Holi eve night
I can't see any stars in the black canopy of the sky
But she's there, beautiful, reduced to a centrepiece
For strangers to worship and attach stories to
Who look at her, but don't see— they love themselves
So they chatter and dance and have fun
Somebody I don't know offers me a sweet
My senses are absorbed,
For even though the sky is dark
She's there, scattering stars of sunset shimmering
Out for the night to inhale.
A girl films her swaying in slow motion to her own rhythm
Oblivious to the loud folk music on the community speakers
I have not brought my camera.
The girl's phone whites out her beauty
Turns her blossoming tongues of magma
Into featureless dazzling white
This is why I did not bring my camera.
But I have brought my heart.
So even though I know that all the metaphors
About her mercurial magnificence
That flood my brain like her anbaric rivulets,
All the poems I could write
That will white out her beauty
Have already been written;
I let my words flow and engulf this page
Like her flames do the wood
I let my words flow because I love the fire.
I love the fire so I come closer,
Even though I can feel her warmth from afar I
Can't help but come closer;
My skin cries tears of sweat
My brain yells at me to step back—
But all I can do is bask in the warmth she radiates
Let my pupils dilate with her heat
And my blood fill with the divinity of Prometheus's stolen treasure.
She is a slice of the Sun on the Earth
And a soothing sliver of the moon
All I can do is marvel at her supernova core
All I can do is look, and yet.
I look at her and I want to burn in her,
Dive into her heart and burn
I'll just be another log, some more kindling
That makes her hiss and sizzle and crackle in glee
But I want to feel her sear my bones from within
Like she's seared my heart from without.
Now the stick pyramid falls but she burns on
For she never needed that structure to exist—
She's a force of nature, hair flying wild
And as the wood falls I want to fall too
Fall to my knees in front of her, eyes closed
Be the Icarus in her tranquil orange lustre
That beautifies the ugliest with her summertime incandescence
And fills this empty pitcher with ichor
That overflows and splashes these pages
With the fiery passion inside.
1st April/ (1/30) / Free verse
A new day dawning
A new sunrise
Is what 'hope' is to you
But dawn is not what I look ahead to.
For I am the Sky
The ocean that's a different kind of deep
Arching over this earth
And day is not me.
The Sun illuminates
The Sun blinds out
The Day blinds out my depths and my shallows,
Clouds over my face and hides
The inky depths of my heart
And paints me a happy blue;
What a nice cultured obedient sky we have here.
As this blinding light dims out
It takes its pretty blues and yellows with it
And draws back the veil,
And the secret light of the moon
Lovingly caresses my whole being--
The corset was too tight here, my dear
Let me breathe back the life into you.
The secret light of the moon illuminates
Me, the blue-black darkness that is my soul,
The happy pinpricks of memories that shine
through this dense fabric,
The tumultous sea of my thought
That sometimes bursts through in the day itself
Blotting out even the Sun
As the clouds rush in to contain the damage.
Me, the blank canvas, the stage backdrop
Where all of life plays out
" 'Twas a good show, Mr Shakespeare, Sir"
Many thanks, thy kinds words delight my heart
Let's dismantle the stage now.
I am the moon’s reflection
In a murky night puddle
Do I not want to flit among the fireflies?
But I am not the moon
(Though I could be)
Only its flattened image;
Here comes a shoe
Sending ripples through my body.
There comes a day when the pressure
Fails to be contained
When the volcano explodes
And hot lava
Flows down the hillside.
They hate the rain in London
Because it means dark, gloomy days
No sunshine, football, or picnics
And house arrest in stuffy, humid rooms.
Heartbreak’s a searing
pain with no gain but a lot
of weight from ice-cream.
People usually launch contests, awards and other such things of their own on a special occasion- like their blog’s or their own birthday. But I, like Lewis Carroll, am going to do so on my unbirthday instead. After all, you have 364 unbirthdays and only one birthday, like he so insightfully said.
You don’t need to be Sherlock to know that it is the Raw Poetry Contest I’m launching today.
But what is this Raw Poetry Contest thingamajig?
“No, doc, she doesn’t have a diary
To padre, she won’t confess,
No clue as to why she’s so bleary,
I’m starting to fear she’s depressed.”
Close your eyes and write a poem,
Because sights are beautiful
Look at the sounds.