Three Forthcoming Poems

unlearning photography’s tricks on memory

Ok, let us consider,
neither of it, ever

Let us for once, take our shared eternities
wrap them in banal plastic bags
and hurl them
from this cliff
of never-ending loneliness.

Come, let us see
these cast away packages of
unfulfilled dreams
fall and crash
against solitude
swimming under our feet,
like prehistoric beasts.

Lets us tear these pictures, these
Haltingly tedious images of
Us, bearing the burden
Of imperfect humanity,

these stray thoughts encompassing
a multi verse of longing

Our self-mocking embraces
Of loveless-ness, made into pixels, that
Fools come to rejoice in!

Lonely fools, those! Look,
your hand over my waist, captured
in 20 hour exposures,
and the other one: me refusing
your advances, and choosing
to sleep, alone
in the womb of time.

Even that! They captured. A lonely
requiem to Love,
that could have saved the world
had we understood
the ignorance of loving.

Come, let us burn down this hall

Exhibiting such perfect images of a life
wrinkled by the imperfections
of living in an imperfect world.

Come, let us not pay attention, to
this banal, idiotic photographer

and kiss, faithfully,

one last time


Once upon a day,
When we trudged through warm, winter sunlight.
Sipping tea, speaking of past eternity.
You pointed to a school of sparrows;
Tiny, flickering, muttering,
A universe in themselves.
And said casually, ‘they are dying now!
Phone radiations and concrete are killing them!’

I realized, while thinking of
All our bygone, tedious phone conversations,
That I hadn’t noticed any, until now.
For so long.

Twilight of the Lovers

There is no poetry in love, my dear.
But of Love in poetry, maybe a bit too much!

If there is one thing that we, the wandering ones,
Hold dearest,
It is the desire to wander, a little more.
And while we wander, to create, a little, feeble more!
Never mind if our Universe begins and finishes
In the milky way of her arms.

Or that the one constant motif found in all our Arts
Is Undying, unfulfilled affection.
Often, but not always Unequal
To our own infinite longings,
In grace,
And several other moieties that make
A Pangaea of supplication
Out of the innocent one’s face.

Why blame her for her mortality?
Or shrug responsibility for my own?

You see, love, even infinite love
Has seldom ushered-in consummation.
Or something close, even at one’s own death bed.

Nor ever has had successfully resolved
The eternal bickering and confusion
And mildly irritating disagreements
between everyday-lovers.

But see,
See, the poetry of brothels!

At once, more trade, less art.
Now that, that is truly poetic or closer at least
To the art of ever day living-

at rise,

the benevolence of the sun
embraces smoothened arms –
blushing purple and peeping
from underneath crumpled sheets
aching, really aching, having tightly
held to bedposts
the night before-
in forgiving consolation.

There is no poetry in love, my dear.

Only the sadness of a longing-few

jostling with the happy-impercipience
of the jovial-many.

And a few casual bystanders
happily mourning
their inabilities

By searching for signs,
Smilingly – sitting writing reading

This, or something such,

From my forthcoming collection, Essence of Eternity


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