Vespertine Melancholia


Mind harks back to the near past.
As my somnolent brain tries to
piece together incoherent fragments,
into something cohesive.
Your portrait, your visage
-an argument against entropy.

Oh, how on that innocuous day
you rekindled love inside a forlorn heart!
How you made a stoical man
quiver in an ecstatic shock!
All that and much more,
without even acknowledging my existence.

My futile attempts at
requiting our love.
I have resigned.
Your existence-
a refuge from my stultifying life.
Mine- your dire tristesse?

“Vicarious Embarrassment/Fermdschämen”


Scanty boulevard.
Leaves they rustle
to sing in gratitude,
of the blowing breeze.
As another balmy
spring day culminates.
And, as it always has,
death lingers.

The dusk is upon us.
oh look, the moon has risen!

Your gait is placid
mine is rather hurried.
We strategically time
a furtive glance.
Alas, we fail!
Our eyes, they meet!
And, as it always has,
death lingers.

Shame is upon us,
oh look, our ego has fallen!

Ah, a sigh of relief
we collectively breathe.
No passersby to
this odd encounter.
Only the moon,
who hides itself behind
the diaphanous clouds
in vicarious embarrassment.
As, I, go my way,
you, go yours!
And, as it always has,
death it lingers!

Love was upon us,
Oh look, out of love, we have fallen!

Quiescent quotient


Abominable lull, a dreary vacance
Morose you, a distinct smell
Eerie spirits, there are none
It is just you and your thoughts.

Doors creak, floors they squeak
Hands tremble, your legs go weak

Gamut of emotions, in your countenance
A blind raven caws in a vocalized Braille
His wiry legs betray the necromancer’s gun
Fallowed and dormant, your brain, it rots.

Death glances a sneak-peek
As you quiver, and go bleak.

 PS: Hi there, my staunch blog readers! You might have picked up on my frequency of poetry (if we can call it that) in the past few days. I apologize profusely, if it didn’t stand up to your standards. All I am trying to do is get my mojo back. It shall remain so, until I state otherwise. Thanks, anyway! Have a good one.

“Letters lie/Questa Notte”


 

Oh, we used to write letters!
With ink to our pens,
and tears to our notebooks.
We used to wallow
in each other’s
joy and misery.
Hiatus, there were many!
But the exchanges
they never ceased.
All we did
was revisit
the old letters.
We drank the wine
of our love
to the bottom
of the decanter.
Till the acrid sediment
was all that remained.

But now, I don’t!
And dust has gathered
Inks have smeared
in the hallowed pages
that once housed
the paroxysm of emotions,
that once beget tears,
and that once explained
the ineffable.
Those letters lie
piled up in a corner.
It is a nauseous melange
of a repressed past and
the hairs that I’ve shed.
The immured memories
they still haunt me.
I might be hungover
from the wine,
But I am sober, now!

And all I write now
are these tales
of the harrowing turbulence
imbueing inside me.
I write to subdue
the disquieting
melee in my mind.
On second thought,
I still do write letters,
but to no one
in particular.
As a protagonist
of my life,
I recite a soliloquy
in an empty theater.
And I no longer drink,
but I’m still hungover!

“One colour: Blue”


I

I only listen to the blues
Music is an expression-
a microcosm of something visceral
and something intimate. 
I have no patience for ballads.
Blues is permanent. 
The riffs oozes 
a paroxysm of grief!
The lyrics speak of
the sorrows untold!

I don’t romanticize death.
It is liberating. 
and easy.
So much so,
I vex at its prospect
and its unrelenting insouciance.
Closure is not what I want!
I enjoy the capricity of life.
I long to convulse
at the throes of despondency!

I am not a masochist
It is too conforming.
It is absolute.
I am not like this,
not every time.
It all comes in phases,
not systematically, though.
Also not erratic
Not even unpredictable,
because unpredictability
is predictable.

II

My pain has become self-aware.
It has freewill or
is at least
fighting for it.
The pain doesn’t want me
I am incapable of pain.
I don’t deserve it.
It wants to extricate itself
away from me.

I don’t sleep, I am already asleep.
My life is a somnambulation.
But I don’t live in a dream.
Not even in a nightmare.
I am in a stupor
fraught with hysteria.
My listlessness 
beleaguered by internal conflicts.
Insanity is the closest refuge,
and I fight for its elusive asylum.

My existence now is a vestigial
shadow of life that used to be.
Catharsis seems far fetched
Because purging of emotions
is futile
if I don’t have any
to begin with.

 

“Music of Life (Poem Concerto in Major Sleep Deprivation)”


Allegro, commences
the conductor
sways in the
appreciation of
the dance that
is transpiring
inside his aural
faculties.

Orchestra revel
inspite haveing to
be vigilant.
Pianist exudes
fluidity and fluency
like music
is his mothertongue.
His nimble fingers
carress the keys
to make the piano moan.
A heavenly moan.

The flautist
is living his
pipe dream.
A deaf his
nightmare.
The cello
resonates the
fact, in bittersweet
vibrations.

To the fatalist
and the suicidal
death now seems
romantic.
Even in this
ephemeral moment
of joy
they cave to their
despondent refuge.
Death dances
in their heads as
the allegro fades.

Adagio percolates
the joyful atmosphere.
To calm the
cavorting hearts.
The bassoon surreptiously
sends them to
an intimate catharsis.
Tears trickle.
Tears of glee
and tears of melancholy.

Rondo, asserts itself
in the waning outro
as the concerto transitions
to the 3rd movement.
Clebrating unexpected
joy and surprises
after arduous travails.
Despair was shortlived
and such was mirth.
And in the end
it was just silence.
Inactivity and end.
COnductor bowed
audience clapped
music’s work was done.