Four Days of Love

Day 1

You came.
You stood there in front of my dreary eyes one dreamy morning.
You touched and stirred up the fading echoes of love,
From the chaotic corners and cobwebbed windows of my heart.

Joy covered me!
Life will not be the same!
It will be beautiful!

Day 2

Every night I go to bed with my brain full of your thoughts. 
Every morning, I wake up from sleep,
With your images in my heart. 
When I close my eyes, I see your smiling face, 
I hear your voice in my ears, 
I feel your fragrance in my nostrils,
I can sense your touch everywhere around me, 
And when I open my eyes, you simply vanish away, 
Just your fragrantful memories remain. 
Oh girl, you are making me so desperate!

Day 3 

Let me write once again,
One last time!
About my unrequited love, 
The love that is neglected, 
The love that is rejected,
And the love that is soullessly trodden by a pair of high heeled shoes.

Do you know the pain that a delicate heart suffers, 
When you mockingly deny my selfless love for you?
You know how it hurts?
Oh, it hurts a lot!
It kills!

How could you be so cruel?
Just like every normal girl, you throw smiles at me,
You shower unfathomable affection upon my dry, loveless life!
And when you know that I am trapped, 
You simply walk away, 
Even without a smile, a glance, but just with a belittling nod!

You are a flower, a treasure.
You are beautiful! 
Your beauty is unparalleled!
You look like the marvel of marble,
So pure,
So ravishing!

Have mercy to understand, 
Not me!
But my heart!
An injured heart, that longs for you, since very long!

Day 4

People ask me, where is my girl!
I said them, I don’t remember, 
For, my memories about her are dead!
Those memories had undergone a very painful death!
After long long sufferings of suffocation!
Now, those thoughts are buried in a deserted corridor of my heart.
I can see there every morning, the tomb where her memories rest.
Everyday I make routine visits, peep at my heart,
And return with a painful sigh, having a glimpse of the decayed tomb of her memories!

Tomz :)

Wayside Melancholy

A return trip to your home is like
Taking a public transport down the memory lane.

You see everything travels back.

City belles pass you with their frivolous cheers.

In the wet corners of suburbs,
You see the local ruffians fight over nothing.

The green shades of countrysides 
Caress the brainy part of your head 
With their soothing pats.

Through the window, 
You also see the memories travel back 
Flashing a lost agony or pain in the heart.

Free Birds

We have wings; we have the spirit to move,
And are trussed with no firm commitments!
So we fly, like nothing there to prove
To that bliss blemished by no sentiments!


The days break out, that we see in our flight,
When the glorious Sun comes out in ambush!
We behold the seasons, in their destined shift
Into a transient time, like in a golden gush!


We care not of the seasons change, for sure,
Nor of the tragic plights of fallen petals!
We care much of the way we endure,
Till the time comes when everything settles!


Thus, singing the song of freedom, that everyone wants,
Wings-spread, we fly beyond the far-far ocean lands!

I Forsook My Special Pen

I forsook my special pen
That once helped me jot down
My life in lyrical way, open,
And that now gives me a let down!

For how many days had I written,
In how many ways, but still
That old gift is not rotten;
Let me start again, with my quill!

My heart has poems, joyous ones 
Leaping to flow out in several ways,
With wavering emotions in tons
To rebuild the glory of olden days!

I Never See Me!

I made a brief visit last day
To the places,
Which were once dearer to me,
And I traversed through
The familiar paths
With palpitating heart!


On my psychological walk
I saw a boy there in early teens,
Who smiled, and jumped
Out of joy, and sometimes,
Cried, shouted and sat silent.


My inquisitive eyes
Watched him curiously,
And I identified him as the younger me
Whom I lost once, somewhere
In the path of
My transfer to adulthood.


Amidst my dust-coated memories
I scanned for myself
How did I look? How did I behave?
Oh, these obsolete, nonsensical thoughts!


I never see me
And I was seen by myself,
Through others’ eyes, silent narrations,
And through the reversed reflections.


When would I see myself?
Perhaps on the day,
When time travelling gets possible,
And when I learn the trick of 
Psychic transmigration.

Retrieved Pieces of My Lost Poetry

I stood up, in the dark
In my half-slept awkward bed,

Letting the string of broken dreams

Enjoy a free sub-conscious wander!

The clock struck 2’

Alarming my weak beating soul!

The wail of a night bird resonated

Lamenting at its sleepless curse!

I recollected a lost time,

When I put on a poet’s charming robe!

Sometimes the words came in a flow

Sometimes with its usual blockades!

I thought, was it a dream?

Had I made such so called attempts?

Or was it just the smartness

Exhibited by a words’ apprentice?

In the dark, a support I searched for

With my wavering quivering hands!

My thumping heart too had become

Anxious at the loss of reality!

As the first rays of light

Touched the earth in golden mist!

I started yet another day

With the regained consciousness!

Song of Hope

We sang,
The songs of sadness,
The songs of despondency
A lot as yet!
And we dipped our tarnished time
In our unhappy thoughts!

So useless were those thoughts,
Those unnecessary waverings,
That would only help us to have
Gray hairs and wrinkles on faces!

Now let’s think about happiness
And independence
For the remaining little time!

Preachers visited us
During our irresolute pasts
And many philosophers accompanied.
With a dangerously unanimous resonance
Everyone echoed,
The same thing,
“Life is Perishable”!

These philosophers immersed us
Into desolation,
With their repeated verses,
“Happiness, music and even arts
Are subject to decay”!

Call them fools!
Be happy first
In the reflection of your cherished life!

Be proud of being a human!
A special power lies behind
Every existence
And every life!

Be happy in every phase of life!
Find pleasure,
When a new leaflet takes it birth,
When the morning birds
Sing with the virgin wind,
When the morning mists
Colour the environs, and
When rainbows paint the sky
With colourful symphony.

Be happy in humanness,
In its various emotions,
In angry, in peace,
In jealousy
And in fakery
Because everything is yours!

Be liberated!
Take out the attire of independence
That is kept within yourself
And show off!
Enjoy the beauty of independence!

Be a dreamer sometimes!
Dream immortality!
Life has to flower in you
In its full bloom!
And the beauty of life as well!

My New Poem

Would it pave a new path for me?
Would it be funny, or agonized?
Would it rhyme all the way till end?
Would it be a harvest of my dreams?

I was in grief after finishing the elegy tower,
And was dreamy after the princess’s birthday.
The exam poem made my mind nostalgic,
And the mystery island made it horror-struck.

The lover girl made me so proud, like a master,
As it rhymed from head to toe, though with mistakes.
The rhyming mystery girl made me to boast around,
As it mentioned my friend’s love adventures.

When would the next appear, as in a true flow?
Not with the pretensions, as I am doing now.
Would it be something fallacious, or romantic?
Let it come soon, waiting to see its triumph.

Isolation

Isolation,
With its clinching cold fingers
Clench your heart as not to move
Like a classic fairy tale bee,
Caught in a fictitious spider’s net.

Isolation,
Is like the suffering under a tyrant,
A blend of monotony and inhibition,
Some sort of separation, hurtful, and,
A barrier that blocks your maturity.

A college classroom,
An ordinary one that is set in a peaceful young ambiance,
Where politics smells and flirtatious comments are flown.
A noisy noon after the lunch, fill with gibbering chitchats,
With frivolous teenage songs and with puppy romances.
Amidst these playful parties, one is disinterested, sits apart
Brooding on shattered dreams, hoping for the timer to ring,
Isolated one, it could be you, she, him or me.



Back to your home,
Gazing outside, through your own that special window,
Right there in your own room, with a melancholy mood.
Speaks yourself, smiles alone, and making fanciful stories.
Find ease in thoughts or in virtual journeys through books,
Sensing soliloquies, making sickly strategies like a maniac.
Sing alone, tease yourself and rethinking your own past,
Isolated one, you, but it could be she, him or me.



The pony-tailed girl,
I know her, I think she too knows, but not a familiar one,
The girl, who has silky sort of hair and white sneakers,
With a pair of vanity specs and appealing attire in style.
A jolly type, not my kind, with plentiful admirers around.
She has not seen me among her beaus, as I am a shy one,
Often, I have to pretend as if I am in some grave thoughts.
Isolated one, I am, but it could be you, she or him.

An Island Mystery

Of the several known
Mystery lyrics, which
I had heard and learned a few,
Allan Poe with his rhythmic
Rhymes and
Flannan Isle of Gibson
Are topped.

Here is my story,
Set in a peaceful island village
Surrounded by some discoloured
Fuming waters, foul smelled,
To which the only inward way was
A silver-tanned rusted bridge, iron made,
And both the lightest footsteps, and
The jumbo treads alike had turned
It into violent shakes with
Crackling sounds.



After passing this wayward bridge
I drove my bike further
Through a shattered way
With gutters and all,
As directed by my artist friend
Who dwells somewhere
In one of those
Rustic gloomy ghostly homes
Made by time-eaten
Bricks and clay.

As I moved forward
In those shadow cast evening
With my curious mind
In search of a hermit's house
Where my thoughtful friend resides,
The darkened broken path became
More and more damp-like, and
The greenish fusty trees began to wore
Some puzzling smell and growing dark as well.

In the end of all,
When I reached his dwelling place,
Set in an enclosure
Made of time-worn
Degenerated bricks covered by terracotta,
Dipped in a smell of ancientness,
By throwing open its wooden cave-like door,
Partly disintegrated,
I stepped into the courtyard
Dense with plantains and coco palms,
And with stinking smell of snakes.
From the old perishing house
My friend appeared
By opening an ancient door, about to decay
With his usual hearty smile
And with flashing eyes.



Time ran swiftly
In his closed antique room
Where we discussed the popular things,
As well as the heartfelt tales,
The politics, cinema and literature,
And some of our genuine experiences.
In between this, what I missed to notice
Was a touch of eerie air, that
Made his dwelling place a little bit congested.
The creepy air, and the darkness grown
Together made me to ask
About his experiences with ghosts
And unknown spirits in his
Dreadful dreary den.
His answer made me to shock
As he mentioned certain queer experiences
With an invisible thing, that
Beat him occasionally,
During sleeps or his busy
Writing schedule.

Let me tell you first,
These creepy damned things,
Called ghosts and spirits
Had never made an appearance
In front of me before,
As I have a strong distaste for both.

Soon, I heard a voice,
Rather thump like one, and with a start
When I looked at him, what I saw was
His gleaming glossy eyes, and he said
In a pensive voice,
'You know the old mango tree near?
Where it had happened, that cold blood murder
Of a pregnant girl, Ah! who was
A little comely girl.'

With no delay
And with no further telling of tales,
I took my leave
By grabbing my soaked cap, and
While running out I noticed
His meditative dubious eyes,
Now covered by a pair of specs.
I ran through the open courtyard,
Now wet due to the drizzling rain,
By tramping the weeds and plants
Under my quivering feet,
Towards the closed cave-like door
Of the outer wall, where
I had stopped my sidekick,
My sincere motorbike.

Now at a distance,
After drove my bike through
The similar way,
I looked back with
My eyes protruded, and I saw
In the night,
That old ghostly figure of house,
Stands, by emitting an air of eeriness
And with its genuine touch of ancientness.

A Fine Medley of Poetry

Some sudden temptations are freaky,
Those occasionally make me to write
Like a genuine rush of hopping thoughts
Or like the actualization of dream wishes.
Sometimes I wrote, rhythmically, as a flow,
And at times like a knotted string of words.
But whenever longing for a gush of outpouring,
What I get is the mimicking of known lines.
Sometimes it creates, with unusual clarity
Certain unknown coinages from subconscious
Like a compilation of speckled oval pebbles
Piled up on a blissful shore of waving thoughts.
What thing makes you touched, whatever be
Process them on a pure sheet of white paper
With the genuine tint of heart’s feelings, and
What you get is called ‘a fine medley of poetry’!

Goodbye Examination

Once again I have prepared
For an examination
By picking up some dust-ridden olden
Carriers of the knowledge
Those have been adorning my chaotic table
For many a long academic eras!
My preparations lasted for several years
With several not-so-long months,
Sleepless nights and
Chilly early mornings
Those provoked me some time
To curse the unending warfareWith the black-inked
Tiny pack of letters
Stamped on cheap white papers, and
Many a times it made some of
My fellow beings envious
And made some of them to appreciate
With heart felt admiration!


Shakespeare, the bard came
In my visions many times
In the late night,
Sometimes, Eliot and Dickens came
In the early morning with
Their portrait-like amusing smiles
That even made them alive in between
The quests for a theme from the
Random paths of life that they trod.
Certain Women writers of the West
Amazed me with their mastery over
The flowery fiction
Covered in their long term sufferings of
Diseases and isolation -
Like Austen and Bronte sisters.

Indians too were there
Who made me stun at the word power.
Tagore came first with
His Song offerings,
Later Toru, with her short-term life
And her homesick writings
Too had made even the owners of the language
Stuck at the thorns of amusement.
Arundhati and many more
Supplied me with wonder at
Their imagination power.

Many a days in the morning
I rode my bike through an endless way
Covering several kilometers
Touching city struggles as well as village virtues
To a center where I let drop
The burden of language
Wasted by those masters ofLiterature. And I returned, throughSome familiar paths after
A three hours struggle with the
University paper and clutched pen
With aching sinews of palm.

Now it is all over,
The struggle with the forced yawns,
The read through the lines without a blink, and
The speedy revision just before
The last bell,
The tension on the hall ticket, and
The agony on the finishing moments, all!
And occupied now with an effort to
Gain the longing sleeps and lost dreams.

The Mystery Girl

(Dedicated to my friend known among
the bloggers as Cracks, who gave the
sudden inspiration for this poem
narrating about a girl he used to see
on the way to his office)


There is Mr. Cracks, a real life crack
Who helps me to break, the themelessness track
Now the theme is this, that of a pretty Miss
Who daily does not miss his inadvertent aerial kiss!

It’s the Thiruvananthapuram city, with morning’s gaiety.
You know its eminent deity, Sri Padmanabha almighty.
Where she stands daily, waiting for her college bus shyly
My friend gets her glance slyly, that she gives him daily.

You know this girl? She’s a belle, with lovely kiss curl
Like a golden whorl, gilds her rosy cheeks in roll.
Did you see she smiles? Ah, that’s like an angel smiles!
Wears churidar with frills, Does the black one for her inner wails?

Why does she cry, or pretend? For the young beaus to tempt?
Or is she really in lament? If so, what’s the cause of her plaint?
My friend Cracks, with tender heart, does not see her apart
Plans to a conversation start, and to break the rampart.

You know this guy Cracks? Man, you should know his pranks
With his existential remarks, his rivals, get some open attacks.
He likes social fillip and seldom breaks friendship,
Has no scholarship, though, he’s a man with some leadership.

Moving aside the city flock, my friend goes to talk,
“Tell me with no shock, with no playful mock,
Tell me hey babe you, with your shyness few
What dreadful thing makes you, to cry happiness in lieu?”

Blinking dreamy eyes, she tries to stop her sighs.
With a sigh she says, “Not any more, I can control this,
Hey you gentle jaan, I will tell you man,
What is in my lifespan puts my mind in san,

I will share you my sorrow, not now, only morrow
For there comes my bus in a row, see you soon you hero!”
Then she goes as planned, with her waving hand,
Looking back forth and like in a journey errand.

Several days had came, several belles came
Not our Cracks’ dame, came the spot that same.
None of Cracks’ team, thinks her as it does seem
Thus here ends the theme, like a genuine dream.

A Drowned Man’s Reminiscence

Gradually began the submerging. So slowly,
Hands shook and struggled with
The hardened water.
Damn agitation with craving fear for life.
Life-sick.
A date with death, unspecified.
My legs crouched. Chilled a little
Due to the freezing cold. Snowdrops fallen on the water surface.
White. And dark.
Underwater.
The limbs stopped for a silent enslavement
I fagged. Stopped motion.
Eyes protruded. Hands wavered, Heart chill cold.
Decreasing energy. Breathed. Breathed.
Exhausted. Choked
Starving Oxygen.
The water drank me, As I
Drank the water. Salty
Fainting fortunes, feverishly.
The silken thread connecting the
Conscious and unconscious broke.
A few eras elapsed....
Pavements on a path towards an unknown land
Where apparitions move forth.
Dirty smell of sinking ships.
Algae. Amphibians.
A conscious blackout.
Apparition again. Pavements clean.
Bluish tinted fog. Blurring images.
A palace ahead. A hooded figure of a man, I thought
Death comes for a row.
An encounter with death.
Inviting charm and a coarse voice of ancientness.
Total Blackout.
I drowned.

A Boatman’s Love Song

Let’s row the boat as one, oh my love
To an unheard far-far land,
Where seasons keep the treasure trove
And birdies aggroup a music brand!

The river, the oar and me, the lover
Fit the fiddle strings that you play.
But your absence makes it, Oh Singer
A stricken grievous fiddle in May!

Am I in love, or in fancy? I wonder
You tell me the one that true!
Till that I will put myself in wander
Nettled by your thoughts and rue.

Take on my hand at once, oh my love!
Else it will make my heart to bleed.
Drop some glance at least somehow
And that will up my heartbeats to speed!

Familiar Paths

When we were children,
We trod the hidden paths of
The countryside, together.

It is a long time back now,
But those still flourish in my memories
Uninterrupted..

It was the time
When the echo of Koel’s shriek
Had made us to Jump,
When thinking of the amusing people
Of imagination,
We shuddered being enthused.

I forgot the hidden paths now,
Not listening the favorite Koel,
No more care for the imagined people,
I left my beloved nostalgia,
Back somewhere.
Don’t want to peep over the loneliness,
That occupies a solitary path
But, when walking through the paths,
Or riding the motorcycle
I feel everything as familiar to me
Familiar to my mind
Familiar to the extreme depths of my heart
I too become a part of them
The bush, the stone, everything
The plants, birds and flowers
The butterflies, everything
Familiar to me
I know them.

When reaches a spot,
I searched for something there,
I know it would be there,
And it was there,
A shrub, a stumpy one
Over the years, it survived the time
Survived the changes, Survival,
All are familiar to me

About Nature’s Precision

Truly delighted I am
As I saw the bewitching
Glamour of the dawn, and
I said to myself, ‘Ah,
A fine morning at the door’

The incessant momentum of
Time makes the misty
Backdrop of sunrise
To appear at my doorstep everyday
With biological precision and
Supreme regularity.

And so, I began to think
On the Powerful force
Behind this day to day affairs of
Nature - uncontrollable to the human, and
Still it remains in my
question
Unanswered.

Eternal Melancholy

If I were a skylark

That flies with wings spreaded

Humming the eternal melodies, and

Carrying the poets’ fantasies,

I would have flown farther,

If I were a skylark.

If I were a soft breeze

Touching the mountain blues,

With the inherent chill,

Waking the veins by a gentle touch,

Bearing the dreams of wideness, and

Clinching the solitude,I would have blown

If I were a soft breeze!

To become a tune

That no one sung before!

To become a dream

That no one could imagine!
What If I were a mystery?

Or seclusion?

Abstractness or Nothingness?

To become the breath of the dead

To stay in the jungle of solitude,

Undisturbed!

To be a colour!

And a star!

To sparkle in the silence of the night

With the wildness of terror!…….…..
A human I am,

A creature..

The power to dream,

And to imagine

Stays with me!

Waiting here,

In this non-existence,

To take rebirths,

To become all these,

Till end up in a wild unity

With the eternity!

Themelessness

(Answering the question, ‘Why my posts are delayed?’)

Days have gone and weeks too gone

About a month is near!

The lyrics fairies have not come yet

To make my thoughts pour out!

It makes you wondered, makes me too

But you hear my arguments!

There are a few more things exist

That cause lyrical dryness!

Here contradicts my previous claim

I know, as you too know!

But I repeat, it is the lyrical dryness

Caused by the themelessness!

Themes and thoughts are under decay

Due to the hasty days!

But some commitments make me to write

And now I chose themelessness!

People may suggest, ‘you choose heart,

Love, romance or dreams!’

But one pens on what strikes him, and

Hence it is the themelessness!

My Lost Lover Girl

(Once again interpreting my own dream following the 'Birthday Party of the Beautiful Princess')

For this time I will tell you a story
And not a story properly, may be a sophistry.
For my friends I’m telling this story, dreamy,
Who had unusual love affairs, in biography.

It was in a September, I too remember
And I was a tiny teenager, too common in any genre,
When I met this girl, the lost lover girl
Who was a pretty petite girl, and I fall in love with her.

Two or three months passed, and once we stood
On a sea-pier extended, clutching each other hand in hand,
On a cloudy afternoon, with my companion boon,
Beneath the faded sun that shone, watching surf those breaking soon.

Soon there a wild beast comes, on these foaming waves
A huge figure of Octopus (1), with greedy tentacles.
We both looked at this, this huge figure of Octopus,
And we both startled once, stared at it with fearful eyes.

The sky went black n’ dark, the clouds began to bark
Making thunders strike, and the east-wind’s crack.
Then my pretty petite girl, pushed me to the ocean whirl
Cause of panic n’ temptation, or I didn’t get her action.

I felt I was falling fast, to the hands of the beast,
I saw her frenzied eyes, while skidding among the tentacles.
With the Octopus I struggled, to rescue the life shuddered
And I looked at her eyes troubled, to see sympathy, distressed.

Struggling hard and hard, I made my life to guard
Somehow I escaped, and now reached where I stood
The first thing that I did, as you have understood
Or as you unexpected, was pushing her downward.

I was in such a rage, and I never thought of her age,
That she was underage, and she had lack of knowledge.
I saw her to fall downward, struggling with the waves hard,
And screaming being afraid, with my heart unusual hard.

Skidding between the tentacles, and trying to break the obstacles
She vanished into the bubbles, and I didn’t watch her resistance.
Keeping my head low, and leaving my love below,
I ran to the lands at low, to escape from the Law.

Dear readers, you please don’t be worry
‘Cause I said, I’m telling you a story
And you too know, it’s a story of a fairy
That I learned from a dream, dreary.

"But you know that’s how I lost my lover girl!
And that’s the story of my lost lover girl!"

(1). Octopus