Art Of War

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I know this is going to be abhorring to hear,

Some may even say my views spread fear,

They might call it names,

Divisive political games.

I patiently will retort,

To such antics, I won’t resort,

I also wouldn’t accept any farce,

My tolerance to hypocrisy is extremely sparse.

Only the naive will not see how politically involved our art is,

Both sides of the border have witnessed this,

We have been heirs of this unwanted heritage,

Blighted children suffering the separation of this marriage.

Only if tragedy were to be a test of an artist,

Soldiers would have been the perfect fit,

In concerts, we’d hear war cries of the brave

Painters would paint on grey tombstones over red graves.

The dead and alive, alike should blame the state

For what’s been their fate;

I want even our soldiers to return those honours for their fall,

The government can’t protect them as well after all

I understand that we aren’t at war,

But I also see deaths of my soldiers increase by dozens and scores,

Why don’t you make me understand,

Why don’t they, across the border, stop those with power in their hand?

I love stories of how things used to be,

Rahim and Ram swinging on branches of a tree,

Hits me right where I can feel,

That some stories just were never meant to be real

But this story can be true,

Only if we accept, me and you,

That our states need to stop this art of war,

Contrary to popular belief they can’t be separated anymore.

Stop sending arms to fidayeen forces,

Spread hope and peace in that valley of darkness,

We’ll talk about it, just sit down and meet for a drink,

Give our children a better world, be wise and think.

I say this with utmost responsibility,

I don’t preach self-nobility,

I urge your state, and mine, to follow ceasefire,

Times are getting bad, and the need is dire.

So please tell them, those who are concerned;

Barbaric, we all haven’t turned,

This holds the key to another fresh start,

Keep all of the guns away, till this war is an ancient art.

A Sum of Firsts

We seem like a sum of firsts,

First sperm, first egg,

First arm, then the leg,

First cradle, first song,

First steps, and then the first fall came along,

A first day at school,

A first splash in the pool,

A first friend, a first fight,

A very first sleepless night,

A first flying dream,

It may seem, nice at first,

But that’s not all of life’s worth,

Like my first clap, the first slap,

My first toy,

My first rains, that very first joy,

I’ve forgotten them,

So many of those forgotten firsts,

The first promise I kept, or broke,

The first lie, or my first mistake,

That first trip to the land of guilt,

Mapping the contours of my first face;

There are ten thousand things to list,

Each of them forgotten, for reasons unknown,

Or known hence forgotten.

The first woman I loved,

She was the first to love me,

Or at least the first to miss me,

the first to kiss me.

The thing about firsts is that,

It hurts, when they’re replaced,

My first ex best friend,

The first love letter, which I misplaced,

The first relationship’s end (twas just a fling)

Or the first time someone said you’ll regret, this or that,

That first bitch or twat,

That first feeling of insecurity,

That first pain of purity,

When man is but a child,

He is wild, untamed, beast of nature,

But that’s just a first,

Then comes an insatiable thirst,

Of that first fuck,

Or that first job you took

(No I mean, the kinds where you earn a pay check)

The first boss, his first cup of coffee,

The one that you made for the first time in a machine you saw for the first time,

That first night of that first wedding,

I hope you don’t have two;

Because twos just seem together, but they come separate, in pairs,

Like a pair of two lines,

That make up a square and box you,

Because first is the worst,

Second is the best, and

You’re too tired for a third.

But this very first life,

Will repeat itself,

In that smile, of your first born,

In that honk of the first horn,

Of your first car,

Not your parents’, your car,

That first drive afar, with your family,

That very first of life’s certainty, and then

Your first dream will come visit you again,

for the first time since it appeared,

When you experience this –

In all of your first life,

Everything is a first,

Time is a close second,

Memory a distant third,

And everything else which follows,

Is denied a podium finish,

Because that’s all that matters, in that order,

From your first breath,

Till you die your first death.

The end, or is it?

The Gift. 


This story begins at a score and four years later,

A year ago, at twenty and three, 

It read, “Be free, run, change your fate, fly off to the United States”

After debates, conversations, considerations and even with tremendous trepidation, 

A lengthy dinner table talk, 

Thinking out of the box, 

I decide and say, let go of the block. 

At eighteen and two, 

My dreams were origami,

Like folded paper swans, red blue and green,

Colourful lenses, and dances of birds unseen,

Then I got handed, this world’s stupid sense,

So I crumpled the red and blue, only for the green. 

The bill, is expensive to earn,

Only a handful of sand grains worth time, 

An ocean to learn. 

I navigated through the shallows with a guide by my side,

But lay the gallows in the deep, the dead their guides, 

Between running and flying,

This stretch was the great divide,

I sank till the bottom, as the ocean roared, 

Flared up a demon;

Me at twenty and one, I survived. 

So when I learnt to swim, 

To splash and play,

The water itself was taken away,

I lay in mud, and sand,

Flailing and failing, tied, tired, no tide. 

Only Time, which ebbed and flowed, crashed upon me,

I swam in the mud, I swam on land,

I swam beneath the deep knowledge, on which I float, I stand. 

Rather than gloat, I’ll build a boat and swim to the shore,, safely galore now,

A score and four years later, this story is my gift for me,

The first half, introduced conflict,

The latter will resolve,

Addressing my true calling, answering the call,

Folding and bending, 

Like origami paper, 

I got trampled and run over, 

Tossed in the bin, 

But I’m only crumpled, and

A crumpled dollar bill, 

Holds its value still. 

Wolfpack

I was a lonely wolf, until I met my pack.

A Wolf moves in packs,

Wolves are travelers,

I think I’m a traveler and

I  love packing my bags,

Forever ready, to travel, unravel,

Mysteries of the north, and

Histories of the south,

Traditions of the east and its

Renditions of the west.

I’m a traveler and I love packing my bags,

With a spoonful of yogurt,

Sometimes sugary, but always sweet,

My mother packs her love in it,

I pack her along too,

A long while on a short journey, after all,

She traveled nine months more than a lifetime packed with me.

Her hair, despair,

Flowing open, or tied,

My luggage is lighter than those teary eyes,

My luggage is her soul,

And I move with it everywhere I go.

I’m a traveler and I pack my bags,

My luggage is her soul, with it,

Bit by bit, I make up my dreams;

My fight, my flight,

My life, and hers as well.

Even as she noiselessly screams,

As streams of water pour from eyes that she won’t show me,

Eyes that shine only to see her soul become my dreams,

Because a traveler never stays,

And she knows.

I’m a traveler and I love packing my bags,

I met her on a lonely winter’s star trail,

Blue fire lamp eyes, searching the cityscape,

The stormiest of clouds for locks,

I’m sure she had a halo, with a voice like all angels do,

Had me trapped,

Like a crying child is suddenly rapt

In attention by soothing chimes in its cradle,

Fixated, her starry gaze, stared at me,

I packed her along as well.

Mother, she reminds me of you,

She knew,

That I’m a traveler and

I love packing my bags,

With soft kisses that warm clothes, and

Her scent,

I pack her hope,

Trekking a slippery slope,

That I won’t fall, and I won’t break.

I know now, why a wolf travels in a pack,

To live and thrive, hope to survive

I’m a traveler of sea shores and space stations,

Galaxies in every nation,

And everywhere I go I take her with me,

Because I’m a traveler, and I love packing my bags.

Semblance

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As I walked past the uncut lawns on
One hazy dawn of a Gulmohar summer,
I faintly remembered
The moon surfaced savannah,
My devastated field of dreams.
As a dewy prisoner escaped its leafy gallows,
Crashing down on to the craters,
My cheeks anticipated rain,
I couldn’t tell if it was my sweat,
The saline-sweet nectar of burning eyes,
Or the cold clouds had come calling,
After the fiery summer sun
Had set ablaze the vermilion foliage,
The semblance of my dreams;
It parched my throat and
Burnt my skin,
I was spent, soaked and tired
Grazing the brazen land
Searching for the elixir of life;
An oasis of pleasant pain or
Another mirage of true despair?
Perhaps, it was just the rain.

Convenience.

WTC

It’s a real convenience,
to cry and wallow
To belch and bellow
To gulp and swallow
self-pity.
Being indignant,
 Almost a royal indulgence,
Is his self inflicted tragedy;
Fall of a man,
Who is flawed, clawed, gnawed at,
He is Me,
who hates to go out in open spaces.
Space and people scare me now.
Once I sense,
That fear is near,
I will steer clear,
Away from my path.
That path which took an oath
To be tread upon,
Is now a dirt road which
I loathe to travel on.
It’s a convenient pill
I dissolve it in a blazing drink;
Down it,
As it slowly peels off
The burnt skin inside my thorax,
I sit and wait
For my insides to form gorges,
To melt and form a new cave,
For my system to fail me, derail me,
Off the road I had once chosen,
Had given my word to close in,
Now I’m off roading,
Who knows what’s to bode in?
Oh, no. I can’t stop, I can’t wait,
Can’t let misery rue me
In this venture.
I have to get up, and be strong,
Snatch what’s mine,
Overcome this obstacle without a whine,
Without convenience whimpering by my side.

Dreams

To,

A new dawn, a new day, new world. It’s been a while but it has come along.

What? A NEW POEM! Oh, also the historic SCOTUS judgement about same sex marriages. Yes, good things are happening this week. Along with some bad things, but as of now, I shall celebrate the good. The bad has a longer graph to fill, let me gauge upon it later.

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I dream of echoes on silent streets
With flashes of reds and greens
Blinking for me, for my eyes have stopped
Short, and my breath has blanked out;
My brain has not mapped what road I’m on
and I’m trapped in this place on my own.
Save me the trouble,
Route me out,
This rout is turning me about, around myself
A riot within,
The place seems distant from the dream,
The place which sells souls, boxes for houses
And souls who pay with dreams, for better nightmares.
I want no purchased omen
I want to live free,
Feel, something soothing smooth,
But my plight,
That I have been
Blighted by a fiery knife.
It’s burning me, this life.
I want to dream, of reams
Of paper boats that float
While dancing rivers sway to and forth,
And I with the courage to course this
Coarse course, turn to the bright side.
Riding the edge of this tide,
Watch the sun set at twilight.

An Elegy on the death of My Beard

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To them who cannot afford a smile
thank you for gathering in here
as of today, it has been a while,
parting ways with a friend so dear
Them gods were kind enough,
Or perhaps twas a scientific miracle
My face, Like a diamond in the rough
Thanked such a prophecy from the Oracle.
Long had I yearned for it,
and to grow it was not the only aim
But to rear the soft sheer dammit!
Unperturbed, devoid of any maim
Slowly, steadily it grew on me
As I let it grow;
From specked, stubbled to thick and bushy,
as if nothing could stop its flow.
But, ill-timed fate it was,
Or the gods had grown jealous,
Though mostly my mother was the cause,
Couldn’t shave myself off it, as tragedy befell us.
It was one Tuesday strange,
Teary eyed, buckets I cried
Raised the blade, forced the change;
Flushed the remains that had survived.
There was a ghoul in the mirror,
My face now lacked a soul,
A horror story that made me shiver,
thinking about the orphaned little mole.
I say, never in an eternity wilt fade thy grace,
Once again will return your panache;
And until it you replace, will sport my face
Freddie’s epic black moustache.

The Explorers

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Sit down she said, you’re gonna love this ride
Listen to the rules, carefully abide
This is no ordinary journey
We’re aiming for stars, reaching for the moon
So be prepared now, if all goes according to plan, we won’t be back any soon.
I told her I want to pilot this ship
Take charge of the entire trip
She said oh no you must focus on the view outside
Take things slowly in your stride.
In you though I must confide,
This is one thing I’ve never tried.
Still trusting her, mostly my instincts though,
We blasted off at the speed of light
Propelling against nature’s thrust
Seeing layer after layer of depleted air
Leaving the blue behind for a jet black lair.
Thousands of miles away now, we had each other to trust
So off came the seat belts, gravity’s bubble did burst.
No time for pleasantries then, she still focused on commanding the ship
Do as you’re told, don’t lose your mind.
But, alas! We weren’t on earth confined
Mesmerized by the beauty here,
Or perhaps the colourful spheres;
I temporarily turned blind.
And mute.
And deaf.
I knew not what was coming my way
Were we on the right path?
Or was I being led astray?
I wasn’t thinking right,
Maybe I wasn’t thinking at all
It probably was too late now
To take any decisive call.
Satellites, meteors, asteroids fell
Was it even real now, I hardly could tell
Entrapped by the sights
I never noticed, my captain had fled
The ship infinitely sailed in the sea of doom
While I tried to aesthetically nurture
My senses in a universal cocoon
Strangely though,
The only thing,
My mind echoed,
Are those words I last heard back on Earth.
Be prepared now, if all goes according to plan, we won’t be back any soon.
We won’t be back any soon.

Have You Lost Your Mind?

The Wanderer
The Wanderer
I Wonder,
Why you wander, why are you lost, oh mind?
There’s travails to complete,
Work that’s unfinished and ours,
That takes up to many hours,
All of that we’ve left behind.
Just come back,
Over this instead,
you should ponder.
To ask you directly,

Have you ever wondered,

If hollow holograms called people
Appear real to others too?
That the real world
Is just a play,
Or game to be played,
Just not by you and me.
Those skies that move,
Are actually clouds that grove
To an invisible tune,
That the sun has composed;
As if the moon-stars are nothing
But burial flowers on the dead;
As Still clouds do mourn,
The night sky has decomposed.
Do you wonder,
If a flirty flower has the wistful wind,
A lover who whizzes past it,
Desperate to catch a petal,
Kiss it, to taste the nectar,
So vile, yet sweet?
Because the pollen today
May be carried away,
Simply for another flower to greet.
Ever imagined the what lengthy life lives live
Or what lies in grave graves
Beneath the wreath?
Have you found yourself,
Alone in the gym, at the break of dawn?
Or cooking lobster and prawns, outside in the lawn,
At a stranger’s barbecue?
Do you travel in a car or a bike?
Is it a vessel?
Made up of leaves and thistle?
Is that the place where you actually belong?
If that’s the case,
I want to come along,
Even though I know,
I’m heavy baggage,
And you pack light,
I’ll take the train, or a cheap flight.
I intend to wander, like you,
Not wonder like I do,
You’re my sole soul navigator,
I am the one who’s lost.
Queuing up in line are these thoughts,
My sordid brain’s ordered chaos.