Friendship is a Comforting Thing

A friend is a person with whom I may be sincere. Before him I may think aloud. I am arrived at last in the presence of a man so real and equal, that I may drop even those undermost garments of dissimulation, courtesy, and second thought, which men never put off, and may deal with him with the simplicity and wholeness with which one chemical atom meets another.
― Ralph Waldo Emerson, Essays: First Series

Why some people come into our lives

Is it random, planned, on a recommend

Or just another fashion for us to survive

I often ponder over that question

Brooding over why they do

As folks are tough to work with

Too complex, cryptic to construe

May be we all scare each other

Yet none of us ever live alone

We all need masses to go on

Friendship is a comforting thing

Secure blanket we can hide in

Lie in naked of all pretentions

Uncloaked and safe of all tensions

Cry, shout, laugh, be what we are

Shatter, scatter and split apart

They are potions to make us whole

Not some freak mechanic to control

For each day we sleep of strife

For everyday each of us revive

We are all crazies, we are all flawed

But, we all wing it, we all make do

My Smile Will Sink Down Into Your Pupils

I'm going to smile, and my smile will sink down into your pupils, and heaven knows what it will become.
― Jean-Paul Sartre, No Exit

Sometimes when I see someone laugh

I wonder what the reasons are

Satisfied with the act or it's just an act

Are the reasons fair

Had better I care

Reasons, precisions or timeless seasons

Whats, whys, when and hows

Are those the nimble lips

Or they are just curved

Bent somehow

I ask not, dare not to be precise

What if it sets off smile's demise?

Singular Heart Loves and Hates

You know these things as thoughts, but your thoughts are not your experiences, they are an echo and after-effect of your experiences: as when your room trembles when a carriage goes past. I however am sitting in the carriage, and often I am the carriage itself.
I am a man who thinks like this, the dichotomy between thinking and feeling, intellect and passion, has really disappeared. He feels his thoughts. He can fall in love with an idea. An idea can make him ill.
― Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra

Can this all be translated ?

All of that I see around

So many dreams, hopes

Beauty, art, love and love lost

Right words I can find

Much I can write

But it's all fleeting

And I forget to stop

A word only writes

And life goes on

What does all this mean to me ?

So many shapes and size

I try and fix designs

Should I open my third eye

Roam in the attics of my mind

Soon everything's so vague

To see a pattern

Of a lantern in the dark

Eyes only see

And life goes on 

I love the words and I hate them too

I see it not and I see it too

Same road, but it goes two ways

Singular heart loves and hates.

Exile

Give me the waters of Lethe that numb the heart, if they exist, I will still not have the power to forget you.

~Ovid, The Poems of Exile: Tristia and the Black Sea Letters

Where shall I take refuge?

Bereft of all I love

Is it possible

To go some place

Love anew

Is there a common thread

A safe passage to tread

How far can I walk beside walls

Is there an end

Or I just started

A long and a never ending walk

What do I save

Is there anything I can crave

World is in front of me

What’s in the world for me

Everything’s a mess

Shall I take refuge in the mess?

Oh me, Blasphemous me

They won't listen. Do you know why? Because they have certain fixed notions about the past. Any change would be blasphemy in their eyes, even if it were the truth. They don't want the truth; they want their traditions.
― Isaac Asimov, Pebble in the Sky

Give me some magic pill, some God

To get away from this maddening world

Let me slip through the cracks

If few of them still exist

Once they catch up with me

I’ll be tried, will be pried

Chained and scrutinized

My friends will watch from afar

Earthly concerns enchains them too

They are wildlings stocked in zoo

Too little, so brittle

What in this cosmos they can do

There’s no pill

Such whispers I hear everyday

There are far too many Gods

For me to pray

I never pray

I’ll rot in seven hells for this

Oh me, blasphemous me

Some might say

But I feel better this way

They never listen

Have ears just for show

Why call?

When I always get to yell at a wall

It’ll crumble in time not before

Methinks my way is right

They think otherwise

For me it’s all hypocrisy

They charge me with heresy

For who is right, who got it all wrong?

Is it you lot?

Or is it me and my blasphemous song?

Often A Disquiet

My soul is impatient with itself, as with a bothersome child; its restlessness keeps growing and is forever the same. Everything interests me but nothing holds me. I attend to everything, dreaming all the while. I’m two and both keep their distances- Siamese twins that aren’t attached.

~Fernando Pessoa, Book of Disquiet

Often a ray

Calls my name from where the Sun sank

Often a ship

Sailing too fast strikes the river bank

Often a river

Overflows right in front of me

Often a fragrance

Dances and plants kisses on my cheeks

I sit down

No matter where I am

And often I fancy

Some strange shapes and forms in debris.

Often Moon rumbles

Deep in my pocket it turns and dribbles

Setting Sun, sinking slowly

Eaten up by some speck like squirrels on a tree

Often wide world shrinks

Fits right in my hands like my favourite cup of a tea

I get up

From wherever I am

Often Night

Like some Ants comes crawling cautiously.

Often a laugh

Like some cold-breeze blows

Often a glance

Pierces like a spear’s pointy edge

Often a trivia

Stands tall like a peak of Mount

Often a silence

Adorns my noisy bare body

I move on

From wherever I am

Often a disquiet

Turns quietly into a fulfilling journey.

Sailing Unto the Storm

The fishermen know that the sea is dangerous and the storm terrible, but they have never found these dangers sufficient reason for remaining ashore.
― Vincent van Gogh

Sea may spew some poison

For me to shock and halt

Waves may play some tricks

Break me young and clear all

But, a storm’s rising within me

Look, I see a storm in the sea

I’m sailing unto the storm

Beware you Storm

Hear me roar feel my howls

Spunk in me knows no bounds

Shout loud you Waves

Roar as much as you can

Sweet, embrace me hard

Delve, go deep in my heart

For miles and miles I’ll cruise

Forever I’ll cruise

So what if endless are your shores?

I’ll keep rowing in this little boat

To meet you face to face

You’re fierce I’ll be fiercer

Stay put, don’t you dare run

Please, let me have some fun

For I’ll lay adrift as long as it takes

As far as it takes

  

Oceanus you are so mighty and strong

I’m not going back on our engagement

Till my heart roars and beats

No bowing down on your feet

Your might makes me stronger

Every day I sail a little longer

For I’m sailing unto the storm

Beware you Storm.

For In Time To Remind

I always walk
on the broken step, the
others all avoid it,
I walk on it
to remember.
~Barney F. McClelland

Forgetfulness is an easy choice. Some memories are best forgotten. Buried deep down they are safe and far from bothering me again. Yet I cling on to some not because I want to savour or treasure them but for a careful remembrance. Each time I face it there’s comfort in knowing that I won’t be doing that same thing again. Why do I do that even when I know that it chips off a part of me? I’m not eccentric and am not insane either yet some blunders or mishaps are worth retaining. It doesn’t hamper my present activities, never deviates or confuses me or dulls my senses but it does add a hint of forbearance and savoir-faire. 

Letters you gave me I kept

Tore them apart in my eyes

No longer have they smelt sweet

Reeked of rot and lost trust

Forget I must

Never saw them again

Not with these eyes, but

Sometimes I recall all those lines

Which you wrote me in my primes

In scribbled gibberish

I could hear your rummy voice

They were destined to be ashes

Forgotten inks, pages in stasis

I kept those forgotten pages

For half-remembrances

For in time to remind.

When it pours at night

Heaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears, for they are rain upon the blinding dust of earth, overlying our hard hearts. I was better after I had cried, than before--more sorry, more aware of my own ingratitude, more gentle. 
― Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

When it pours at night

Heavy, but there isn't light

No Sun to make me see

All I hear are sounds

Drops dropping, dripping

Sogginess is all I smell

Can feel the wetness abound

But, there isn't a light

Moon isn't there

How can I see?

Amidst this noise I lie awake

There’s dissonance within me

It flirts; it rattles paces and settles

It has a voice, it crawls passively

But there isn't a light

No one’s there

To make me see

And then there’s pouring

Not from the skies
and I sleep in the warmth

just glad that it poured tonight.

Be Like Water

You must be shapeless, formless, like water. When you pour water in a cup, it becomes the cup. When you pour water in a bottle, it becomes the bottle. When you pour water in a teapot, it becomes the teapot. Water can drip and it can crash. Become like water my friend.
― Bruce Lee

When water gushes 
nothing halts it, not even walls 
passes through pores
rises upside, changes form
never it stops
wish to flow like water
and never do any harm 
short life is
Why bother ?
Why stop at all ?

World Is Too Full To Talk About, Is It ?

Never miss a good chance to shut up. Too much babbling can mess with our gray matter. On the other hand silence is a silent killer, a sweet poison. Leave a thing unsaid and there’s a hole in someone’s heart which will last for eternity. It’s the silence against sheer injustice that makes it more painful than it already is. Profuseness of words around us helps us to forget things that are once said but, when there’s lack of it. Who knows?

As happens sometimes, a moment settled and hovered and remained for much more than a moment. And sound stopped and movement stopped for much, much more than a moment.
― John Steinbeck, Of Mice and Men

I sat here

You sat there

None of us moved

But distance furthered

I asked nothing

You said nothing

We talked for hours

But minds were locked

I waited for you to tell

You waited for me to ask

None of us said the word

Like that generations passed

I’m guilty of not asking

Your guilt was not to tell

Ohh, it eats us all the same

Wondering who’s to blame

I had a way with words

You were a talker too

But we chose quite

Over being vocalized

Words are powerful people often say

We live and survive every single day

Sometimes we shower words

When silence could have sufficed

Sometimes all we need is words

But we think our silence is justified.