Mayfly.

Sun-kissed nights,  run wild and sure

mornings, shrouded in grey walk slow, 

noons burn high, and so do the hearts.

like dawns I linger, like dusk shall I go.

Poetic reimaginings 1

Dear Mr. Yeats,

There is no turning, or widening gyre,
All the falcons hear the falconer ,
Things have been set in time and space,
And yet the center cannot hold...

#deewrites
#poetry

STRANGERS

We meet, everyday.
On way to office, way back home.
Sometimes we share a cab too. Odd.
We frequent the same cafes and kitchens.
Albiet, our orders have nothing in common.

We also stare at each other, longingly often.
I know your name, but I don't seem to remember it.

And when we touch,
Odd brushes of fleeting human centuries,
Seem cold to me. They are accidental. The centuries.
Like they were never meant to be.
Oddily enough they were willed into being.
I overheard you one day, talking to somebody
In a place far away.
You seemed to be looking for an organic machine.
Alas! I wish you knew.
There are no hearts.
Just CLAMS.

I am Sorry!

Koi kissa kahani nahi kehna chahti,

Roohein roz bikti hain yahan,

Aur humne outraged ho kar khoob dekhein hain tamashe yun hi.

Mai khud bhi ek tamashbeen hi hun.

Har raat dinner par News channels par fikre kasti hun.

Outraged hoti hun media par, society par, religion par.

I get outraged on myself for I do nothing.

Nothing to stop cities becoming game scapes,

Where they hunt down dreams, and hopes,

Pick one after another to put a claim, no, no

Stick it at us, that they have won.

Wo jeet gaye hain ye batane mein ki,

Ek ladki ka jab rape hota hai, use maar diya jata hai,

To ek msg jata hai desh bhar ki un ladkiyon k naam,

Agli tum ho sakti ho. Kabhi bhi, Kahin bhi.

BUT; When daughters are raped, and they are killed,

The message is for the whole society.

WE HAVE FAILED.

OUR PSYCHE IS CORRUPT.

SOMETHING IS TERRIBLY WRONG WITH LAW AND ORDER.

WE NEED TO WAKE UP.

Kyonki kisi beti ka rape, uska murder.

Ye batane k liye nahi hona chahiye ki kaun taqatwar hai.

Who has the power to wield authority over the essence of being alive?

Who is setting the rules of the game, and just like always…

Which religion is better than the other?

Aur kisi ma ko, baap ko, bhai ko ye nahi lagna chahiye ki…

Meru beti hui hai… Maar dun use nahi toh koi aur maar dega,

Maarne se pehle use nauch khayega,

Fir use sabke aage tamashe k liye chhod jayega…

Its high time we stop getting outraged

And start saying sorry.

I am sorry.

Zindagi.

Ek panne se dusre panne k beech ka faasla ho
 shyaad,
Bistar ki khamosh silwaton me chupi karwatein ya fir,
Darwaaze par lagi doorbell se aati Teri dastak shayad,
Intezaar ki tick tock me guzarte hon lamhe 

ya fir.
Adhuri nazmon ke beech atki hui guftugu Hai shayd,
Gazal k intezaar me bhatakti ho koi mausiki 

ya fir.
Benoor seher me ho qaid roshan mehtaab

 shayad,
Khaali kandeel dhoondta ho roshan falak 

ya fir.
Aus ki boondein timtimaati hon sitaaron par shyad,
Band lafzon me jhilmilaate hon lakhon ashq 

ya fir.

Teri saans se bandhi Hai ye uljhi girah shayad,
Ishq Hai, junoon Hai, Hai ye Zindagi ya fir.

Dialect.

DIALECT.

left to time, it withered,
like a dead corpse hung from wall,
after the sentence.
no poems to defend, no stories to tell,
no anecdotes to share.
waiting, for someone to give her a name,

for someone to claim,
someone who would speak, her.
She, is always there.

Deepti.

SCHOOL.


and the rats nibble and nibble,
and scribble and scribble.
the endless fates,
of hungry futures and parched pasts.
gums bleeding ink.
poisoning the paper.
mediocrity stacked high at the altar,
where screams rumble into silences,
and gongs are heard,
for things undone.