Epilogue – No Amount Of Parchment Is Enough

Poem inspired by the title of Cummings’s poetic masterpiece, “The mind is its own beautiful prisoner.”

The mind is its own beautiful prisoner,
its dark fantasies
inoculating the adjoining parts of the body
against reason,
against light
and against the will to resist,
mine gazed at the moon with its cream-colored disfigurement
and pulled out a singular thought
red as a loganberry,
its sweetness enveloping the tongue.

Unperfect is desire that paves the way for chronicles of life,
your flesh
is a delicate dance of syllables that infiltrates
my poetry,
its innocence
searching me out as though a conversation that’s been left
in the middle,
perhaps I belong to you in sonnets
as indigo sky sets into my throat, it’s a most beautiful feeling
raw in its energy
as though a sense of warmth emerging from the cold.

Your lips are rose bud, a gateway to eloquent speech
as the world around me spins,
could this be a delusion?
could it be that I am being deceived?
If only I could touch you,
if only I could step into naked reality and have a pink flush
my face and sweating palms,
I brushed away further ideas and once again gazed
upon the sky,
the mind is its own beautiful prisoner
like the moon I am not willing to be imprisoned just yet.


Photo credits: Lush Life, Loui Jover

Posted for Poems in April @ Real Toads

Soliloquy – Poetry as a Lonely Endeavour

They say once you have perfected the art
of being alone
you are ready for this world,
the weight of misinterpretation is almost enough to topple me,
the current sufficient to take me down far stream.
What use is Poetry?
What’s the function of Poets?
What good does it do nowadays are just few of the absurdities
which I have to deal with on a daily basis.
Listen here
in times of adversity poetry is twilight on fire,
the sand more sepia,
a miracle that arrives when the heart least expects it,
its words are kindness,
a conversation,
a concern and at times a rebellion.
Poetry understands anxieties and ghosts that haunt one’s mind,
head in the clouds,
impractical and incapable of dealing with matters
listen here
Poetry will wield your taunts and brandish its reply like a sword,
the answer to your query is simple
we are warriors of light, of truth, of words and clear manifestation
of spirituality and hope,
our function is to give deeper meaning to the world,
as we create a path between two points, such that runs beneath seas
and mountains.

So, the next time you come across a Poet in the street
take a moment
and see him for what he truly is.


Photo credits: Loui Jover, Sonata

Posted for Poems in April @ Real Toads

Posted on Open Link Night @ dVerse Pub

What once was whispered to spring ushered its bloom

I sip comfort in the early hours of morning as rays highlight the blush suffusing my skin. Below the sights and sounds of traffic sound vaguely as though a murmur through the door; as I indulge in conversation and Kashmiri tea garnished with crushed nuts and a hint of salt with cardamom. If eyes are the antechamber to the soul then lips are no less, the deep curve of his makes the world around me spin with a smile that brings to mind a thousand memories; each of which offers joy of being alive and just a bit more humane.

Cassia trees sway in Spring,
a wave of gold spreads
as the wind sings your name.


Photo credits: @titomerello Instagram

Posted for Poems in April @ Real Toads

Brooklyn Boulevard

Feels like I have been here before,
the sights
and sounds seem familiar even though I haven’t set foot
upon the ground,
by day the city is bathed in light,
a shade of soft gold
I experience a sugar rush while sipping cherry lime ricky
at Tom’s restaurant,
how many hours of peace can I keep in my pocket?
I wonder
as light is replaced by unrelenting blackness
of night,
with time
I have learned that you aren’t born with wings

but take a moment
and try to answer what seems to be a simple question,
can we write silence?
can we attempt to supersede negativity with possibility?
The wind carries with it a hint of ache
the way it persists,
it could almost be another season in another place
but I wouldn’t wish to be anywhere
but here,
as I experience a moment of epiphany that befalls
like a rich blanket of mauve,
you see
the key to dealing with obstacles is to remain calm

for not all storms are meant to disrupt
our life pattern,
some are only meant to push towards direction
of dreams,
yes it feels like I have been here before
the sights
and sounds seem familiar even though I haven’t set foot
upon the ground;
vision is the first step towards achieving the impossible.


Photo credits: Pinterest

Posted for “Poems in April” @ Real Toads

Posted on Poetry Pantry @ Poets United

Prologue – The Emma Bruegel Project

If on a winter’s night a traveler knocks upon your door
don’t open,
whoever walks this late among the shadows
is spectre,
is ghost, a headless apparition
someone who is no more than a distortion of light
among creatures
at midnight in the garden of good and evil.
Can you hear the wood crackling when it burns?
it’s tortured by the song of witches,
a lullaby
for the newborn emerald snakes,
above the moon is battered,
its cries which flow from a crevice of lips similar to demons
lurking in the mossy glen,
I can’t describe the unbearable lightness of being
without addressing promiscuity,
I can hear an incubus frantically pacing outside the window
his lust
a nostalgic craving of rose sangria in Paris,
I dare not part the curtains
lest his eyes take in the shape of my collarbone soft
and subtle in the semi-darkness
now the dying flowers have blinded the clouds
once more
before dropping the act, before delivering the last omen
tell me,
would you still like me to open the door?


Photo credits: Jolygram

The book titles which I have chosen are in italics ❤️

Posted for Poems in April @ Real Toads

A Memory Of April

April showers come steady and soft
from the vanilla sky, as indelible these poems
to form themselves on paper
for a week maybe more,
tell me, hey, what’s the news from your bed
it’s hard to keep up
my mind is preoccupied,
so what if the wind is smoother than water?
So what if twilight whispers, the inebriated and sober
the serenity of the day is nothing
to the adrenaline rush that writing everyday gives me,
my words kissing the clouds,
a violet hue

who do you need? nobody
you’re lucky nobody’s around
with a pillow propped on top of my bed I continue
this month-long journey

as April showers come steady and soft
from the vanilla sky.


Photo credits: Fleur Treurniet, Unsplash

Posted for Poems in April @ Real Toads