Half agony, half hope

This is a page from my journal. The title of the poem is inspired by a quote from Jane Austen's, Persuasion. I know something of what the young soldier feels in the midst of battle;know something too, of the kind of hope a fortune teller can provide.In the grand chaos, I meditate before the silent…

Why the moon follows you

© When I was a little girlone of my coveted pleasureswas visiting dad at work,and returning home with him at seven in the evening,when the moon was up.He held my hand tight and walked very briskly as I jogged by him to keep up;with my eyes on the moon and never on the road- carefree…

Going Home, Sinatra – a short story

The station was empty, save for the moths fluttering by the lemon glow of the lone light bulb. You could almost hear the quietness, the eerie lull so characteristic to my town. Quiet, lost and forgotten little place. Existing in secret.  The train came in, huffing and puffing, hooting, and whistling, creating the only buzz…

Old Songs

Don't aim for me when I'm gone, when all there's left are memories of old songs I'd sung; don't aim with roses or with a gun, when all there's left are memories of the tears and fun... The birds have migrated to the West, my love, each and every empty nest now boasts of only…

Words of a Melting Candle…

I woke from a heavy slumber upon being lit again. A mere stub now… That stature and pride of youth gone, but leaving behind like molten wax trickling down my wintry body, the illumination of wisdom that comes with time and a lifetime of service. Would you like to hear a dying light’s flickering words…

THE LANDLORD’S WIFE

This is a page, dear reader, from my life about a love both secret and unspoken, for, you see, she was the landlord’s wife – and I, a lonely surveyor and month long tenant. On a misty eve in an icy, grey, November, did I make my way to her elegant door, as the mountains…

Flirtations

Image from Pinterest They were right to warn you about the budding compliments,the bubbling banter and the flatterythat leads down the rabbit hole of narcissistic delightof pulling rose petals out in an oscillating "do they, don't they" frenzy,tossing and turning and teasing all night. Until the bounds of propriety are shamelessly skirted about and upon;the…

Lessons I learnt from the hardest year of my life

"And once the storm is over, you won't remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won't even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won't be the same person who walked in." - Haruki Murakami When…

The Boatman Series (1) – The Boatman and the Traveller

Starless winter night, the cold, dark waters; The boatman comes to ferry the midnight travellers, Yet, waiting hatless, at the lonely harbour, head bent down, a solitary smoker, leans 'gainst the mossy ladder - coat revealing a silver dagger... Breaking into a sweat despite the shiver, The boatman reluctantly takes him in and stammers, "And…

Painted Nymph

All the cups of colours on the floor;the nymph drips in moistened hues...Paintbrushes and their deft strokeshave laboured in love for this view.Reds and blues, they swirl on her,but purple is her crowning jewel...And what poet can paint in verse the beauty that her pinks do hold?The masterpiece of the artist, she-the most striking canvassed…

Beyond Bounds

Image from Pinterest The God of the Dark takes me by the handwhispers, "Come", to unknown, alluring landsin the wee hours, no presage, no known planI'm pulled, prescient...magnetised by him, and held by the waist, as he smiles softly behindspurring me on, as his firm fingers intertwinein mine; and I, locked in levitating, lusty decoysmoke…

Lines

Today I could tellmy writing days are over I'll read old verses and smile at having been herfor many glorious years

Observations

autumn leaves falling outside as you lean against the window on an October commute. That coworker with the intricate fishbone hairdo. The cat that just sneaked into the room.

By The Midnight Lamp

Ink. Paper. Light. The only way to survive to fight, and if the gods be kind perhaps even taste of freedom There is no other point to this pen.

Poet

each verse flows away,half-formed into the riverto sing in the deepI let go as the mourner before the ghat of Ganges

tanka

It is the last dawn There is no semblance of fear as the storm sets in Let it claim its victoriesI seek peace with fallen birds