And as the sky, in slow undress... steps down from sun to nothingness, she loosens her day from herself- a moving silhouette for incensed air...
Summit
1 The cave breathes.Its mouth yawns open into a silenceolder than memory-a threshold of bone and shadow. The air drips—and centuries dissolve into mist.Each mineral vein chantshymns no scripture wished revealed. She kneels before the strange fireburning despite everything. The mountain breathes through her chest,the flesh- a boundary no longer certain.She is no longer herself—but… Continue reading Summit
Sea, the woman
What pretty, precious oystered pearls amid buried, bedded bijouterie! She knows of breath beyond deaths, knows of the lost in living lives... Boundless, bottomless, her intelligence. She unmasks… She mystifies…
Dry not, my pen
Dry not, my pen, nor bite the dust before my time, you're the nepenthe to my agonies, the breath to my life. Dry not, my pen, nor leave me to fend for myself, your nib is my sword, your ink my solitary aid. Dry not, my pen, nor grow weary of my imprint, I am… Continue reading Dry not, my pen
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 with… Continue reading THE LANDLORD’S WIFE
The Laughing Hills
I watch the laughing hillsgiggle in yellow flowers night and dayin this golden mountain What's another dark cloudthat rolls my way...so long as there's laughterI'll be okay
Homecoming
In the room of the soulshining a light,was the name of God.Guilt crouched in a cornerand looked up in shame... But found only loveWhere pain and grief sobbed as heartbeatsThe name soundeda song so sweet,they danced in respiteDeeper withinas embers seething, angerwas seen- and unwatered,bathed cool by the light...for there was only loveTo greed and… Continue reading Homecoming
The Mountains We Carry
They say that when God calls you to where he dwells, there is no force- physical or emotional, that can keep you from answering that call. They call it, Bulawa. You've been informed that the oxygen levels will drop with the altitude. You watch the people in line get rejected one by one, on account… Continue reading The Mountains We Carry
Séances
There’s an apple tree that bears no fruit... perhaps I like it that way- barren and raw- her mocking arms point at each horrified passerby who reminded of their sins, take another route. They want nothing to do with sinners, they want nothing to do with me... Don’t smile- they want nothing to do with you either.
THE PRINCESS AND THE DOVE
Today I heard the cooing of a dove… in the same melodious sing-song way as that blessed hour when I had heard one three years ago in that Winter’s morn… The chilly mists rose up the towers, with a vague warning, signaling ‘twere better one kept the windows shut; for one’s submission unto the damp… Continue reading THE PRINCESS AND THE DOVE
Lessons I learnt from the hardest year of my life
While you must be prepared for many an ‘Et tu, Bruté?’, moment, don’t die yet, Caesar. Yes, there’ll be many Judases in the crowd, and by many, I mean many, but God will also manifest in the bonds meant to evolve out of the storm with you and hold you through it, or at least hold your brolly through it until you’re home.
Half agony, half hope
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 cup...
Styx
Wish I knew what spells and charms made the spirit whole; what saint roamed the purgatory with balm for wounded souls... I'd have whispered archaic words in consciousness and in sleep, I'd have parleyed with the good man of God for some nepenthe to heal... But I sit on the rocks and wait by the… Continue reading Styx
Cogito, ergo sum
Jot down the first thing that comes to your mind. In my defence, it did start with one... #1- The first butterfly I ever saw. Deep, dark colours wth intricate, detailed prints (different on both wings, to my surprise), on the dining room wall as we moved into the new house. Fascinating how it didn't… Continue reading Cogito, ergo sum
A Child’s Dream
There was an ocean outside my houseYou could only see it in the morning from the little pane in the cassette room...when the mist and fog became oneLooking out then,I took a dip on a frosty mornas someone played a tuneI recognised years later as Clair de luneThe power was out...perhaps notBut there was light… Continue reading A Child’s Dream
Let me as Wilde’s nightingale be…
I sing to you, my fatherEvery praise, every tear, every verseLet me as Wilde's nightingale be...In kind, innocent, honesty sing,and with the pain it bringsbe more like you.Leavethe purest red rose, as the generous thorn of sufferingbleeds me so completeI'm all soulFinally Home, at your feet ©
Winter
Until lessons learnt, and nails walked on Until barefoot, skin shed, worn and torn,
Fistful of Words
Slipping like sand through my fingers, are a fistful of words
The Boatman Series (8) – The Boatman and the Preacher
Starless winter night, the cold, dark waters - the Boatman runs from the formidable harbour, and finding a little church, does hurriedly enter to bare his burdened soul to the preacher. His feet thud on the the rug, haggard and tired as he cries uttering an incoherent prayer - afraid of deeds on earth and… Continue reading The Boatman Series (8) – The Boatman and the Preacher
Seva
What do you do to be involved in the community? Early mornings in early childhood always began with a ritual of sorts. While dad and mom managed the chaos of getting my sister and me off to school- ironing, polishing, prepping the tiffin-bag- the meticulous, dignified task of tying our school-ties was assigned to my… Continue reading Seva
The Soul Inside The Statue
On the Pedlar’s Street, there was a pedestalmade out of funny, crooked stone,upon which, stood a bent man’s sculpture-his solemn look quite chilling to the bone.The inscription said he was the first to sellaround those parts, his peddled wares;that he died both hungry and miserable,and with a great many cares...One night, as th' merchants packed… Continue reading The Soul Inside The Statue
At Sea
Yet, there is a part of me that wants to stop. To give in to the waters and become a stone-cold statue at the bottom of the ocean, but the fear of being one of those ghosts that wander the seas keeps me. Safely afraid. I’ve waded far, yes, but the blood is my own.
Rainy Moonbeam
...milky melancholy glances around, have the stars kept you waiting? Come down, sweet moon, descend in glowing strides, I’ll stay awake with you... forget the stars and tides!
Nārāyaṇī
'Sita in Ashoka Grove' It was called Ashok-the grove of no sorrows...where, she, held by forcedwindled 'tween gloomand the faithful hopeof rescue by her LordSay, O, Tree, she spokein a dusked, despairing hourTo thy name be truelend me a branching handthat my hair may as rope free me in soul, if not in formAs winds,… Continue reading Nārāyaṇī
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… Continue reading Words of a Melting Candle…
Odyssey of Life
I knew when I embarked on this quest, knew there'd be no pause, no rest; knew I'd have to pass all the tests- failure isn't an option in this Odyssey of life... I knew when it had begun raining sorrow, my parched spirituality, by the day would grow, and though I'd be too weary for… Continue reading Odyssey of Life
The Boatman Is Come For Me
"Two coins upon her eyes, bright n' silver... The boat slowly sinks as it draws nearer"
The Sad Poet’s Miserable Companions
“I’m bored”, the curious flame complained in a whisper- “Only a few more days to go”, reassured the tiny taper.
Conch Shell (III)
Racing as freed wolves, my heart beats in tribal drums. I have no sudh-budh, driven to the divine form and trident in the shmashaan...
Ode to Ebony
My! Does she have a temper when confined to pins and clips- whispering, sighing audibly (even slyly learnt to flip)! There have been times, I must admit, when I've even caught her high to that dangerous static electricity... scaring my living daylights!
Lady of the Stained Glass
It is hard to miss those eyes once those that dare, do see her
The two lines
Describe a random encounter with a stranger that stuck out to you. As the sinners lined upon the way to hellI met the eyes of onewho'd been looking at me'Pray, what did you doto merit heaven?'I responded, 'I loved…as the prophet said'.He chuckled, the sinnerunder his breaththen looked at me saying'So you've punished yourself'.
An Easter Sunday carpentering miracle
What's a skill or ability you have or wish you had? I've never been the handiest one and sought help for repair work-that's the skill of which I had none (my friends have called me entitled)So imagine my fright when tonight a gale quite nearly blew apart(with not a handyman in sight!)a window someone had… Continue reading An Easter Sunday carpentering miracle
Hopium
© Hopium, your smouldering leaveskeep me swayingfrom glasses half full, and otherwiseyour swirling, spiralling fumeskeep entrancingrevealing a world I know to be but liesWhat power, what nepentheis yours, Hopium, my friendthat even when I know you've only misled-I still follow you… blindfolding my weary eyes? ©
The Humour In Death
"How to be a doctor? Just poke and poke where it hurts the most, until it heals".
Trojan Horse
Lady Luck stroked my face on a moonlit nighther gifts were plenty, her grace benign.I let myself wilt into a giddy sleep"Fortune hath chosen my bedside!" In the morning, horrified, I wake to seethe hue and cry, the dole and mire;"All lost!" "All lost!" is all they repeat...All is lost in the fire. I fall… Continue reading Trojan Horse
Throwback to my first published poem
© Please don't judge me, English isn't my first language but it is the first language I fell madly in love with. This was my first published poem ever. I started writing poems at 7, and this was published at 8. #throwbackthursday?
Cusp of a Kiss
Never again will the same sandy shore be treaded upon oblivious to the crowds of sunbathers and poets. Never again shall the salty sea breeze blow past this northern terrain or mistletoes be gathered prematurely by the suspecting Cupid! It's run its course - whate'er it was - a blue moon, a passing storm... We'll… Continue reading Cusp of a Kiss
Drunk
If truth could get drunkand blame his cups for his wordswould they still be lies?
I’ve Got My Fire Burning: the unintentionally metaphorical winter poem (…and a study on the poet’s eye which no one asked for).
Now a big gale this way blows- ice in its veins, lashing reins of cold. But, the emboldened sparkles leap up to dance in the storm… And no harm done (save a frost-bite on the nose!) For I’ve got a fire burning to keep me warm; I’ve got a little fire of my own.
The Barbaric Now
What need there be for thorned ropes or swords with poison laced? That is for the barbaric
TOPSY TURVY
What if stars shone beneath our feet, and flowers bloomed overhead?If rain felt warm and sultry to the skin, but sunshine made us wet?If black roses were common, and sunflowers, the coveted?If moon and Mars dwelt on Earth and the sun sat in the seabed?If there were no swift flowing rivers but swiftly flowing skies?If… Continue reading TOPSY TURVY
You come to me in breezes…
in the atmospheric spaces You haunt, between life and death
Scrape… heard Dantés
I will sell my soul, and walk through the muck not for freedom, oh no, but for my words
Birds of the Courtyard
Where have they gone - the birds of the courtyard - that chirped ceaselessly, before a sharp sound or those chattering monkeys set them aflutter? Do you remember how they descended from their glorious aerial abode to the courtyard, in warm gratitude for the host, delightfully picking at the seeds strewn on winter mornings -… Continue reading Birds of the Courtyard
And the desert winds sang
In his dry, wounded hands, a firmly held bright red quill, a song on his dying lips despite all will, he squints at the hard sky as if in prayer, when he hears, loud and clear, the desert speak.
Tryst with the ocean
my eyes are lulled to dreams of crystal clear water blue fire on white ice
ON LIFE AND DEATH
a slimy, green toad, into her
garden one night stole, crushing her
SINGING IN THE RAIN
I woke up to a terrible storm ravaging my world… An overpowering wind threatened entrance by force as the floor length windows shuddered. The curtains had succumbed to the call of the wind yet remained sucked and concaved into the glass panes, flapping fitfully at the separation. A bleak, gloomy day – pale yellow, as… Continue reading SINGING IN THE RAIN
Orphans stop waiting
It comes to me from time to time that moment and that conversation - a haunting weight I knew even then would leave a heavier imprint than one would've guessed. She said to me at the library as we worked on the art project how orphans stop waiting once they get used to the wait… Continue reading Orphans stop waiting
The Eternal Witness: 2025- the year that came to break me but ended up being the making.
2025 will always mark a before and an after in my life, not because of the transformation my photographs from earlier this year to now reflect, but the one from death to life, fear to faith, and grief to the Guru. People speak of healing as if it's something in our control and that's where… Continue reading The Eternal Witness: 2025- the year that came to break me but ended up being the making.
Bhasmā
We sit atop the mountainBreath, one with the icy Himalayan breezepuffing away the pipeSilence, beauty, warmthof each soul one with GodPraying for the salvation of these burning logsNamaḥ Pārvatī Patayé Har Har MahādevAs if Mahéshwarā Himself has come to chant...to dance the destruction dancewe all love
Chhaap Tilak
steeped so beautifully in painand seen true beauty in the sameI recall but little... of her that's gone All thought now is but soulMy ink, as tears of praise I would write you..but the soul speaks not in words © ishaisms
Kaliyuga
Scene: A young, scholarly priest walks past the banks of the holy Ganga, as a pale yellow evening settles. Visibly brooding, he takes no notice of the sights and greetings around him, and makes straight for home, where, laying the plain jute satchel of books atop a wooden desk, he pulls out a loosely bound one and begins to write, just as the early eastern skies begin to darken.
Night-time poesy: Unlatched
No… pray until your heart opens, like a door He quietly unlatched at dawn where every chant, spelled to silence breaks at the throat, to become bird-song... and you let your soul step out
The Beginning
"In the beginning was the..."
Vermillion: a Priestess’ prayer to the Goddess
At a far distance, the cool night sets. A Purnima. The Goddess in red, out her idol steps...in the abandoned temple.
Ishaisms 
You must be logged in to post a comment.