Words in agony

Quenchless words flap their broken wings

but they fall short every time they try a flight

from the dry, rigid terrain of my brain;

their squeaking beaks pierce holes in my soul

yet their pain remains confined.

Clouds cover my thoughts but it seldom rains.

Instead they languish in travails, I pray they be dead

lying in the deathless embrace of the waiting white sheets.

These days ..

The blinking cursor

curses even more

when you keep staring the screen

like an ullu

(wont use the word ‘owl’

for it is wise in the West)

flailing futile for the straw

of an idea to catch; unlike the hay

stuffed in the hollow of your brain.

It is right then, when you shut the cursor down

and go on a Tweeting spree.




Random Tweets

Who cares for quality when one is not even able to string two decent lines in to a a blogpost! So I better stop this nonsensical wait for a poem to pour or some concentration to muster in a prose. I better share with you my random mind that I tweeted away in the span of a fortnight or so.

  • There’s a certain North star that I’m in love with for the conspicuous glitter it has; Its heart might have caught a bigger fire!
  • the bigger the fire the brighter the face!
  • If only we could erase our sorrows from the slate of our mind! If only we could write ourselves all over again!
  • Could I rise from the ruins; wish I could grow wings like a phoenix!
  • I’ve become a cynic; a terrible one at that!
  • Raith say buth na bana aey meray achay fankaar; aik lamhay ko teher, may tujhay pathar la dooN!
  • So, where’s my galaxy when the sun’s sunk into the horizon?
  • Passing through a weird phase that has the potential to make or annihilate my inner being; wish I metamorphose to something good!
  • Dont succumb to vanity; Cling on!
  • As if someone’s clipped the wings of my imagination; I cant get out of the box to write and think! I’m dying to write something, really!
  • Gimme Thy blessings! Gimme the fertility of thoughts!
  • The sun is breathing its last! Lemme absorb its dying beauty in my eyes!
  • I love it when the orangish tinge of the dying sun reflects in my eyes!
  • safar dushwaar hay lakin; tumhari yaad kay gul; raah may khushboo lutatay hain
  • I was ‘optimistook’ hence am a pessimist!
  • The world tastes me porridge every time I’m high on the wine of dreams!
  • Give me some food for thought; I’m hungry since eternity!
  • Am not a cannibal but I still have the crave to hold your quivering heart and taste whether it tastes my love! 😛

Progression Of An Elegy

A poem is coming;
oozing through a tiny opening
of the block —

a bullet hole
from the left to the right hemisphere
in the skull of this Waziristan child.

A poem is coming
wrapped in a blood-stained sheet
upheld in a charpoy
over the shoulders of the bereaved
of a drone strike;

is coming,
screaming to be heard,
staggering under crimson curlicues,
intruding onto the blank peace,
of your apathy.

Rambling …

As dryness prevails with no clouds in sights or those roaming the skies are bereft of moisture, I cannot fish for ideas in the erstwhile pool of imagination, for it is long sucked by the intensity of times. So, I decide to set out on a ramble towards nothingness, than waiting in futility for something non existent. I wander about in the vast expanse of the Writers Block when my eyes catch a glimpse of something shimmering, ‘Ah, thats it, move on lest it fades!’. And it fades the moment I reach there. In this wilderness I’ve found good allies in mirages; they play games with me. But like every other game this game has to end and I dont want to be a loser. I’ve already have my hands full of emptiness. I better make some rain that will fill the pools of my imagination where fish of different ideas will brood to give me a choice to catch ideas from.

P.S: ‘Fishing for ideas in a pool’ is something I heard from Cav

Death Of Ideas

My laments on the states of ‘poemlessness’ or ‘writers block’ have become sort of cliche as I still crave for a smooth flow of ideas to my mind onto the pen and paper. Every now and then I try to break those shackles but the results seem way below my satisfaction. The poem below is another of my desperate efforts with the same result, I fear. Whats different though, is the amalgamation of a Chinese proverb in the poem, that says ‘Keep a green tree in your heart and perhaps a singing bird will come’. My usage of the idea might not seem appropriate but what else is? So I’ll keep my fingers crossed for better things to come.

In a desperate state
I laid the brain-trap
to catch any of the
ideas flapping
around my thoughts
fanning my longing,
evading my lap.

A poem-bird
came perching
to pick a speck of the
scattered grain
ignorant of the snare,
was entangled;
it writhed and bled

before falling dead
adding to the carcasses
of a few more
lying on the cold floor
of my mind.

Had I grown
a green tree of wisdom
in my heart, I would be
a happy abode
for the singing
birds of creativity
rather than a graveyard
of broken muses
that I am.

The Blank Diary

To similize the protagonist’s life to that of an un-attended diary might not be an apt analogy, but the thought came when I looked at the blank pages of the diary I keep rather unwritten. I’ve been treating my diary badly for not sharing with it things that it deserves but the blame should go to my inability than desire; I’ve been hit by a bad bad expression block for quite some time and the things I pour every now and then on this blog are desperate efforts to come out of it. This poem’s no exception. I’ll definitely like your comments for improvement.

A diary book famished
for a feeling to reflect,
I turn page after a blank
page of existence,
each the passing day,
yearning to absorb
your woes,
to preserve
your bliss.

In the pitch dark
your stare draws
a silver streak of hope
over this heart
but the words
I need, lie frozen
in your arctic self

I wait for
a climate change
to melt your thoughts
in a flow of words
towards me

and I’ll ever adorn
my being with the
gems you’ll express,
till I’m placed
in the archives
of the past.

The State Of Poemlessness

Like a poison rushing
through the veins,
positioning the brain
to cut off the links of life,
this state of poemlessness
intruded my mind,
and blocked the passage
of thoughts into pen.

The pen is waiting while
the hem of the paper is spread
begging for words, increasing
my desperation for intoxication.

The heart needs to intervene
to clear the scene in the brain
for the freedom of pen
and paper from a death of hunger.