One Life To Live: April 2024

Tuesday, April 30, 2024

I Will Still Write

When the earth crumbles

Or the skies melt

And the stylus between my fingers

Can no longer be felt

I will still write

I will write of my soul

The ink in my veins

Will drizzle on parched roll

Words of affirmation

Messages of hope

I will write of stories

That could help you cope

I will write of dreams

And of the glorious sun

I will still write of Life

Even when my words are mute

And heard by none

(I do, I still do)

When the moon in me

Is in darkness from the sun

I will still write of Love

And of You, my quill will still go on..

In moments of hope

And also in despair

In the moments of sapphire night

And in the days of the beaming star

I will write of my wishes

And of destiny and dream

With You as my muse

Tales from the nib

Will continue to stream

Irrelevant and unrelatable

I will commit my thoughts to pen

It is my life blood

I will still write, time and again.

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A little something:

The following lines were almost there in the poem. However, in the last minute, I decided not to include them. What do you think: should they have been included? Comment your thoughts, please.

When the light from the east is no more bright

And the moon succumbs to a heartbreaking plight

I will spun words of hope and tales of dreams

I will write of You, of Love, and let the stars alight.

When the rays from the east shines no more

And the moon, by death, has been spoken for

My words will sing, of Life's lore

My pen will still speak, of beauty and more.

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Sunday, April 28, 2024

Would he?

Had he known

that would be the last time

he would be meeting her,

would he have given her that gift

that is still there

on the top shelf of his book case,

waiting for her?

Had he known

that would be the last time

he would be seeing her,

would he have taken

possibly a few seconds more

to dive into her chocolate eyes

and remember the dimples

that appeared everytime she smiled?

Had he known

that would be the last time

he would be listening to her voice,

would he have leisurely given in

to the rhythm of his heartbeat

that danced to her euphonious tone?

Had he known

that would be the last time

he would be breathing in

the air that had kissed her,

would he have preserved

that essence of hers that smelled like

a meadow of peonies in spring

in a bottle made of the sunshine

that reflected from her ring?

Had he known

that would be the last time

he would be feeling the

softness of her touch

accidentally, against the warmth

of her cocoa-filled cup,

would he have treasured that moment

in the silky flowers that bloomed

when she blinked her eyes

and let the evening stars drop?

Had he known

those words she spoke then

would be her last words to him,

would he have listened to them

in a different tone,

or would he have said his words

that he had till that point postponed?

Would his wait now be any different

if he had not waited for the moment then,

and had he done what he

could and should have done,

not knowing... that would be

probably their last time under the sun?

Saturday, April 27, 2024

Not Digital Beings

Between "have"s and "have not"s

Between being there and absent slots

There's a bit more to messages we leave

Than the mere dashes and dots

There's more to the unspelled

Than what has been spelled

A dash of emotions...that's always there

But has been withheld

A rush of feelings

And a flow of thoughts

There's an entire cosmos

Between the ones and noughts

That's where art is born

And stories and poems are spun

When the heart skips a beat

And have dreams in it adorned

For humans are not just beings

With flesh, blood, and bones

A true human is beyond that

Enriched with empathy and consideration

With a heart, a soul, feelings, and notions

And beyond figures...

With borrowed and perceived digital emotions

Friday, April 26, 2024

Views

In the grim heat of an arid parched dune

She is the heart of a sanguine June

Among the chorus voices

That lauded just the moon

She adores the entire cosmos

And the sun has her swoon

In the illusion of the rainbow roses

The verses let the thorns speak

The Peony too has braved winters

But she sings of spring in a voice,

That has never been meek

The words have kept them alive

But they string them in moulds of pain

Disguised in robes of what-they-call-love

They damn them in poems

Time and again

But she loves without bounds

Even though her words are often sans sounds

Love has been Life and Life has been Love

She has cherished them, with words from her trove

With Love, her dreams are pearled

Perhaps she is not from the same world

Thursday, April 25, 2024

Never-Ending Pages: ଅସରନ୍ତି ପୃଷ୍ଠା ସବୁ

ଚିରନ୍ତନ ସେ ପ୍ରେମ ପୁସ୍ତକର

ଅସରନ୍ତି ପୃଷ୍ଠା ସବୁ ଓଲଟାଇବା ବେଳେ

ଦୃଷ୍ଟି ରହିଗଲା ସେହି ପୃଷ୍ଠାଟିରେ

ପୃଷ୍ଠାର ନାମ "ଜୀବନ"...

ଅସୀମ ବହିର ସିମୀତ ସେ ଜୀବନ ଫର୍ଦ୍ଦରେ

ଅନେକ ଗାଥା ଅନେକ କାହାଣୀ

କିଛି ଇତି ହୁଏ, କିଛି ରହିଯାଏ ସେମିତି

କିନ୍ତୁ ସରେ ସେ ଯାତ୍ରା,

ଫେରେ ସେ ପଥ, ଦେଇ ଲେଉଟାଣି...

କିନ୍ତୁ ପ୍ରେମ...

ଅନନ୍ତ ଅସରନ୍ତି ଅଦ୍ଭୁତ ଚିର ଚଇତି

ନା ଅଛି ତା'ର ଆଦି,

ଅନ୍ତ ବା ତା'ର ହେବ କେମିତି!?

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A little something:

They say... Love is a page in the book of Life. But I believe, Life is a page in the book of Love. Even though the pages of Life is limited, this book called "Love" is never-ending, eternal.

It started with the thought: While skimming through the pages of (a book called) "Love", I stumbled upon a page which spelled "Life".

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Tuesday, April 23, 2024

When Rain Comes

On a vivid Friday afternoon

Of those warm spring days

The condensation drops trickled down

From his coffee cup

As he shifted his gaze

There in the distance

Upon the chest of the cerulean skies

The infant clouds chuckled

As they ambled and met his eyes

His eyes smiled but had a hint of forlorn

They longed for something

The clouds could have sworn

The zephyr whispered

To the clouds with a shy smile

It's the rainbow he wishes to see

Their destiny's taking quite a while

The clouds replied

As they took another stride

The wait will not be long enough

And certainly will not be short either

Tell him to wait for the rains

And not to let his hope wither

For when the rain comes

And drizzles upon the flowers

The sunshine too shall dance

And dabble her feet in the golden showers

Ask him to wait

With that love in his heart

For when the rain comes

The sunrays too

Shall play their part

The word of the clouds

The zephyr did relay

His eyes glimmered

As he smiled at the day

For forever with her

I will wait with adore

Through springs and summers

And through rains across the shore

I will wait for the day

With a heart that hums

When the sun shines

And when the rain comes

Monday, April 22, 2024

Memory-filled Pages

It was a land of magic

A land of unknown

But more familiar than anything

She had ever seen or known

In gardens of possibilities

The seas let her sail

Every walk through the flowing pages

Told her about a dreamy tale

Words so soft and eternal

They weaved in a potent loom

Like between shadow and sun

When the loving Azaleas bloom

The essence of the earthy vanilla

Lighted her imagination in the cozy nooks

Where she delved in the memory-filled pages

Of her treasure chest of books

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A little something:

Azaleas, considered as a birth flower in some regions, signifies happiness, passion, and positivity. While most flowering plants either bloom yearlong or in a particular season, Azaleas bloom and bloom again: in Spring, a part of Summer, and sometimes during Autumns. This aspect of the flowers are motivating and inspiring. In addition, I find it lovely that they too like the morning Sun.

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Sunday, April 21, 2024

Ek Baar Aur

वह सिर्फ एक तस्वीर थी

या तसव्वुर की कोई परछाई,

मालूम न था मुझे ठीक से,

फिर भी ...

एक बार और मुड़ के देखने की इच्छा हुई ।

है वही आसमान सी खुशबू

आंखों में कशिश...जैसे सागर की गहराई,

शायद हजारों बार देखा,

फिर भी...

एक बार और मुड़ के देखने की इच्छा हुई ।

लबों पे वह दिलकश हंसी

जिससे नवंबर की धूप भी थी शरमाई,

भला भूले वह कैसे कोई,

फिर भी...

एक बार और मुड़ के देखने की इच्छा हुई ।

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English Translation:

Was it just a picture

Or a figment of my imagination

I was not too sure

Still..

I wished to see it once more.

I could smell the fragrance of the sky in there

Those alluring eyes...feels like the depths of the ocean

Have witnessed it a thousand times maybe

Still...

I wished to see it once more.

The lips adorned that charming smile

Which makes even the November sunshine to shy away (or feel less confident)

Who would ever forget that

Still...

I wished to see it once more.

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Saturday, April 20, 2024

Deemed Different!

Do I see nothing?

Or may be hear nothing?

Oh no no! They can be mimicked.

Possibly you feel nothing!

I feel nothing?

But my heart still beats.

Oh no no!

It's just another thumping sound.

It really means nothing!

Why does it have to mean nothing?

It might just be something

For I do not hear, I feel my heart beating.

I feel the rush of happiness

And the blush of Love

My eyes maybe illegible

And tears invisible

But my soul...

It cries the emotions thereof.

It might not be what it seems.

For your actions for perfection

belong to different themes.

For you speak of bliss and light

And the world relates to tales of dreary sight.

Even "belong" seems to not belong

For you are different, so different

Like the lyrics of an alien-made song.

That came to me as a blessing

But was taken as a curse

By the world that tried to coerce

My melody to their different verse

I see the beauty of the morning

And feel the depth of the charming night

My words smell the dew's purity

And innocence of the flowers

That dance with delight

There maybe a sense of fear

But never of loss

For the night maybe dark

But it leads to a morning of hopeful gloss

Be as different as it may seem to the world

But my words of Love

Have been my dreamy abode

On and on, I will move on that road.

For the catharsis my thoughts seek

They have, upon me, bestowed.

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A little something:

The thoughts for this piece have been there with me since a few years now. When I came across the prompt "Catharsis", I knew the time has come.

Catharsis, the term, has several interpretations depending upon the context. The popular interpretation, as I have seen, is to express deep-seated emotions through some medium, mostly through arts.

In this piece, I have used a conversational style of representation. The context used here is primarily based on 2 different mediums,viz. literature and theater.

The aim is to let go of the things that have been pulling you back or are too burdensome for you. The first step is acceptance of the burden that you carry. In the process of letting go, you end up losing things, and that loss is the harbinger of new beginnings. The outcome also becomes the catalyst of the process And I find this beautiful, poetic.

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Thursday, April 18, 2024

The Morning Spell

I woke up to the fragrance

Of a nautical twilight

And witnessed the smiling cuckoo's voice

Streaming through the room's skylight

A moment, and some more, passed by

As I waited there

Awaiting nothing

But I let the dreams fly

The tingling bells of my window chime

Chimed and clinked and twinkled

To the touch of the first rays of the sun

They sprinkled

Tales of the journey and moments of yore

That the sun listened

From far across the shore

They entailed the stories of the smiles

That jingled my heart strings

From three thousand and some miles

And I almost hear the voice

That melts my soul

And lets my heart rejoice

Upon the caress of the breeze

The wind chime calls again

And sings the song's bridge

That runs through its vein

With a smile in my heart

And dewy glimmer in my eyes

I go on with the day

As I glance towards the skies

The skies seemed fine

But were still under a spell

Possibly of that smile

And of the tingling bell

Tuesday, April 16, 2024

Of Desires

Of the thousand desires

That rules the human mind

Some are flaunted

And some confined

Then there are those

That rule beyond leaps and bounds

Of mind, of heart,

And of the eternal soul

Amongst the cosmic sounds

A desire to desire

Or be desired

Desires wane

When inspiration gets tired

But somewhere down in the dark

Lies a lone waning desire

That has stepped back for a while

In the busy hustling fire

It was fiery like the sun's core

And loving like it's rays

The waning desire was masked

In the shadows of the ecliptic phase

That phase, too shall pass

When the hope shines it's rays

For the sunlight wanes for hours

And the moon wanes for days

Burn like the sun

With all your might

Or glow like the moon

With borrowed light

But the light will wax once more

Keep the faith

And believe in your core

Monday, April 15, 2024

A True End?

The dusk blushed with a flushed purple

And the paper daisy flowers heaved a sigh

For there she was once again

On her way to the roads

That dreamt of the sky

The noises babbled

"sky was the limit", they jabbered

But what is limit's limit

Rarely did their thoughts scrabbled

But she was a traveller

With a dreamer's heart

It was a vain attempt, she knew..

To tell beginnings and ends apart

For time has never been linear

And space is home

To ellipses, circles, and spheres

There would never be a true end

Even if you walk miles or light years

For end has never truly been

Nor does the tale of absolute things

It has always been a mirage

Like folk tales that a tourist strings

So she journeyed on

To the wake of dawn

As flowers bloom

And the life as we know it

Goes on

"Because a journey does not have a true source nor does it have a true destination. Source and destination are mere semblances. Journey is the sole veracity."

Excerpt from 'Enigmatic Horizon'

Thursday, April 11, 2024

Solace in Chaos

Searched for it in the crowd

In the never-ending noises

The crowded streets echoed

Nothing but silence

A silence so chaotic

It had the word of the woods

In the wilderness of the self

A voice hid under the hoods

It had the shine

Of the twinkling brook

That shone during the noon

And essence of that known melody

From the words

Of your favorite book

There was the charm of the cosmic chaos

And pull of the magnetic solace

That travellers often seek

In their journeys of perpetual grace

In the nothingness of the chaos

There was a concept of loss

But there too was a perk of discovery

Of yourself once you swam across

That voice will be your soothing breeze

For journeys that you take

Even a moment's worth of solace

Is paramount in that momentous wake.

Wednesday, April 10, 2024

A Pen That Bleeds Green

Green has never been

A conforming or usual choice

For jotting your mind

Or scribbling your heart's voice

For they think of red,

Maybe even of pink and blue

As all the emotions

A writer's heart could sew

But there's more to a pen

That conveys the thoughts

Of a 'naut freed by love,

And binded in knots

That pen bleeds

But bleeds in green

For it knows the emerald ocean

It carries within

There may be streaks of blue,

Or turquoise and tinges of pink

(But never red or black)

Even when the cosmos tests...

Tests it...

To a treacherous brink

The heart did witness shreds of red

But the pigments would vanish

As the beating breath would thread..

Words of sunshine,

And chimes of breeze,

The smile of daffodils

Into the depth of the inking seas

That pen bleeds

And will bleed in green

For there's always a tomorrow

With a charismatic sheen

Thursday, April 4, 2024

Gifted in breathing

"Gifted" is always not true. Whenever we encounter any creative person, most often than not we think that they must be gifted.

But not all are born with the gift. Not every painter paints a masterpiece whenever they see a canvas. Not every writer strings in the perfect words every time they touch a pen. Musicians too struggle with sounds of monotony. Some, like me, might not even have any intuitive talent for creation.

It takes unwavering passion, dedication, hardwork, and above all, love to continue on that path. Of course, the world might not see the learning curve. Or the passion might often be mistaken as an inherent gift. But flowers that are never bouquet-ed are still flowers.

If it is easy to be a wildflower? It is not. It is not easy... absolutely not easy... to continue doing something in which you are the least bit talented... but the love for the craft, and a hope keeps you going.

Maybe someday you will be able to say it in the words that you have always dreamt of. Maybe someday your words will give a flicker of hope to somebody in need... even if it's just one person. Maybe someday your words will spread the Love you always believed in.

And even if that never happened, atleast you would know you never gave up on your dedication for the craft. And a life lived with happiness, passion, hope, and love is the best one could ever have. So, not having talent is no excuse.

We might not be talented in breathing, but we still do. For Life.