Posted in On Love, Poetry

Though I made my pledge to thee

By night I may my oath forfeit,

And let my gaze wander and rest

Upon an erstwhile love confessed

And lost! Where fate did not merit,

 

The joining of two fum’bling hands

That strove to fend off frowning eyes

The glare of which then loosened ties.

And though the mind does understand,

 

That plighted I my troth to thee,

And reigned in firm the searching eyes,

The aching heart the vows defies

That uttered I unwillingly.

 

Old love by night, thus I retrace,

When slumber stays thy weary lids.

And though it is thy lips I kiss,

I see another in thy place.

 

Archaic verse has always been my baby, and though traditional poetry seems to have a dwindling readership in the face of free verse and the rise of the spoken word, I can’t help but go old-school. Do leave your comments! Thank you 🙂

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Posted in Life, morning, Poetry

morning

 

is soft

upon the ears,

eyes blink away

perforated sleep

where aurora

waits to burst upon the horizon

like birdsong

 

early namaz

creeps upon the city

like a slow apology,

the crows an interpolation

 

a distant alarm goes off

like shards upon my soul

and it dawns on me

that this city-

stirring awake

like a drowsy child-

harbours enough restfulness

for chaos to skulk away

and sharpen its fangs

in darkness

 

my mother’s low breath

in meditation

tethers me to silence

and i wonder

who it was that said

 

crows do not sing.

 

 

Posted in Life, Poetry

Bridge to Tomorrow

Men dream of tomorrow to get through today

Like children detained from an evening of play

Will press their sore noses against frosted glass

And savour the sight of bare feet on the grass.

 

Men dream of tomorrow, but clocks do not lie

Like reveries that unrest beneath do belie,

For time flows like blood from wounds rankling and deep,

And dreams are but wishes that morn cannot keep. 

 

Featured image: http://www.messagetoeagle.com/
Posted in Humour, On Love, Poetry

The Romantic

Here’s some satiric poetry inspired by Ben “Yahtzee” Croshaw’s cocky modern verse. (I’ve attempted to use the anapest, but since this is my first attempt, I’m not quite sure about the success of my execution) 

There lived a romantic with daydreams of gold,

He brooked and confessed love in words proud and bold

To every dame passing his idle sojourn,

His days fancy prose and gay songs did govern.

 

One day, he descried a fair maiden in white,

Who blushed at his glance, clutching wild flowers tight,

And danced in the breeze, singing softly and sweet

As peaches in spring was the minstrel indeed.

 

The noble young man was as charmed as can be,

He gripped his pale pen and spewed rich poetry,

Before he accosted the beauteous broad,

And said, drunk with love (Oh, I pity the sod),

 

“Young lady be mine, and my heart claim to keep,

Pray, claim that I put that blush there on your cheek,

Forsooth, your decline would condemn me to weep-

Oh, can we but truly get married this week?”

 

And giggled the lady, so flattered she was,

And took his firm hand- no demurring, no pause-

“I’ll be your fair bride if you’ll give me your all;

The songs of your strength your pale pen stands to scrawl.”

 

And so the two youths sauntered down hand in hand,

Into the red sunset, towards lonely lands,

Where, smitten, the lad did indeed use his pen

To evince his zeal in the arable glen.

 

So truly he loved her, so soundly he slept,

And dreamed of the rosy-cheeked babes he’d beget.

When dawn graced their shady nook with golden shine,

He woke with the glow of manhood in its prime.

 

And seeking the bringer of joy bountiful,

He turned on their mossy bed, saying, “Beautiful…?”

But oh, there was naught but a few broken leaves

Where lain had the wonder of his youthful dreams.

 

And found he his pen and a note in the cap,

Saying, “Night was great, honey, and so was the nap…

But now that your pen and free verse I have seen,

To stay and get married, no more am I keen.”

 

The poor young romantic lamented and wept,

His spirit was shattered and sundered and swept

Into the forsaken brown valley of woe,

Alas, off the cliff then himself he did throw.

 

‘And what of the vixen?’ concerned, you enquire.

Oh, stood she before a mirror to admire

Her newly combed tresses and fresh powdered jaw,

And thought of the foolish young lad to guffaw.

 

So folks, this dour tale does bespeak the sour truth-

Beware, naïve young maidens and hon’rable youth,

Don’t let the romantics your standards perplex,

It’s really quite simple; it’s all about sex.

 

 

 

 

Posted in Poetry

Reflection

Curse not the man who screams at you,

And smites you with convulsing lips.

No lasting grudge let stain and hew

Your heart, that fragile peace equips.

 

For, only one whose dark inside

Has atrophied with time and pain,

Will fire spit, in rage confide,

As joy to share does not remain.

 

Featured image courtesy deviantart (a beautiful lie)
Posted in Life, Poetry

Stellar Dreams

This one was inspired by Hans Zimmer’s soundtrack for Interstellar. And *ALRIGHT FINE* maybe twinke twinke little star, too…

 

The stars, oh, how they call to me!

Like petrichor to weary souls.

Oh how they tantalize and free-

Twinkle with secrets heaven holds.

 

The stars, so blessed, distanced from woe,

Nary, like men, to heed a knell.

No less, Terra’s glory below

Descried by night’s fiducial.

 

I wish to bask just like the stars,

In heaven’s far away recess,

To overcome distance that bars

My reach to dark velvet harness.

Posted in Life, Poetry

To Felicity

It has been a while, and though I’ve been lethargic when it came to posting stuff on here, I have been trying new techniques. Here’s some short archaic verse. Please do comment and provide feedback!

Fair one, of beauty all covet,
The charm thou brook no vapour be.
For all whom that thine laughter met,
Do swear ’tis more than fantasy.

Thy cherry blush that dost not fade
Beguiles our weary souls of woe.
Thy twinkling eyes in Zion made,
To dying Faith new Hope doth show.

O Damsel, jocund, be not coy!
I bid thy succor, seek thy glee,
Wherefrom cometh thy spirit’s joy?
Thy secret share, pray set me free!

Meredith Family
Fairy Garden and Lily
Posted in Nature, Poetry

Windows

Often, the fear of venturing outside our comfort zone keeps us from enjoying beauty and observing personal growth. Our own minds fetter us, leaving us tethered to the mundane, and it takes a great amount of resolve to break out of this cognitive framework. “Windows” reflects on the joy of freedom that comes with “opening that window” of possibility.

[This is the first time I haven’t used quatrains. Rhyme scheme used: ABABBA….]

Every morn by the window reclining,
I gaze at nature’s tapestry.
Shimming boughs with tendrils curling,
Miniature spirals festoon the tree,
That for sheer proximity within can see.
Thus we bond over mutual gazing.

Day after day, at leisure, I stare
At a waterfall of red-studded green,
Epitome of nature’s bounty bare,
Separated by glass on which I lean.
Tantalizingly close, I always mean
To twist that latch, scorn my locked-up lair.

But I cave, alas, to the compelling force
Of the words “never have before” that ring
In my mind, and the brawl that thus follows
Is won by non-action that fear does bring.
Ergo, the copper pods that knock and swing
At this barrier clear I ignore, morose.

Then one day, comes a coppersmith barbet
And sits pretty on the sill without.
His hues enchanting- garnet green knit
With crimson and black. He hops about,
With a bobbing head questions my doubt,
Those soulful eyes with invitation lit.

And lo! My heart is overcome!
The suppressed urge comes bursting forth
Like a raging bull left free to run.
I throw open the windows I’d grown to loathe
And laugh with relief rather than mirth
And cry for no glass filters the sun.

The barbet flutters overhead.
In approval, treats me with a song
And perches on the window with tread
Triumphant, that declares the wrong
Conquered, after confining me so long.
My cheeks flush to match his bonnet red.

My acquaintance visits everyday,
Confers mellifluous delight
So apart from man-made noise, so gay.
Takes my heart with him as he takes flight
And soars to reach the heavens. The height
Of freedom takes my breath away.

Posted in Death, Poetry

At the close.

HealingHands
All of us are going to die. We know this, and use time as a buffer against fear, to distance ourselves from the inevitable end. People spend their last moments in varying degrees of fear and disbelief, despite knowing that all things die. I have often wondered as to how I’d feel, emotionally, as I left for my heavenly abode, to use the customary euphemism. This is a brief reflection of my thoughts.
.
What will you do when the reaper comes
And beckons with a skeletal hand?
That scythe to slice you out of life
The hourglass having drained its sand.
.
Will he catch you unawares too soon,
Have you flail and thrash with horror deep
Cling onto light in the spreading gloom
And clutch at kin who with grief weep?
.
Or will you depart with quiet resign
And follow him to the tunnel’s end
Sigh with sweet acceptance without
The desire of broken things to mend.
.
Sad will be if its you who calls
The hooded scythe-bearer to receive
Your soul, to escape the blasphemy,
The shadow of regret to deceive.
.
I wonder what will my bearing be
When quietus comes to claim my breath.
I pray for easy passing with
Strength to sail the ship of death.
Posted in Poetry

Captain Gone

We regard fear as a negative emotion that must be made to dissipate as quickly as possible, but often fear is the much-needed spur to action, without which we slacken to the point of becoming entirely unproductive. This poem is an extended metaphor for something I experienced during the board exams.

The Captain of this mighty vessel,
Seems to have up and gone.
The Captain, holy, and revered so
Left ere the light of morn

Caressed the world with a sigh of warmth.
I, at first, did rejoice.
For Captain’s resign so firm, unbending,
Without I’d find my voice.

Or so I thought, and delight I did
In master’s sudden leave,
And sauntered idle the fair decks where
Did freedom nothing cleave.

But I, being a novice to steering
Solo, felt relief wane,
As approached sudden a raging storm
And mocked my ease with rain.

O fear! Fear! My precious spur I lost,
Without dear captain’s force.
And I now covet Captain’s return,
To steer the ship a course.

O fear, return! Your governance, prized,
I crave, to guide me forth.
Your absence left me shiftless and wrong
I was to your ways loathe.

I ceased to fear and breathed easy,
Alas, too short a while,
The pseudo-comfort rendered me dull
When sea did churn and rile.

I wrecked my craft when I lost my fear,
In laxity I drowned.
Fear of failure can steer big ships
To harbor safe and sound.