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What Canvas Told

13 Jan

(Okay, so I thought I’g give this one a little bit of a background. Of late, I have found myself entirely captivated by Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris and Vicky Christina Barcelona. I found his portrayal of art and the artist to be quite interesting. So, the back drop of this poem is the world of an artist, or atleast someone who thinks she’s an artist (because don’t we all today?). Like art, I’ve attempted rather consciously to keep the poem abstract! Do tell me how you like it. Thank you)

Cigarettes brush the flow, 

Alive for that short transitory moment
The moment that follows,
A bare sole takes its life away.
That bare soul, staring on ahead,
A canvas, colours strewn;
Frustration in red. Calm in white.
And yet, this one, in black.
‘What feeling is it?’ asks she
And yet, the colours flow.
With intensity, anger yet emptying itself.
Insanity choosing a new abode.
Canvas it is. In that sheet of black,
What lay behind? The artist would know.
And yet, like the butt on the ground.
Clueless. Its art says she. 
Disappeared, not a thought. Dumped at the back.
But the canvas gnaws at the head. 
The greatest made? Far from it. 
At the top of the mind. Right up.
The canvas. The emptiness filled with darkness.
With it. In it. Filled in music.
Those spanish guitars, with their pain.
That violin with its grief.
And it never happened that it gave any answers.
Only questions arose.
One thing though, the artists aspiration. Shattered.
What did Poe say? Fell in love with melancholy.
She knew it’d happen one day. Earlier than hope. 
What canvas told…She hadn’t dared ask.

Possessed Eyes

19 Nov

She took a step,

walked into darkness.
An evening gown flowing
flawless, each step closer.
The glass in hand, dropped.
Crashing. Motionless. Dripping wine.
In free fall, a life worth saving.
Those eyes…possessed.
Looking into them.
Black as a ravens back.
The darkness playing tricks.
A smile or perhaps better,
a frown, anger and happiness spreading.
Dark and light clashing.
Only one winner.
Those eye, the judges.
Hell bent on dark
And so it was.
The glass back in hand,
gravity and sense immaterial.
Knew her well but never did.
Takes a sip. Drowned in red.
Those eyes, possessed by an ancient charm.
Sinking into darkness what does no harm.

Born Knowing

15 Nov

In the heights and depths of profundity,
Lay wrapped in a blanket of emotions,
A baby.
This baby, born with a special gift
Its tears told stories,
Its gibberish, destinies.

The baby was born in a paradox,
It knew all and it knew nothing at all.
It neither grew wiser nor taller.
Like mere showpieces it lay where it did.
In a cradle of creation.

Born knowing, into a lineage unlike its own.
Its eyes had never opened to see the world which was its prison.
And in this darkness, drooled the drops of history.

First the world was flat,
It became then so soon round.
Without questioning it accepted.
The baby was born knowing all that man ever knew.

Does this thing called ‘man’ know all?
Or is he deluded; rather knows nothing at all.
This baby: Mankind. A race unlike its own.
Raised to destroy itself.

The baby in its cradle, awakened.
Split into three; the fates.
The creator arises. Lifts the cradle.
And with a hush its off.
A civilisation is built.

The preserver, gets to work.
Civilisations given gifts.
Preserved for posterity.
The preserver has done his job.

And when the going gets tough,
The destroyer is up and about.
Nothing has remained.
This little baby, its skin bright with hope.
Is all these three.
Is it born knowing?

Reflections in a Broken Mirror

25 Oct

I stand here, on the cold bathroom floor

Staring at a broken face in a broken mirror

My face was incomplete, grey areas in place of skin

A broken mirror; a crack running from temple to toe to tongue

The sides faded and fast vanishing

Made by an artist run out of paint or interest

My left eye missing and nothing there

In half shock and half amusement

I brought my hands up to my face

My pal was hollowed out

I went to touch the mirror

Warm fingers touching cold glass.

It all came crashing down

I had vanished

Nothing more than glass shards strewn on the floor.

The broken mirror reflected a complete truth

An unfinished being sent too soon.

A masterpiece not quite ready to face the world

Just a heap of trash on the cold bathroom floor.

Behind the Iron Curtain

25 Oct


Chase the little boy,

Chase him down the little road.

And when you glimpse red.

You fear you may lose your head.


In Prague;

Jump on a bicycle;

Loose your self in the stony streets.

And when you glimpse red.

You fear you must salute.


And then in Warsaw;

Explore the recent ruins;

Admire death camps.

And when you glimpse red.

You fear you must obey.


Make it to Budapest;

Savor the best of chocolates.

And when you glimpse red.

You fear the voice in your mind.


Live until Moscow;

Raise a toast at the Kremlin.

Admire the ancient foods

And when you glimpse red;

You fear you have made it too far.


Look back at the curtain;

It’s no longer there.

That’s because you’ve faced it.

And it has rusted away.


A barrier of the mind.


You’ve become red.

But you can’t say you don’t like it.

Tunnel of Reality

25 Oct

Which was the way in?

It’s hard to remember

I’ve hidden inside for so long.

But I can see light on both sides.

I hear minds fly right past;

Unable to choose.


Which was the way out?

I’ve never been to the other side

I hear voices on both sides

Calling to me; calling to me.

The light gets brighter.


Burns a hole in my eyes.

I’ve grown into darkness

Can’t find my way out.

I’m stuck in the tunnel.

The tunnel with now way out.

In search of a brighter day

25 Oct

“A brighter day will come”

and yet he couldn’t wait

He had to find it.

In a world of hate;

a world of pain and suffering

He followed not his brain;

but his soft warm heart.

Journeying up and down the Nile;

Flying across the Atlantic.

A small man;

on a mission to discover his playground

like a young boy in a fairground;

Unwilling to let go.

He came back sad;

Discovered more pain

Witnessed a world of hate

Thrown back onto the streets;

Punished; Happiness was not to be his.

He closed his eyes;

Let go of his parallel lives

Crossed a bridge of sighs.

He was home.

A brighter day had come;

He found a home among the stars.