Dead in Her Sleep

Through the panes of my bedroom window does,

the freckled, weak moonlight falls across,

Alighting my fair facial features,

Outlining harshly, its crevices and traps.

With my frail eyes do I gaze far out,

And down in the horizon, the fiery apple,

 Appears with a glint of hope for me,

Surrounded by tumult, that makes the two of us.

As the redness cuts across the sky,

It shies away the once-bustling white,

And with as subtle a stroke as the faintest of painters,

Emerges my sphere, my friend, my peer.

Its time but ripe for the two of us,

To die out, wither, from one horizon,

And hop on, without wait, into another,

And keeping our tryst thus with future.

I’m impatiently raring to be gone now,

And set abound onto another pedestal,

Of my very own eternal soul-quest,

Just like the blazing apple of my eye.

The saffron gleam fans right inside,

To fall onto my failing face,

My eyes are emptily open,

Only minutes to go for my day to break.

And right through the open panes of my window,

I fly away like a free, flying bird,

Into the immortal blue sky,

And bound I am no more, to flesh.

-B.M

The Summer Stand

[FOREWORD: Now this poem is as vague and half-baked as they get. I know I've lost all my touch and skill, but I am an artist who refuses to believe that he's through his prime. Bear with my put-offing flamboyance, if its possible. And as an afterthought, I'd just like to declare, all the poems I have ever written to date have the same basic message, or the proverbial 'essence'. Ahem, then...]

As I traverse down so far and wide,
To this rickety path my steps do abide,
Meanwhile the unrelenting, summer sun-flair,
Blazes and roasts down my jet black hair.

I have had an option to be airlifted,
I could have never rather, taken up the walk.
But what I am is not what I brood,
instead I am what I decide to do.

Sure, the going I strive is not exactly clean,
And my gait itself is unsure of itself,
At least I do, I make a path,
And not languish like my fair peers.

It's an impulsive exploit in the sun,
blaring red, anguishing, ablaze, the sun.
And while my friends wait for the hoot,
I take off, but, in the wrong direction.

The pearls of my ardency do,
upon my droopy eyelids fall.
But have I complained, oh never,
I walk and walk into oblivion.

I know the path is full of thorns,
It might be that I end up cold,
On this infernal day the sun,
embellishes my hike more than it hurts.

Paint Me Colourless

I went about my daily chores,

Some trivial destination-bound,

When I found some colours, lying around,

All from which I had to pick just one.

At first, when I chose the colour green,

They told me I was pro-Muslim,

They told me I was not Indian,

And taken aback, I retraced my steps,

And zeroed in on blue this time.

But they said that blue was inhuman,

It did signify the lifeless numbness,

Of a lonely corpse in a chilly morgue.

Perplexed, by now, I chose saffron,

But still they said, they were insulted,

For orange signified violence and wrath,

And Hindu faith in its extremity.

Now I, baffled, did pick yellow,

But this didn’t do any better to them,

They complained it was filth that I,

had advocated by choosing this colour.

So I went back, with trembling hands,

And decided on the colour red,

But no, they weren’t pleased at all,

For in their contrived, twisted eyes,

All that red hue could ever mean,

Was blood, thick blood, spilt without reason,

And passion so vast, it destroyed lives,

‘Oh no’, they said, ‘unacceptable’.

And now they warned me, one last time,

To pick a colour of their sanction.

Out of ideas and out of luck,

I went ahead and chose all colours.

But lo, behold, they did not budge,

They put their heads together once more,

And after maybe, a moment’s thought,

They opposed me, unanimously.

They said I was too diplomatic,

I’d tried to act smart, to wiggle through.

They accused me of appeasement,

And condemned me to punishment.

-Bharat M.

Brooding of an Escapist Teenager: Random scribble

[I think this piece of garbled notes hardly pass for poetry, but this is something I've written at my heart's calling. Forgive the pathetic over usage of certain words, my vocabulary isn't very vast at this time of the day (night, to be precise). I begin then, ahem...]

Inertia holds on to my muscles and fibres,

I’m wearing no jeans, just this sorry face,

Yes I’m wrinkled, withered, but not in thought,

Numbers do matter, the world does remind.

I’m an old, old man,

With a grand old beard,

With antique notions, do I face this world,

Like a minimal twig in the harsh winter gust.

My ma taught me this a tad long ago,

No, it’s not as if it’s just yesterday,

To be an uptight, young man when I be a grown up,

I am all that but young, and the world’s in denial.

I’ve had my time, they say, down here,

The material world for the fast runners,

Where wisdom is rather learnt the strenuous way,

Than being handed down from generations past.

Where monetary worth exceeds scruples,

And the head acts where the heart should have,

Where impulse is downed and pragmatism reigns,

Such a place they crawl over, calling it home.

My home’s out there somewhere,

In the profound pathways of time long gone,

What’s flexibility any good when conscience is lost?

And then they call me a grand old man.

Try to read between the lines, they say,

All in good time, good humor, they say,

But now I can see the real irony here,

I impose this hood of ancientness upon me myself.

And time passes me, one second at a time,

Constituting as it does to the lump down my throat,

And to brand myself as a grand old man,

I strive on and on in my very own tune.

-B.M

My Blue Bare Bedroom Wall

[FOREWORD: People, I know I'm getting progressively repetitive with my newest poem, and I sincerely apologize for such lack of imagination. Having said that, however, I feel it safe that this assures a level of consistency to my work, a certain 'type' of writing style that, I hope, will define me. So while I have this acerbic realization of the amount of recurring themes in my poem, there is still a silver lining. I'd just like to thank you for all the support and appreciation, and my respects to my elders, who frequent this blog and find time out to comment. To work, now then, misters and missies!] 

The blank blue wall that overlooks,

Is but a mirror to me.

Reflects it not my face, my skin,

In it my heart, I see.

Scatters it not just blue figments,

Of light hither and thither,

But malice and nefarious intent,

Has it to offer sufficient.

Has it been rightly said by one,

‘An idle mind is the Devil’s workshop’,

The blue blank wall personifies,

This adage in its stark blankness.

They tell me not to drown myself,

Into deep chasms of indulgence,

For the drowsy eyes can’t differentiate,

An empty pond from a brimming rivulet.

What’s better than the blue blank wall, I say,

Is a paan-smeared, red-blotted partition,

That stands with smugness, head held high,

At least has a view, an independent cry.

So unlike my bare bedroom wall,

That stares at me expressionlessly,

And waits and broods so silently,

With eyes on me, and thoughts elsewhere.

Inaction breeds where boldness stops,

Imagination suffers while stagnation tops,

Is but a mirror to my soul,

My blank blue bare azure wall.

-Bharat M.