
If not how are you human?
Which planet have you come from?
Go back! 
There is no place
 for people like you here.
Sitting in judgment on friends
for what they choose to share.
They consider you an insider,
the story of their lives is precious.
Is it to be listened to with full concentration
or with half a mind sitting in judgment?
They talk of experiences you will never have.
Of the people you will never meet.
Of the places you will never go.
They give you a window into a new world.
Sharing their highs and lows,
moments of ecstasy,
pain and confusion.
For what?
Not to be judged, surely.
So that you may live,
more than one life.
Sitting in judgment on family.
For the things they do.
For the things they do not do.
For the people they are (or appear to be).
For the people they are not.
What will please you, pray tell?
If the world is run to your diktats and fancies,
my way or the highway style?
Sitting in judgment on strangers.
People you come across in everyday life.
The fleeting connections
which touch us or pass us by.
Subjecting them to your petty judgment
without even knowing them.
Do you know yourself?
Set aside all judgment.
Look at yourself.
How you really are.
Not what you want to be.
Not what you appear to be.
Just as you are.
It would make a world of difference
to you.

In between worlds

Pondering on what is real and what is not while rains lash on,when I’m neither asleep nor awake but in a world in between, in a dream like haze.

I’m steering back and forth 
between 
a dream filled reality
or sleep  
I know not. 
The rain has stopped 
but the growling thunder 
is a sign 
of what is to come. 
A gentle cool breeze 
is coming through the open window 
along with a fine spray.
The house is plunged into darkness 
the power as unreliable 
as the weather forecast. 
I only realize the true value 
of something 
when it is no longer within my grasp.
That is when I want to come back 
the bridge burnt
and the leap can’t be taken.
I listen to the birds gaily chirping 
in spite of the constant growling thunder.
A plane flew by desperate to land 
before the rain descends again. 
When the light comes 
I find its glare too harsh 
having been comforted by darkness
I have made my peace with it. 
I maybe afraid of it
but it has become my friend. 

Where’s the moon

 
Whenever I see the moon, especially the full moon I’m reminded of the poem Silver by Sir Walter de la Mare.  It was one of the early poems I remember reciting and loving. Mrs. Irene Kapoor( I. Kapoor miss to us), our English teacher had interpreted it so nicely.

I felt the poet in me stirring and  came up with this. I have decided I will post my poems however idiotic they might be. After all I have got only  this life to live, so I might as well live without any inhibitions. Better to be embarrassed and laughed at  than to live out my days as a coward. I might as well get on with it. Cheers !
 
The moon is full and bright,
I look at it wistfully
with dreams in my eyes.
 
I wish I could stare into the eyes of a loved one,
and see the moon light reflected in its shadowy depths.
 
The yellow moon with grey scars on its face,
vibrating and pulsating like a living thing,
reminding me of my heart pumping along for dear life.
 
Overflowing with feelings,
with joys and sorrows,
radiating and shining forth,
showing others silvery light,
itself burning bright.
 
Ah the moon’s bright tonight,
so bright it hurts my eyes.
Tears spring forth free and fast,
it’s so heartbreakingly beautiful,
 that I cry.

Mind Nebula

I am a wanderer
without moving an inch.
An arm chair adventurer
my mind the best mode of transport,
transporting me into fantasy lands or into different realms altogether.
Ceaseless thoughts,
the mind a nebula.
Thoughts born anew,many zillion a minute.
Flitting past each other never going beyond the mind’s narrow gate.
Breaking free towards a new path
a new vision envisioned.
New light shed on the black path
things born anew.
Moving towards a transcendental experience
beyond mind’s narrow thoughts.
Soaring into the world and being one with it.
Everything in tandem shutting out the chaos.
Peace and Orderliness restored.



This was posted around a year back in the writing  section of Goodreads,in fact my first poem which people have read.Why did I post it here?Nothing really justifiable,I just wanted to start April on a good note.Of late I have been feeling really hopeless and nothing good is coming out of my pen.So I’m going back into flashback mode hoping to be inspired.

Beckoning me home

Far from the madding crowd I will go.

Away from the whispers of not being enough.
Away from the life I had never wanted in the first place
 chaotic, hectic and competitive.
To a place where peace reigns supreme.
Where people are merry.
Where roses bloom.
Where creepers and vines grow over buildings.
Where there’s freshness in the air
 even if the spring has long gone.
Where nobody thinks I’m lonely or alone ,
when I ‘m taking a walk by myself.
Where taking a walk outside is more than a walk, 
a solitary pleasure.
Where idyllic lands roll by 
when I’m out and about on my bicycle.
Where I can sit outside for hours 
 watching the moon shine with all its glory,
 stars twinkling as if they have a mischievous agenda.
Where the sweet wind billowing my clothes
 is an everyday occurrence.
Where smiling costs nothing at all 
just moving your face muscles in gay abandon.
Ah, I have found that place 
and it’s calling out to me,
ready to wash me in its warm embrace.
It’s good old home.