Anaahat

These , my dreams and dramas my slowly evolving orbit suspended on the skin of time circling a star, priming for light as the dead moon breathes sunlight and the sea licks the shores of imperfection. Grant me these mistakes, these hidden scars, these pools of irises projecting forgotten stories on guarded eyelids. Indulge me this love this paradox of submission forming icicles of unspoken words churning deep waters spewing out garbage and treasures into these scars bending my fingers with the unending lines from my palms. This is my slowing evolving orbit suspended on the fragile skin of time.

He tries my patience so, Vomitting fire all the time, I have to say no, I think. I have to give it back to him. Bile rises in my throat Threatening to spill out But I cannot be like him Pathetic Irrational like him So, I calm my nerves I try to tell myself, I am not him, and I cannot be like him I think of my gods Of a serene place to erase the screams. But I cannot but wonder, I have become like the women I help I tell them stand up, for the self, not take any shit from any man's manliness I tell them not to suffer I tell them to take hold of their lives But here I am trying hard to think of a serene place, to erase the screams.

To take flight To walk away, Take the next bus to Wherever. Disentagled, From bonds Of tie ups, Of unsatisfied relationships Of wants And heartaches Just free. Free me From this cycle Which binds To people To souls. From a forever From the breath Of peace Of longings and desires, Just, Free me.

These barricades which were mounted, for liberty,  freedom, exhilaration, stifle and besiege now, like an over-possessive parent, an obsessive lover, reducing my  self, to a concentrated, amalgamated, insipid residue,  gathered at the  bottom-most pit of life. Thank you Thursday Poets Rally for the Perfect Poet Award   I would like to nominate Marit.

there is a painting on my wall, a dark, broad wood frame, enclosing Meera, as she sits amidst colours galore, waiting in lonely solitude, with her dotara, her hopeful eyes brimming with longing, and love, colossal, celestial, expressed in this melodic trance, that strums to the tunes of my heart. (This poem is inspired - apart from Meerabai herself - by this painting by my good friend Arti Jalan.)

where does it come from the hope that moves you the optimism to see life so merrily, so tirelessly, without any weight on your soul. the feelings and hopes and the loves that you carry around. like a wounded soldier ready to breathe life in a dead country's soul. where in your soul, does it persist, to exist, the happiness, the peace, the quest for a forever, for what you dream in your mind's eye, hoping you will, someday, be there. where is it that you head in this manner, my wounded soldier, carrying those burdens of feelings, of hopes, in the quest of love alone.

those pictures and smiles, haunting magnifying multiplying  the emptiness  the void, the space making reality  just a dream as good as  those soundless desires, that erupt in the quiet of the night. And, the meaning of life, of happiness, washes away into the aftermath of the afterlife.

I'd want it to rain, on the day I die, not heavy rains, only a light drizzle, on the day the body'd be burned, the drizzle vapourising the burning wood, swallowing the rising smoke, diluting the tears, sorrows and longings. And when the sun rises, there'd be no reminder, no ash, no bones, only a mark on the time gone by, leaving me free to soar up in the sky, for peace, for truth, for love, alone.