Photography

A Meshed Poetic Dream

A wizard in Black, a witch in Blue,

The magic of love blended with their doom.

To let this world be, the colours had to die,

For dreams have no space for blinding lights.

 

For their wands could hold the ocean,

And their words could cease the stars,

They held this dream to last,

To let the sleep mend their swollen hearts.

 

Their power so immense, their misery so pure,

When they would kiss, the moon would adore.

The ocean would pour out into the air,

And ask the mended fire to play fair.

 

The fire once born, was not a charm,

Created by the magician, held by the harm.

The blue would burn, The black would bleed,

The ocean would dry, to quench their need.

 

How cold, the flame to hold them close,

How bight, they burn, with the love in their bones,

The moon would rest, the wind would test

The fire shall still burn the holy flesh.

 

Alas, with only the fire and the night,

Dawn shall break the burning ice.

They wake up, entangled in their heads,

Two poets, one dream, to detest.

Two poets, one dream, the mesh.

 

 

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The Night And The Dawn

My world hides away in the stars,

When she arrives chasing my scars,

She is the night, dressed in the dark.

 

My world has always been this way,

Unknown to the glory of the day,

I am the dawn, the vision with no name.

 

I have not seen her yet, But I dream,

Her dark eyes, and  bright expression across the sea,

Her eyes so tempting for my fall,

Alas, If only I was the day and not the dawn.

 

But I decided not to give up on my lines,

For I am, when they sleep,

And the night; she has felt my warm breeze.

 

And it is a secret, that justifies her sound sleep,

That I am born within her, embracing the day,

Remembering how she had kissed my name.

Every sense would come to live,

To find the spot where she would lie.

 

But for the night to kiss the dawn,

It is the cosmos that shall sing the song,

You will be fast asleep on the bed,

When I hold her to revive my mess,

You will be fast asleep on the bed,

For, Rumi rightly said,  That the dawn has secrets to tell.

That the dawn has some secrets to tell.

 

A Letter to Rabindranath Tagore

I am sorry, I don’t feel the love anymore. And I am sorry, the Nation has not even thought about the idea that you had in mind.

I just came across the idea. And I am a strong believer in what you stated, but I fear to input direct words in this letter, because it will be read by diverse minds united by the so-called concrete reality of hatred. They think they are Indians or Muslim or Hindu, you know. And not humans. They find it easy to suffocate morality and escape the rational from the world. They will rather rest in grotesque violence than to interrogate the cause of humanity.

Everything has failed, the scriptures provoke a very few of them on the right path. Literature has ironically become this social fragment of the concrete hatred that they call love. There are books about people falling in ‘Love’, books about killing and surviving. It seems as if, they write to induce more spark to the hatred and ‘Love’.

But, you knew this all along, right? That they will never understand the idea of India. The idea of a country which is not developed in terms of the West. I know you were there, at the time where people wrote poems about what India would be, but you are here right now, all along knowing how they continue to fail.

So, I don’t love the idea anymore, because, for an idea, it is impossible to be concrete as their ‘Love’, but for an idea of the Nation, it is supposed to exist at least in the minds.

I wonder, how many help it to exist, we are driven by different motives, now.  ‘Love’, material, blood, and breath. And some are purely driven by hatred, so they love the country, so much.

And some are purely driven by hatred, so they love the country, so much. Their love for the country is immense, the people who hate. Because hatred takes pride, power, and the most staunch discriminant mind.

And the third category is the most controversial to my understanding and I really hope that the nationalist inside you, don’t read this descript. The soldiers, the true nationalists, the innocent, they are victims of the politics that play around with the idea of the Nation. The ones who want to conquer the feeling of inhabitance and restrict the idea of the universe just because they are programmed to want the same.

How trivial the heads are gone, I write this idea, again. Not to be remembered, but to be slaughtered by words.

Regards,

Sagar Arora

Veiling Vices’ Virtues

A violin is set to play,

You are in this beautiful white dress,

Gloves creeping their way to your arms,

A hat hiding the flow of thoughts,

A veil on the face, enclosing its beauty.

 

Here I am, playing the songs in my head,

Suffocated from the flesh,

Where do I look,

When the ocean is enveloped by the sky and I rest in space,

Soon the song will stop and we go home.

 

The place where the secrets don’t settle,

Where bodies are naked and beauty proclaim the universe,

Where we can fall for each other, in the eyes, the deep blues,

No space or sky to resist the flow of my sight.

 

It is simply soothing, the coffee and your skin,

I never liked the sweet taste of hope,

Just the little sour, I adore.

So here we are, hand in hand, no clothes to bind and blind,

Let just lay, till they know we are drunk on coffee,

Till they go home.

Photograph by Anjali Sharma

Check out her amazing work here

 

My Dear Leo

The time has come where the ink shall reach the land,

Where you sit in peace, where you preach power.

How beautiful, the crown of wind, how majestic;

And you residing as the angle to hold the man.

 

Storms, they tend to have their way,

And the sand does not go with the fur of elegance,

My dear, how you make the cyclones to woe the sand?

How you assemble the serenity in the sorrow,

Roar in the rare dark caves of your mind.

 

All to escape through the light colors that delight,

Fourteen lines cannot do justice to the adore,

 

The Queen that addresses the masses of universe,

So different than the rest, such charm of life,

Either the ocean or the veil, the choice shall rest your day.

Sketch by Nistha Agrawal

Dear Gemini

We are gently written in the sky,

Like the wind, escaping the empty minds,

On the look of paradise, from the ocean,

To the shore, from the Sun,

To the Moon.

 

This curiosity links the woman to a thought,

To change the world, but only to herself,

She sings the beautiful discovery of the sins,

To dance along, and be friends with the song.

 

For she is the wind of humanity,

She can think and adore,

Rest each life and transcend the norms.

From around the world, she has been,

And she brings a lullaby that helps the world to think.

 

P.S-  The sketch is the contribution from another talented Gemini, Nistha Agrawal.