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Thursday, August 27, 2015

Childhood 4 : Conjuring (or Little Fibs)

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Conjuring (or Little Fibs)

The wind would carry you someplace
And the sun would call elsewhere:
So, to lose your face with none,
You told some little fibs.

To the wind you said, "I'm too heavy",
To the sun, "I'm much too dark";
And to the world, "Take me or leave me,
Smoke and mirrors and all".

Your white lies were fooling no one
But the ones you loved the most.
Those who knew, were young and new --
They simply didn't care.

Your box of tricks had lights and smells
That thralled them days on end,
Your magic lighted many smiles,
And emboldened many a tread

But when, one day, you stole some rest
They saw your tortured face
And, with it, the tired world
As it truly lay

And they thought, "When we were broken
This kid cooked a fix;
To make our world less like his own
He brought his magic tricks --

And, maybe, in conjuring
Our world of serene nights
He weaved a story of loving lies...
...but he's sweet, so that's alright.
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Tuesday, August 18, 2015

Childhood 3 : Make-believe

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Make-believe

I like to leave before a party ends
Because then I can pretend it never did;
Or, that it ended because
I was the life of the party.

I like to believe that, in sunsets,
There are strange writings and coloured skulls --
And that, when it's dark,
They let loose and dance.

I like to think of my food and drink
As a bond between me and the earth
And of my friends as my link
To all human flesh.

I like to believe that all my people
Are real, and exactly how I want them,
And not as they are, because
That would be way too sad.
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Friday, August 14, 2015

Childhood 2 : Amma

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Amma

One does not require a child

To become a mother.
As the saying goes, a mother
Is one whose soul lives
Outside her body;
Or even, I dare say, his.

A mother of one is a mother

To all Creation --
Because the sacrifice learned
Cannot be unlearned,
And because motherhood
Is a state of being
And a constant choice.

Who worries enough about you

Is your mother --
Who asks if you had enough
Of milk, curd, tea;
Or worries if your friends
Are treating you well
Becomes your mother.


So here's to those mothers who toil

To mother differently;
To those fathers who toil double
To be a mother as well;
And to that mother in Chennai who
Was quick to adopt
Her child's new friend.
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Inspiration credit: Mothers of UG2015 CMI-ites, especially Malavika's mother.

Tuesday, August 11, 2015

Childhood 1 : Apparitions

So, once again the idea for one poem has gone haywire in my head with enough intensity to make me consider a series. Tentatively the series is called 'Childhood', and may contain prose pieces as well. We shall see. For now, here's the first one, inspired by life at CMI and specifically my first friend there, Subhayan.
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Apparitions

Two friends chatting on the ledge
Living life on concrete edge
Too many lights, and sounds too few,
And ghosts, and trees, and Scooby Dooby-Doo.


Precious possessions behind the door
Left unlocked 'cause the locks are a bore --
Watch it for me, please, will you?
Scooby Dooby-Doo, where are you?


Scooby Dooby-Doo, what do you find
In spaces ten times multiplied,
In water glasses measuring time,
And darkened stories missing rhyme?


Mystery Machine whirs on alright;
(Words, Cradle, Starry Night...!)
When one day Fred will drop the wheel,
Scooby Doo, how will you feel?

When Daphne becomes someone else's,
Velma drops her patent lenses,
Shaggy ceases to believe --

Scooby Doo, will you still live?

When all the questions have been asked,
Mysteries solved, and ghouls unmasked,
When all that you said becomes true,
Scooby, will they still love you?

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Monday, August 10, 2015

A Short Poem

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Because History Repeats

The words were old,
But the voices new.
They were already bought,
'Cause the sound was true.

Make this a day
Of truths untold!
Between the lilts,
The tales unfold

Of lives lived few
And far between,
Lives meant to be loved,
Loves meant to be seen.
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Saturday, August 8, 2015

To The Place I Belong

Beneath the yellow flowers, the footprints of the greats make a second bedrock. By force of habit, the trees that were once green saplings continue to give seeds that grow into more trees, even as powerful ideas are sowed in the minds that shall perhaps be great someday.
The clouds are red in the western sky and the buzz of the afternoon mundane pervades. The office drones are flocking home, and so are the birds, but they won't find me travelling today. I'm not going home, because I already am home -- the ant I just stepped on agrees.
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First post from CMI campus, via the CMI-Hostel wifi. Title credit: Country Roads
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