Roses and Thorns; Dreams and Death

Passive reflections of light would often defame reality. Illusions and illustrations of the weakness of our brain is often a delight. In my dreams, I find, you. Our place, over the edge of the sea, the walls that let nothing disturb us. In your hand a book that enclose my words and in mine, a book that hides your mind.

A lilly was drawn out in the carving of its skin. Fair and smooth to the texture, the pages would revolt, but you know my dreams like harmony. The pages and the cover, then those words, everything about you and your senses. Muse? As I run my finger to the cover that reminded me of the flower, I remember those lines from reality. Might be there in the book you hold. I told you that you were a flower and I would only stand and appreciate your beauty. Wont like any human discourse to disturb you.

So I dare not move in reality, but in my dream I would surface my need to touch you, lilly. I am remembering the symphony of that sweet sleep, but this Sun, how he reminds me right now that as I write this, I am no where close to picking her up again just to smile and tell her that she is cute. In reality, nothing is certain. Plucking the petals of probability would never help me decieve.

Enough about reality, in certanity of my dream, I saw you naked. Your skin sensed like the warm winter night each time you would read a sentence from the book that would resonate the meaning I need. Your eyes were enough to make me blind, devoid of any sense that surrounds me. Dreams are only purer state of my feelings at times and this is the only way I have sensed you.

“Have you been to those mountains where you need no oxygen but love to sustain a kiss of life.” You read out loud calling me closer as you laid on the bed, my lips could reach your leg, my mind could bleed no time.

“Have you kissed the night alive to let another day burn?” We were contemporary poets, favourite for each other. We knew there was no time to rest the book, and there was no time to let the night pass away. I kept both the books in her lap and picked her up to make her sit on the window pane. Keeping her down, made her body collapse on mine, the friction made its way for a kiss. Her lips clinged onto mine. And it was time.

It was time to be alive. Death of the dream. I somehow said your name and luckily I was alone. You were not here, but there were some text messages.

“I love you”

“Look at these comments.”

“Lol”

“I wrote a long letter.”

“Bestfriend.”

I could reply nothing in regards to the universe I started building in my head. In all my dreams we are alone. We build walls around us, we dont need clothes to hide. At the edge of my mind, my dreams collide with time. And here is the big bang, scrutiny of some words.

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Dunkelheit Book Review: To Dream And Discover.

Ever since I read the works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, I would often think of the poems he could write if he was happier with the day light. The poet puts on the show of metaphors and fancy that hit a revolution into literature, but I wont suggest Coleridge to a young person who is new to the vivid troubles inflicted by the curious mind.

I admired Wordsworth for ever bit of word that shaped up for his love. The depiction of nature was not out of the fascination of the blur, rather the insticts that surface in raw senses.

In the recent past, my mind developed various conflicts. Ranging from my faith to the decadance of each day; nothing rhymed and made sense. Wordsworth seemed too happy, Coleridge would only help me dig deeper in grief. I was not stable to appreciate the extreme streams.

Aviral Kapoor is a 21 year old poet who could bring the two extremes together in synchrony. His book Dunkeheit is a poetic conversational log between God and his innocent human creation. There are symbols embedded in the narration and poems embellished with ornaments of metaphysical answers.

The books is not just a composition of images and metafiction, but a path to the roots of an individual’s identity. From the subconsciousness rhyming alongside the full moon; the poetic synthesis revives the wholestic philosophy of humankind.

To critic the work, I may land up with an argument of ‘ideas’ as an abstract phenomenon. But everytime I read the poems, the words are able to generate past experiences into a compelling messages that I had ignored altogether.

To read the resonance of the romantic period of literature in the post modern world is in one word, reviving. If it was upto me, I would declare Aviral Kapoor as a poet from the early 19th century.  He reminded me of the lake poets, and this remark completely speaks for his potential. 

 

 

The Poets In The Cafe

Four of them had lost to themselves. They were not simple to the past, not complex to the future, only words to the present. That is what everything was about, some words. They fell with the rain and surfaced in the taste.

My Muse was in the rain as well, somewhere far or close, how does it matter. Somewhere in the rain with an alien to her potential. It has always been the same talk among the poets, something related to the celestial ink that shapes up their thoughts. From the woman that broke stars into raindrops to the flight waiting up for the next project. From the forgotten coffee to the remembered intricacies of her smile.

There are tattoos engrained in the wood pallets with stories that do not make sense but harmony. And Mathew Arnold said that is enough to save the world, a few words.

Lyre

The sun would keep it slow in the mornings,
And the rivers would trickle along,
The Symphony is born,
Along the transient trough of time.

As the birds wake the wind,
And the sky starts to feel blue,
The tea leaves never breathe the need,
To just listen to the music in my mind.

On the table, your cup stands still,
Disturbing the song of silence,
Memories speak so loud,
Moaning till the clouds come close.

It is raining because the sun was done singing,
And your cup was too loud to love,
Your coffee smoke would have danced in the mist,
Look how incomplete yet subtle.

My guitars don’t move much,
Rather be strummed by the broken winds,
And the forgotten raindrops,
We are rusting with the woods.

I wonder if there will be a person,
Holding your cup and asking me to sing,
With the hidden sun and the rusted strings,
Your faded red hair, memories don’t allow me to be.

The point is not the vacancy,
But the vacation,
Without you.

Memories alter my music,
And reality,
You were a need, dear dream.

Tides

On the seashore, the waves never settle. You told me to go deeper to the midstream of the ocean’s heartbeat. Somehow, you imagined the heart to be a magical cage which never moved, but shook the ocean with its stillness. The waves are almost running out from the fear every day, I look at them, it almost seems as if they are letting go to the feet they kiss.

How weird were you? On your birthday you asked me to bring a bowl full of rice, just because you wanted to feel the rushing compendium of those compact fabric. What did you even mean? You said it is like dancing to the music of the ocean, the rice rumble. The shells have the hollow music, and then it rains just like that at your old place in the plains.

You know, Evee. I know we meet every day, but I miss myself, somehow, I am losing my hold on the waves. They come and trap a part of me, and they don’t come back the same way. Everything is music, you said. I know, waves of vibration and being.

Now, how do I start making sense to anyone, even you?

Listen, you may not comprehend. But, it is better, we ever understand. You know the Rice Rumble and the Heart stays stale.

Without and Within

Even in the dreams, I had to find you. It was never so easy, but adventurous to close my eyes to darkness and lose myself to find you. You see, I talk about dreams because the reality is often not accustomed to my need. It all began on the cyber interaction, one of the social media platform I have lost to my misery. But those interactions only made my conscious mind find interest in you with all stereotypes assembled at its edge. We met and walked. Trees were important to both of us, subconsciously everything settled into the walking patterns. I have heard a few stories about you. You only told me everything, but somehow I still could not fit all the reverberations in the simple sense of love I wanted.

You are my muse. One should never fall in affection with the Muse. One eventually falls in love with the muse. Two different terms and yes, that is why I am conflicted.

I love you. A syntax that I find rather ambiguous now. ‘I’ and ‘love’ have nothing to do with each other more of a natural law. Can I simply say? I make the stars move towards your planet to keep it warm? I can? Because I am a writer. But at the same time, we young minds never truly realise what our metaphor infer.

You would rather be friends and why not, dear muse. I have my dreams.

I wake up, alone.

 

Dead Flowers

My eyes are closed and the only thing I sense is nothing. I don’t know what sound shall guide this feeling, but it is happening. In the grave of my mind where the sand is the stillness of this universe. The dark space where I Inhibit within and without.

She would kiss me with flowers. Petals on my dead skin and I don’t know how to tell her this but I think my body has given up years ago. Now that I understand that only my desires lived and not my intent. Might sound all the darker, this space inside my head and I have nothing to say those kisses or the flowers that will eventually die with the fraction of time. I cannot see you anymore because I don’t want to. Yes, I understand that you are practical and none of this makes sense to you. It doesn’t have to make sense to anything at all. Senses are frail weak conscious traps.

I am a young dead man. And these thoughts are surfaced out of the five minutes that my eyes were closed and nothing disturbed. I carefully sensed my death. How in darkest breaths of the space, I would feel these dead flowers touch the earth in all sincerity.

It was never meant to be. Nothing was ever meant to be, but it did happen. Now I don’t really know from where I have the audacity to hurt everyone around me by saying that all of this that we sense is a web and the more we think, the more intense is the trap.

But it won’t be long until the flowers kissing my dead body becomes one with me. That’s what is meant to be. The slow degradation of senses. My dearest fellows might come to feed the dead flowers with some drops of tears, the clouds I mean are fairly dominant to the skies of life. The cries shall help sincerity reach its salvation.