Diffusion

I have an imaginary friend,

And that is you.

In an imaginary field,

Squares and rectangles,

Twilight and cathedrals,

Temples on shores,

Cabins on mountain tops,

Salons and wardrobes,

Hallmarks and plazas,

There we sat in scarves and stoles.

Everyone kissing in public,

Oh! Won’t you kiss me in public too?

We were fooling once before,

Beggars of warmth in unisex spaces,

Natural delight caught in the love’s flu.

Fall apart, hold, clutch, disappear,

You are a real echo, my friend.

I am listening to you.

And in between the folds of sheets,

Between the murmurs and the musings,

We return to where we were,

Some diffused beings in the city,

Some wanton fireflies on dashboards,

Some Samaritans in floods,

And speakers for late night cab drivers.

It’s our usual distress,

Making sense in blurs,

Just like you and me in between the folds.

Photography and Poem by Nivedita

Bizarre Hours

So let me tell you,
About a man at the deathbed,
Who dreamt a lot.
His sleep was under the starry nights;
And of all the things he touched and said,
His child was his most difficult art and disguise.

Some things which he could not do,
He did not fail to pump it in his son.
Some things, half undone, half made,
Were thrust upon his generations to come.

The genetic graying is internal,
As the eye which saw the vintage cars,
Is bequeathed as the eye which sees the bizarre hours;
Of global wars on terrorism,
Victims as humanity’s delinquent.

As the information links up,
For more information,
Across the generation oh father!
For you dreamt a lot,
In your sleep under the starry nights.
You have forced dreams upon me.
I’m now your most difficult son,
Trying to do the things you could not do.

All aging is about bizarre hours,
Television, intercom and media farce.
I am sure, that you are a certain form of life on deathbed,
Resisting the poison that is fed to you
Through food, water and air.

Someday you will travel interstellar,
Without knowing how to ‘live’.

Photography and Poem by Nivedita

Diamond Circus

The slope on the road,

The sound of poor cartwheels falling apart,

Please understand, that we have to bend to the earth.

There are most of us, who bend daily,

There are many of us, who are barefoot walkers.

.

There are no concessions,

In climbing an apple tree,

Against the gravity.

.

Your diamond mines,

At the womb of the tribes;

That beautiful pit of jewels,

Is but your shiny store,

The urban svelte, all people plagued,

With buying and selling.

.

Speed, as against the stability of an indigenous tree,

Is international.

And that is how nations blur,

For diamonds cross everywhere,

And trap everyone crystalline.

.

My fair lady, with all her fancies,

She thinks she understands the division of labour.

Infected with desires and lusts,

She salivates often at that diamond.

But people like her do not know,

That an uncut carbon is not a diamond.

.

Some raw things do exist,

Out of the purview, out of the pure sight

Of the people at some other side.

She often fears car crashes,

In some insignificant parking lot,

Due to her treacherous give and take.

It’s a glistening diamond circus,

And I dance in the ring,

Like a lost shooting star in the sky.

Photography and Poem by Nivedita

Try Not to Attempt

Carry on with your life,
Try not to attempt and comprehend it.

Weave a universe you could call your fantasy,
Try not to attempt and tangle in it.

Go with the moving time,
Try not to attempt and fall in it.

Open your arms inhale profoundly,
Try not to attempt and suffocate yourself.

Settle the war that’s going inside you,
Try not to attempt and battle yourself.

Be glad in what you’ve got,
Try not to attempt and get something which takes your alleviation inside.

Simply appreciate the trail on which you are strolling,
Try not to attempt and achieve the destination early.

– Salil

Image Credits: Gesture Photography

A frequent dweller

Peace of mind, you listening to me?
An array of colors in those dreams,
It’s those times when eyes are hazy,
Slack, almost drugged on emotions.

Quiet, numb, Oh! just nothing.
No no, listen to your mind mumbling,
Scepticism intruding the vision,
A purpose is all it looks for.

Conversation within, doubts and insight
Robust resolution wiping the eyes,
Clearer perspective hopes high
The calm again, now it seems bright!

A recurring delusion, fumbling actions
Don’t fall in this well so dark,
Every time you float up again,
Eventually, to ride the tide so high

Mere human, foolish soul,
Don’t get tricked in mind’s game,
You are the illusionist, creator self
And interpreter of the same.

Photography and Poem by Siddhangana