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Thursday, September 12, 2013
Sunday, August 18, 2013
You're beautiful, but you're not true.
you're beautiful, but you're not true.
lip-locked with a dream,
you tasted of moonlight.
a vibrato of the senses
once touched by the ethereal.
a song by the crackling fire,
and perfect obsidian sleep.
a lullaby scented of summer
and pine cones;
and of doors of rain.
but just like that,
you're beautiful, but you're not true.
----
conceptualised from fragments of Ginsberg, Aldiss and Gaiman; written during the journey between Pune and Mumbai.
lip-locked with a dream,
you tasted of moonlight.
a vibrato of the senses
once touched by the ethereal.
a song by the crackling fire,
and perfect obsidian sleep.
a lullaby scented of summer
and pine cones;
and of doors of rain.
but just like that,
you're beautiful, but you're not true.
----
conceptualised from fragments of Ginsberg, Aldiss and Gaiman; written during the journey between Pune and Mumbai.
Friday, August 16, 2013
untitled #5
in a garden of words,
separated by a palindrome
of emotions
which will never come to pass.
reflected on rainbow puddles
and across sing song clouds
in dewdrops and pond side dreams,
scattered syllables of
secret smiles
and sidelong glances.
till the rainsmith is gone
and static fills every empty nook
that rain brushed cobblestones
left behind.
----
this one's totally inspired by the movie Garden of Words. and the rains of course.
Friday, July 19, 2013
untitled #4 / thoughts of rain
while it rains in dulcet tones,
summersongs drip from the leaves
and rainbows peek out of puddles
rippling in notes of blue.
thoughts of rain keep me up
while i play my tunes
with little thought
to tomorrow's hazy dawn.
rainsmith, rainsmith
last orders and another song
for the road that will
see you through?
------------------------
i hope at least some can figure out who/what this pays tribute to. a tiny clue would be the name of my blog.
summersongs drip from the leaves
and rainbows peek out of puddles
rippling in notes of blue.
thoughts of rain keep me up
while i play my tunes
with little thought
to tomorrow's hazy dawn.
rainsmith, rainsmith
last orders and another song
for the road that will
see you through?
------------------------
i hope at least some can figure out who/what this pays tribute to. a tiny clue would be the name of my blog.
untitled #3
the night carves out iridescent verse
amidst stormy collisions of the soul
in a soliloquy with the rainsmith.
with piano toned and lilted lyrics
from moonshine puddles
'twixt silences which make leaves rustle.
till reality rings out
and the song voice
tells it all to stop.
------------------------
this scrap of blank verse was inspired by a late night train ride (something i always find quite inspiring); and this song - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0GdqHJqeVy8
amidst stormy collisions of the soul
in a soliloquy with the rainsmith.
with piano toned and lilted lyrics
from moonshine puddles
'twixt silences which make leaves rustle.
till reality rings out
and the song voice
tells it all to stop.
------------------------
this scrap of blank verse was inspired by a late night train ride (something i always find quite inspiring); and this song - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0GdqHJqeVy8
Friday, July 12, 2013
untitled #2
and in you waltz
through once unhinged
and now delicately balanced
doors
which can only leave
a frail impression of solidity.
your smile is out of context;
a gorgeous song which has tasted blood.
your voice
a careful hazy indifference
masking misplaced emotions
masking more apathy.
it rains in our fever dreams
peeling away all the colours
promises made driftwood
sinking in a whirlpool of words
unsaid.
i look back just as you look away.
through once unhinged
and now delicately balanced
doors
which can only leave
a frail impression of solidity.
your smile is out of context;
a gorgeous song which has tasted blood.
your voice
a careful hazy indifference
masking misplaced emotions
masking more apathy.
it rains in our fever dreams
peeling away all the colours
promises made driftwood
sinking in a whirlpool of words
unsaid.
i look back just as you look away.
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
The book of our rhymes
Somewhere there is a book
lost elsewhere so we would never look.
Yellowed parchment the color of sunsets and kisses
words the shape of lullabies in foreign tongues
and the floaty things you see when you close your eyes.
Where the ink smells of rain and lost love
and the letters form the shapes of pretty melodies intertwined like lovers.
the book is as different as he who reads it.
Emotional tripwires,
and hungover memories,
the undying need to scream,
spring tinged laughter,
tunes yet unwritten
and lovers` talk
and heartbroken poems;
but it's none of those,
and of course
nothing else either.
Pages of waking dreams
with ever-changing hues
as fickle as a smile.
The book is everyone who takes a peek
and some who stop at the cover.
It's the dog ears
and the kaleidoscope bookmarks
at seemingly unimportant pages
and underlined words and illegible
footnotes. Footnotes are important.
It's the time spent reading it,
the tears and crumbs across its folds.
Don't you get it yet?
A dream along a mobius strip
is where it ought to begin.
And so,
it'll never again end
between you and the
six degrees of separation
from the last song ever sung.
Oh, and the book has no index
just in case you were wondering.
Get your own.
lost elsewhere so we would never look.
Yellowed parchment the color of sunsets and kisses
words the shape of lullabies in foreign tongues
and the floaty things you see when you close your eyes.
Where the ink smells of rain and lost love
and the letters form the shapes of pretty melodies intertwined like lovers.
the book is as different as he who reads it.
Emotional tripwires,
and hungover memories,
the undying need to scream,
spring tinged laughter,
tunes yet unwritten
and lovers` talk
and heartbroken poems;
but it's none of those,
and of course
nothing else either.
Pages of waking dreams
with ever-changing hues
as fickle as a smile.
The book is everyone who takes a peek
and some who stop at the cover.
It's the dog ears
and the kaleidoscope bookmarks
at seemingly unimportant pages
and underlined words and illegible
footnotes. Footnotes are important.
It's the time spent reading it,
the tears and crumbs across its folds.
Don't you get it yet?
A dream along a mobius strip
is where it ought to begin.
And so,
it'll never again end
between you and the
six degrees of separation
from the last song ever sung.
Oh, and the book has no index
just in case you were wondering.
Get your own.
Monday, July 1, 2013
untitled #1
velvet wrapped memories
kept out of sight
promises and hopes, wrapped
in cream sunset cellophane
poems and letters
with words that just seemed right
without a second thought
the whispered precious
few moments
when we dreamed happy
of waking up the next morning
and nothing would have changed.
and then we woke up.
kept out of sight
promises and hopes, wrapped
in cream sunset cellophane
poems and letters
with words that just seemed right
without a second thought
the whispered precious
few moments
when we dreamed happy
of waking up the next morning
and nothing would have changed.
and then we woke up.
The seduction of dreams
it won't be long till my dreams
are seduced again.
the yellow white speckled
parchment paper would do.
i can see the ink blots on it
taking a myriad of shapes
that are as incomprehensible
as the criss crossing shadows
when the streetlights come on.
the afterglow of dusk might
lead to rain. it might not. and
drops of shard memories will flow
down our hands through veins of
long lost emotion; i watch your eyes
watch them as they drip off
and into the parched wind
which was the only stowaway
when our doors were closed
and your eyes shone brighter than ever.
those eyes will make even lesser
sense soon enough.
ever is a word that should
never be written.
it is always a lie.
a beautiful, stained glass emotion
wrapped into itself inside a kaliedoscope
that makes it ever so pretty.
till the sun goes down.
then there remains only
the sounds of tinkling,
broken glass bangles
in mockery of a stupid roadside dream.
it might not be long till my dreams
are seduced again.
but every dream wakes up a nightmare.
the mirror cracks when you ask it to
lie one more time.
there is a rhyme for frayed edges,
a soliloquy for every fear
that takes us hostage in broad daylight.
there will always be songs about you.
but none for you. because.
are seduced again.
the yellow white speckled
parchment paper would do.
i can see the ink blots on it
taking a myriad of shapes
that are as incomprehensible
as the criss crossing shadows
when the streetlights come on.
the afterglow of dusk might
lead to rain. it might not. and
drops of shard memories will flow
down our hands through veins of
long lost emotion; i watch your eyes
watch them as they drip off
and into the parched wind
which was the only stowaway
when our doors were closed
and your eyes shone brighter than ever.
those eyes will make even lesser
sense soon enough.
ever is a word that should
never be written.
it is always a lie.
a beautiful, stained glass emotion
wrapped into itself inside a kaliedoscope
that makes it ever so pretty.
till the sun goes down.
then there remains only
the sounds of tinkling,
broken glass bangles
in mockery of a stupid roadside dream.
it might not be long till my dreams
are seduced again.
but every dream wakes up a nightmare.
the mirror cracks when you ask it to
lie one more time.
there is a rhyme for frayed edges,
a soliloquy for every fear
that takes us hostage in broad daylight.
there will always be songs about you.
but none for you. because.
Sunday, May 19, 2013
In between Dreams
between the obvious and yesterday
between the thunderstorm and the rainbow puddles
between clenched eyes and a broken smile
is there any place for me?
between the joke and the pun of love
between the grey skies of stagnation and the rain of release
between your walls and mine
is there shelter for a dream?
between the haze and a touch of dew
between what is lost and what will never be found
between the teardrop and the floor
is there space for a metaphor?
between your shadow and my nightmare
between what we shared and what we never will
between your lies and my betrayal
is there time for another song?
between the thunderstorm and the rainbow puddles
between clenched eyes and a broken smile
is there any place for me?
between the joke and the pun of love
between the grey skies of stagnation and the rain of release
between your walls and mine
is there shelter for a dream?
between the haze and a touch of dew
between what is lost and what will never be found
between the teardrop and the floor
is there space for a metaphor?
between your shadow and my nightmare
between what we shared and what we never will
between your lies and my betrayal
is there time for another song?
Thursday, May 16, 2013
dare to sing
sometimes
words aren't enough
and i need to look away
lest that smile
smoulders my walls.
i am just incidental now
or in a complicated web
of belief and not
you want me to be so.
take this song
hold it tight
no, i will not skip it
listen to it
the window is there
throw it out
bit by bit
let the strands of us tear
and the edges of the
memories fray
till all is left is
you
and
i.
you started building
your wall
as i started breaking mine
halfway through
we were cut off
oh wait i forgot
we is not a word any more
i.
you.
i'll get used to it :)
there will be a box
dusty
sealed up tight
in a corner of my mind
with a label of you
written in smudged letters
i'll stay away from it.
come take it back sometime?
i could do with the space.
'Got your message.
How and why?
Because I appreciate irony,
songs in the dark, books. I
accept people for the way
they are and I dare to sing.'
or so was said.
see, it wasn't hard to turn you
into a poem after all.
the spell has ended.
the song has stopped.
the lights come back on now.
let me take my final bow?
-----
words aren't enough
and i need to look away
lest that smile
smoulders my walls.
i am just incidental now
or in a complicated web
of belief and not
you want me to be so.
take this song
hold it tight
no, i will not skip it
listen to it
the window is there
throw it out
bit by bit
let the strands of us tear
and the edges of the
memories fray
till all is left is
you
and
i.
you started building
your wall
as i started breaking mine
halfway through
we were cut off
oh wait i forgot
we is not a word any more
i.
you.
i'll get used to it :)
there will be a box
dusty
sealed up tight
in a corner of my mind
with a label of you
written in smudged letters
i'll stay away from it.
come take it back sometime?
i could do with the space.
'Got your message.
How and why?
Because I appreciate irony,
songs in the dark, books. I
accept people for the way
they are and I dare to sing.'
or so was said.
see, it wasn't hard to turn you
into a poem after all.
the spell has ended.
the song has stopped.
the lights come back on now.
let me take my final bow?
-----
Monday, May 13, 2013
clockwork dream
My clockwork dream it starts tonight
Its blurred edges just out of sight
sepia toned and gilt engraved
long forgotten and dust framed.
A patchwork past hung on the wall
faded out of sight for all
take it down and throw it out
let the hole it leaves stand out.
tongue twisted thoughts they come to mind
a stained glass dream that has gone blind
ticking on and ticking down
burning bridges without a sound.
faking a blue hue while we sleep
blue tears roll down yet we don't weep
blue tinted songs when we wake up
our smiles rolled out our heart shut up.
and yet we dream this clockwork dream
ticking away, nipping at the seams
of the taped up book with a happy end
of the broken verse that will never mend.
Its blurred edges just out of sight
sepia toned and gilt engraved
long forgotten and dust framed.
A patchwork past hung on the wall
faded out of sight for all
take it down and throw it out
let the hole it leaves stand out.
tongue twisted thoughts they come to mind
a stained glass dream that has gone blind
ticking on and ticking down
burning bridges without a sound.
faking a blue hue while we sleep
blue tears roll down yet we don't weep
blue tinted songs when we wake up
our smiles rolled out our heart shut up.
and yet we dream this clockwork dream
ticking away, nipping at the seams
of the taped up book with a happy end
of the broken verse that will never mend.
Friday, March 8, 2013
make you feel
is it cold
is it cold where you lie
wrap me around you
let me be your song
till we both die
can you hear
can you hear me through the din
do we walk back home
alone once again
and back to where we've been?
will it stop
will it stop to pour once more
i can only sleep in the rain
and when i wake i won't
remember what came before.
hello
i wrote you a song back there
of raindrops in paper cups
of the waft of morning coffee
and chimes at dusk
playing late into the night
but you wouldn't let me sing it
coz it keeps you up thinking
it might make you feel.
is it cold where you lie
wrap me around you
let me be your song
till we both die
can you hear
can you hear me through the din
do we walk back home
alone once again
and back to where we've been?
will it stop
will it stop to pour once more
i can only sleep in the rain
and when i wake i won't
remember what came before.
hello
i wrote you a song back there
of raindrops in paper cups
of the waft of morning coffee
and chimes at dusk
playing late into the night
but you wouldn't let me sing it
coz it keeps you up thinking
it might make you feel.
物の哀れ(mono no aware)
it's been a while
since i stopped trying to rhyme my words for you;
it doesn't sit well with being speechless.
on the contrary, the poems became tunes
which then dried up into thoughts
things i wanted to say out loud
but you would hush me before i could
till our silence together became a wall.
you're in songs, still.
when i least expect it, a snatch of lyric
taking me back to times that are now lost
somewhere amidst the clamor of trams
the rustling of turning pages
the sound of your tiptoes and your smile
am i but a memory to you by now?
i am done here, by the way.
PS - the name of the poem shares itself with a Japanese phrase which relates to the ephemeral nature of things. it goes well with how i have been feeling for a while now...
since i stopped trying to rhyme my words for you;
it doesn't sit well with being speechless.
on the contrary, the poems became tunes
which then dried up into thoughts
things i wanted to say out loud
but you would hush me before i could
till our silence together became a wall.
you're in songs, still.
when i least expect it, a snatch of lyric
taking me back to times that are now lost
somewhere amidst the clamor of trams
the rustling of turning pages
the sound of your tiptoes and your smile
am i but a memory to you by now?
i am done here, by the way.
PS - the name of the poem shares itself with a Japanese phrase which relates to the ephemeral nature of things. it goes well with how i have been feeling for a while now...
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