Tuesday, August 2, 2016



We make myths out of the unrealized.


Love untouched
Is love curled
Into a scared ball
Pushed against the wall
Of the darkest passages
Of your most familiar,
Personal dungeon.
Love untouched,
Is not love undone.


He crept with feline grace
Shimmering, into that glass filled
With the only true liquid love.
He reflected, contorted,
Changing forms.
Elegant now.
Grotesque later.
Caught in a glass.
Tightened in a bottle.
Corked in a vision.
Free in the world.
Invisible in the Universe.


Things fall apart
But the centre holds.
Silly centre.
Caught into its own
And twirls
And folds.


Love unrequited
Has its colours.
Break it through a sheet of liquid.
Sparkling clear?
Blurred, dear?
Buried, fear?


While walking through a desert
I conjured a water in my mind
I conjured mirage in my mind
An illusion of an illusion later
I conjured comfort in my mind
(Illusory, from the disillusioned)


Liquid love, is not life force.
Liquid love, is love, and liquid.
It is love, which is liquid.
Hence it flows,
Like fluids, it grows,
To take shapes of visions,
You were scared to profess.
Dreams are comfortable,
Or, are they, really?


Myths were created for truth.
Layered with dust of a millennia
Shrouded within tongues infinite
They gain magic, lose truth.
What is our truth, my dear?
Our love is magic, or a myth, mere?
Was our story made by us?
Or kindled under a curtained hush?


She talks for both, when he talks for none.


Love untouched,
Is not love undone.
Love unloved,
Is love left pure
A gentle cure
To heart’s busiest hum.
The din of dreams,
Conflicted streams.
Pain is but a figure of speech. 


Loving is so short.
Forgetting is so long.
And myths are eternal.

PS – Thanks for Yeats, Neruda and Bachchan.

1 comment:

  1. How we, having then good reason
    to look up, and speak smiling,
    named each waking planet and star,
    each spark, born again each night.

    How your fingers would unfold
    from fists into the blue light,
    imagining if only they
    would stretch a little higher,

    they could pluck and hold
    whole stars, whole engines
    of hydrogen and fire
    in your tiny palm.

    How one night, I saw you reaching,
    as Prometheus, thief of fire,
    towards a waking Venus,
    and saw jealous Zeus for what he was.

    How I slept in splayed dreams
    haunted by thump of eagle wings,
    til you woke next morning singing
    wonders to diamonds in the sky.

    Now we, broke open and thin,
    have set aside such things.
    Now, under a sky thick
    and malignant, our livers

    turn to dust, and regrow daily
    as ghosts. We, looping iterations of
    long dead myth, are bone poems,
    we are spoken-only selves.

    These songs- fast fading echoes,
    from when we sought out proof of gods
    in the grey indifference
    of distant spinning rocks.