Rings of Smoke

These poems do not live: it's a sad diagnosis.

insanity

we have both been there, in,among the whirling lights, and dancing shadows, the place no one knew, staring in fascination- at wavering lifeforms, tentacly reminders of wasted morality- we were there once, without knowing. you know the place,you want to go, again- dancing with a tottering gait, the place you expect to find, of bright [...]

growing old

i grow old,lying awake at midnight, gently ageing. watching a plume of smoke rise somewhere in the distance, despite the pattering rain,on the road, outside the compound,something is smouldering. lying awake at nights to write weary poems to put outdeserted fires, the meek hallucinating about inheriting the earth, as,in the distance,a child wails- woken,perhaps,by a [...]

facade

we meet people,everyday, see,touch,hear,hug, speak,glare,evaluate,weigh them, in scales- cost benefit analysis in calculations of relationships, the business of liking people, collaterals submitted in friendships, laughing at unfunny jokes, tolerating idiotic whims, restraining rebellion, we smother ourselves,bit by bit, the real submerged, in a sea of the ersatz, we live on,brick by brick, cementing facades.

livin’ in a shoebox

yeah,well,baby, that is interesting, what you think, that i am one, in ten billion, a face in a crowd two halves of a unwonderful world, laughable lifes,i lead, i live in a shoebox, yes,babe,i do,cramped inside myself, but i dream of the stars… and perhaps you can make some sense out of it,this hunger i [...]

logic and radio

i was coming home from work,last evening, and like millions of people across mumbai,was listening to a random radio program.now,i am willing to accept the fact (if it is so,indeed) that one of the qualifications to host a radio talk show or be a RJ is probably that you either have to have a very [...]

plastic flowers

rain streaks the windowpanes, making crisscrossing lines, much like the furrows, on your forehead, remember the day, nineteen butter flies came to our room, thirty seven blazing yellow suns, painted on thirty eight black wings, fluttering,feathery,soft, balls of fire streaking across the room, there was one that sat on your dressing table, worrying your perfume, [...]

  • About The Line under the Blog Name

    The lines generally are from some poem which I have, at some point of time or the other, loved. I do not mean, by including them, to be snotty or pretentious- but I would love it if you could identify the lines, and take much joy if you were interested enough to search them and read the original poems. If not- you can ignore them.
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