Have to share a thing Monday, Mar 1 2010 

Hey guys,

The last poem that I posted “Waiting for You” came to me after a long long while. In these months when I wasn’t penning my thoughts, it was Love that kept me busy with its thoughts. During these months, when Love kept me engaged, it made me realize the essence of poetry… that Love is a sublime form of poetry, that Love what was makes you live a poem, breathe one and then when you are on the seventh heaven, that’s when a poem comes to you and runs towards a paper… [:)]

Aah, I find it so difficult to express myself. I know what I have written is a mere cluster of words that have no meaning, probably. But, I write all this here so that I feel I have shared the most beautiful feeling with the world! I want to stand at the top of the cliff and say, “YES, I AM IN LOVE!!!”

PS: Well, the thought of Love has made me so mad, I forgot what I had to say. Thanks, people for loving the last poem. [:)]

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Do I LoVe yOu??? Friday, Mar 20 2009 

Yes, I fell in love with you.
I am still under your spell.
Yes, I admit it.

Your thoughts, your mind,
Your emotions, your call,
Each one was special to me.
I understood everything.
I knew you in and out.

Our love was so pure
That I fell short to comprehend it.
I took you for granted
And went ahead for the world around.

Now, when I want to come back,
Something is stopping me.
I know you are at the end of the tunnel,
Standing with your arms open for me.
Yet,there lies something inside,
Which isn’t allowing me to run into you.

May be there is a guilt feeling,
Or a feeling of having lost my innocence.
Or a feeling of done stupid things under the charm of my innocence?
And realizing them now…
When you are far away…
I am hurt…
And I have no respite.

Look, now I realize,
How many times I have uttered “I” in these few lines.
It was never “WE”.
It was always “I”.
Never did I look at you.
In spite of falling in love with you,
I pestered my selfish “I”.
Did I fall in love with you?
Or I always kept loving my “I”?

I have no answers.
Only sobs, tears,
And a feeling of loss.
Of losing my “I”.
(Well, I am happy about it),
And of losing you
And of losing “Our Love”, “Our Life”, “Our Dreams”
And Our selves.

———————–

Five Days I Observed Her…Day V Monday, Mar 16 2009 

Day V

The last day it was,
I observed nothing of her.
She was nowhere,
Only her thoughts she left behind.

Every one was searching for her,
Women, men, alike.

She was gone somewhere,
No one knows.
Leaving my pen disturbed.

—————–

Five Days I Observed Her… Day IV Monday, Mar 16 2009 

Day IV

Fourth day it was,
“Progress day”, let’s say.
Now she opened her frock,
Offering a front view.
Revealing her breasts.

Stares increased,
Hunger increased…

Rest I leave for those,
Who like to imagine things.
I,as a woman, fail as a poet.
I can not describe her posture, then.

Though I have words,
They aren’t coming to the nip of my pen.
Offering hints, I can never do that.
I either say things, matter-of-factly,
Or never utter them, at all.
This, hence, has to be a trouble,
For your brain.
Understand my agony
And forgive me for your pain.

—————-

Five Days I Observed Her…Day III Monday, Mar 16 2009 

Day III

The third day was the same,
She,looking out for men,
Men,looking at her with hungry eyes,
Women,looking at her with shocked eyes,
And me, tracing every ones eyes.

Not once did I see her face,
Not once did she look up.
She only was trying to show everyone,
Her back,
Which she felt, was her “inviting” asset.

This time something had changed.
I observed her while coming back.
This time, the back was exposed more.
Sides of her breasts could be seen.
May be, to fill in an urge to touch them
Will bring men to her, she thought.

For the women staring, it was a shock.
A girl, she must be, of fifteen,
Definitely, not more than seventeen.
Aunties felt, “how could she do that?”.
Girls of her age,
They didn’t even dare to look at her.
“Why is she doing that?”, they thought.
I had no answers, but some general assumptions.
“May be she wants to earn.
May be she is tired of wandering
May be she is hungry for food.
May be she wants to fulfill her bodily hungers.”
Whatever be the reason,
She was the doing what she wanted.

——————-

Five Days I Observed Her… Day II Monday, Mar 16 2009 

Day II

When the next dawn came,
I saw her there.
In the same place,
With the same stance.

I don’t know of if she got the touch,
But was sure of the glance.
Not just men, but women, too,
Gave her that shocked look.
As if they had always been innocent
And oblivious to such moves.

She was in the same green frock,
Unzipped to expose the back,
In a frock, she was,
May be to tell of her being a virgin,
Or for those who choose the least penetrated lot.

Five days I observed her… Day I Monday, Mar 16 2009 

Day I

While on my way to the station,
I saw her lying down.
A tramp she was,
With nowhere to go,
She was lying near the bin.
What stuck me was her dress first,
That showed her open back.
A male, she wanted, to touch it
From others she wanted a stare.

Her hair was so untidy,
I wondered who would approach,
But I have heard of cannibals,
Who feed their hunger with “those”.

——————

Passion for poetry…. Sunday, Mar 8 2009 

Guys, last night I read “Gitanjali”, a collection of Rabindranath Tagore’s poems. Unfortunately, I read the translated version 😦 Although what I read was a cut to cut translation, (hence it was in prose), it was an amazing experience. 🙂  This edition had a preface by W.B.Yeats written in 1912. Yeats was amazed at the immense talent, creativity and humility with which each and every word, every alphabet was woven into these poems. Yeats mentions that he always wondered why Tagore is held with so much reverie in his country. When he read his works (of course, translated), he was completely under a spell. Same was my case. Gitanjali transports you to another world, in the true sense of the term. It is a union of your soul with the metaphysical realm, without leaving aside your physical realm. It is about love, loving His beings, his things in whatever form you find them. Tagore pens of each and everyone, each and every thing with so much grace that you fall in love with everything… the skies, the stars, the grass and even the weeds. 🙂

Oh poor me! I again drift away from what I actually wanted to write. I have a friend of mine who is a known Marathi poet. When I had told him of having bought this book for myself (I bought Gitanjali one year ago and read it yesterday 😦 BAd Gurl, I know you must be saying this). He had, then, said, “Tagore is such a noble spirit and his poetry is of so much height that one must read him only in his original texts so as to understand a bit of him.” Being an eternal lazy bee, I just said, “Who’s going to learn Bengali for that? English is something I can understand at sight… so I am content with what I have (the translated version).” Yesterday, after reading some of his poems from Gitanjali, I realized I was wrong. What my friend said was right. If Tagore can keep you spell bound, elated with his translated works, how explosive will be the energy of his original works? How much calm will his pen provide when read in his native tongue? I must say, I am envious of everyone who knows to read, write and speak Bengali. Can someone teach me the language? I want to read the text in the original form? I do not want someone else to interpret the original for me? I do not want the food. I want to learn how to hunt. 🙂

I have known, till date, several people who’ve read loads of books (my collection is close to negligible). At times, I used to wonder how come they have the patience to read so much? I have felt this urge many a times.But never have I put it into practice. After reading Tagore (although in the translated version), I have understood what this thirst really is. Poetry has the capability to move a person from the remotest part of his soul. This is where passion develops and this when you become a good reader… knowing many things, yet oblivious to many.  🙂

A poetess speaks… Monday, Feb 16 2009 

Make me not your Muse

Make me not your Muse,
Who stands like a portrait in your poems,
Lifeless and public.
Make me the energy of your poem.
Let me flow through your thoughts.
Let me be omnipresent in your works,
Something that can’t be seen,
But is there.
Let me breathe through your creativity,
Something that is continous;
A constant process which when stops
Takes life out of a thing.
Dont make me your pen;
Let me be the ink that writes,
The one that leaves a footprint,
That fills in an urge to be traced.

Immortalize this tiny sprite
As a bliss for
Loving you honestly…

——— Mrudgandhaa