Pens and Pages

Write like no one’s reading . The thought came to me on a train journey I hadn’t expected much from. It was always about taking a nap and snoring the distance away for me, avoiding eating anything from the mobile vendors selling dubious tea and untrustworthy coffee. I’d forcefully close my eyes, plug in my earphones, till the point a part of my brain would give up and turn itself off. It’s different this time- I find myself on a comfortable seat, near the window, with enough leg room to keep both my bags and still not feel suffocated. I couldn’t sleep so I read; I couldn’t read any more so I drifted away in my thoughts- a practice I had left years ago. Like encountering an old friend on a strange road that somehow feels familiar when you see the friend smile, my thoughts embrace me back. I allow myself the freedom to let them fly away as far as they wish to. I allow myself to steal my waking time to do nothing, instead of occupying myself with thoughtless texting or data anal...

I let you go like some old habits of mine- Checking your Facebook profile every minute I touch my phone, Reading our old messages for signs that would tell you don't love me anymore, Putting a burning cigarette in my mouth every time I thought of you, Exhaling the smoke every time I realized you aren't with me. But such are the habits that do not die- You come back to me one more time, You collide with me on a busy street on some Saturday morning, looking at someone else's photos from that phone in your hand; I let you go like the wine of Venice I swear I would never drink again, I let you go like the promise of never writing a poem again Yet I hold a new bottle of wine dearly in Vienna, A few blank pages and a new pen sit by my side in the cold nights when I would sit in a train and try hard not to think of you. But such are the ways with thoughts- When I close the doors, they find a new window to come in, Rotten like the smell of the dried fish you used...

Photo taken at Plitvice National Park, Croatia by Vibhor Dhote Oh! What are these days I have found myself in! The bagpacks I carry no longer feel that heavy; What have they lost if not for a few coins, a few notes, some letters written long ago, a few locks, a few clothes? Or is it the loss of some fears, some shackles, some thoughts tied to their waist belts several years ago? Where is the fatigue? Where are the tears that drenched my pillow? Where is the inability to wake up early in the morning and the incessant desire to sleep forever? Today, every time I close my eyes, I need to type, I need to write. Where is the indolence, the procrastination, the lack of, as I would say whenever they ask, the "limited time"? What is this insouciance called? Where have eloped the eternal need for love, money and the things I've already sold? Why Plath has shut her eyes today whom I so deeply adored? Bukowski's Bluebird is set free now while Sahir's pleas ...

I promised him, I won't write a poem again... It's been more than a month now Yet I have written a million on my heart A million on my mind, my soul, in between conversation, in pieces, in whole... I have written them time and again, never to be read, never to be heard, never to be told For I kept a promise I dearly hold, Never to write a poem again, unless I am told Oh, the pictures can't describe what I feel, Where are the metaphors? I am done with the reel. Where are the words? For you can't read my mind. Where are the innuendos or the shy gestures from the divine? Oh, how can I be myself if I don't pause to think, to write. To experience is heaven, but no more poems is a sacrilegious crime I break the promise today, to unveil another one No more poems on Facebook, but many more on the leaves of my mind...

Jesse-James Black Photography Tears not wept out from a long, long time When days turn into meaningless nights. She shall smile some other day, Some other time. Each word she writes holds a story within- She shall make you read it some other day, Some other time. With a million stories so hard to tell, Poems so hard to narrate, She shall write it with each tear she drops, But another day, Another time. She picks up thorns The way you collect coins, Found on a happy day On an empty street. She has made her own museum now Of thorns that didn't pinch her skin, But yet made her bleed. Some day she shall spend those thorns, Like you'd spend yours On some crowded river-side On a weekend away from home. But she'd save those like you save your coins, To let them loose only when she'd weep for the first time, On some other day, Some other time....

If only truths were spoken, I can say forevers can be counted, On the tiny fingers of love Born a few years ago, On the walls painted red, Every year on the same date. But love has grown up now. The red walls have been repainted, This time, on another date, Only to be repeated year after year, One false forever after another. And truths, these days, are spoken The same way promises are made, With gritted teeth and crossed fingers. At the end of the day, All smiles seem fake, The fake forevers remain To be counted upon the stars, One after the other, Some forgotten, Some too dim to be seen, But a forever, nevertheless, Another star to keep.

When he made that charming cup of tea, And when he smiled, so lovingly, You knew you were changing, Your stone cold heart was now melting, One pebble at a time. And when he touched you, gently, You just smiled. Oh, did it hurt then? When you knew he was leaving? Or, were you just embracing The moment, without grieving? His presence, His perfume, Did that make you forget About someone you left Long before he came? And when he talked about his love, Did you reminisce yours? Or is it him you thought about, And his lost love of yore? When he asked about you, You knew you were ready to tell, To tell him about all you know, And all that has bothered you, ever so. Did you tell him then that you were broken? Or did you just shed a drop of tear? Tell me, did you just smile, And pretended to be just fine? Did your heart want to cry? Did you feel like running away to hide? When he caressed your hands, You knew you wanted him to stay. You knew if he just stay...

I'm far from being a romantic person. Loving? Not at all. I giggle at the wrong time. My laugh is too loud. I dance weirdly. I often find myself away from people or I find a way to push them away. But I giggle, laugh and dance anyway. And whenever I find myself alone, I sing, I think and I write. That's the closest to love that I can ever be. And when I hug the trees and kiss the sunset, when I admire the birds fly and I dance on the beach, that's the closest to romance that I can ever be. I make poems in my head. I make them all the time. I have always been in love. I'm still in love. I pour all my love to the notepad I write on. I romance the pen. The poems that are still lingering in my head, they say I'm incurably romantic. I still keep my poems. I live more in my imaginations than in reality. And if that's not love, I don't know what else is. I don't need a him or a her. I'm in love with love itself. I'm a story in another story. I'...

You're all words, When it is your death. For people by then Would have forgotten How to love you, again. They would remember You not, for your deeds Were forgotten too soon. You lived on the smell Of ephemeral cigarettes, On the taste of bitter beer And the whiskey that burns Your guts as it vanishes. What is it that you'll leave behind? Your beauty was forgotten When you succumbed To the wrinkles of aging. Your smile is no longer charming When you hide the gum That misses a tooth. So what is that you'll leave behind? Probably, those words, Never spoken, Only written down, On the bark of a tree To be read by strangers Who know nothing about your struggle. And when the tree dies, And the soil embraces your words, Probably it is then That your soul will rest As your words will finally leave love For the soil, That you couldn't.