a little bit of soul...

I would write her in as one to be begged to in a film about a self-absorbed rockstar, she’d be the part of life he’d always miss – something that’d have him have his back on the rest of his life all the time so that all said pleasures, all ‘accomplishments’, all conquests and all flags planted with have to wave from behind, gathering only as much attention as his peripheral vision allows.

isn’t she too unfamiliar to be written about? too much left to be introduced? too much of distance in jaws, apart, of walnut cake and residual chews?

of all that I have, that I have to show are but questions and disbanded views; set in open-D, on Cort Guitar: a wonderland in place of two

Ah, if poetry could do a thing! I’d probably be on a plane that lands me in exactly ‘now’, through the future and back again; to see about the Banyan tree, to see about her, brown in the nude; to see about the cups of tea splattered by the storm she brews; to see how tall she looks beside, to see how much she weighs (her eyes) when lifted and when lifted high, and through ugly hugs and shameless gaze;

and see, and see, and see, and see, for there’s so much to see, so much to feel, so much to ask, so much to empathize, so much to nod to when not listening actually! so much to be recorded, so much to be absorbed, there’s just so much about you that I can’t say it all for I don’t know it all: or well, I can’t even think it all!

sitting in thought, writing this thing to raise a smile or make you laugh, through innocence or insightful string; or maybe I should play guitar, try Clapton-ing some candid licks; but you know, I could go on and on with this nonsense, so enough with the tricks!

I found you erroneously, and I liked the wrong; there’s nothing here to rationalize, if it’s fate, too fond;

and I have my own reservations: I’m no golfer, I play table tennis; I’m no poet, I draw! I’m no singer, I’m no songwriter, I’m no jack of heart!

but I know of this and I know this much:

that if this poem were an exclamation mark it would end without one.

and let this be no poem, but a work of heart.

I would play the rockstar as a representative of thought, not form. And I’d fit in his shoes perfectly, for he’d be the sized 9 that I write him in. Converse doesn’t go good with me, though.

Thought I’d flaunt some title, thought I’d flaunt some title design. And I thought I’d frame a tribute so that you’d know. And you know it, don’t you?

the Abominable Firefly

Yet another from the hated side. But this one came with a reason, part of a 'greater good'. Funny how each poem comes with an assurance to screw my imagination up further, and I'm having to think outside the box at every clench of the pen (or press of keyboard, in my case) - and it's not a carton anymore, mind you. Kind of like some holy vessel except there's nothing holy about it. 

If you didn't understand the above lines, let them pass. I'm pretty sure you'd make sense out of the ones that are coming.

a shield against her summer strikes:

no warmth within, no warmth to keep;

“for what’s the world inside but ice

warmer ‘cause it shows to be?”

or so Miss Winter justifies

her taking over time to freeze;

the ignominies of captured life!

brazen to the core – besieged.

enter darkness, exemplified

by spotlight traps as emotions flee;

in blatant truth, like irony hides

in tiny little vacancies.

so what if there’s no fire to fight,

no race to run, no speed to beat?

so what if you feel left behind,

no second breath to help build steam?

no, ‘what if’ is not the way to find

your dream envisioned, fate conceived;

but what’s pinhole light to the firefly,

when the glow inside is guaranteed?

That's not what I think of when I see fireflies. But then again, it's an angle all the same and I think it's pretty much mine. There's not enough optimism in the world to stay alive with flashlights on than to sleep it out and wait for the sun. That's kind of an ambition to me, actually.

myopia

Hello again, for lack of a better remark. I don’t know if it’s good to be back, a shadow cast on the regression-lover that I usually look to be, live to be. The occasion in itself is pretty welcome, the ambient is red and I’m wearing green – so much for coincidences.

All the same, I wrote this poem the day before yesterday.

wilted minds,

their tampered faces

whose creases hide

in ironed-out lines

they only help me draw a blank

and fill it up

with dust and sand;

and ‘what’s and ‘why’s

and ‘how’s and ‘now…’s

and second thoughts

sent voiced aloud…

it’s time to take my glasses off.

Appropriation is what I have been indulging in, lately. Flagpoles planted on places that come my way and not exactly relying on ventures to give me a newfound name. Same goes with ‘Myopia’. Kind of like how Clapton explains ‘Crossroads’, how Slash would boast about a no-brainer ‘Sweet Child of Mine’. This just happened.

And I have nothing more to say in this regard.