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Them waves,
they crash into the shore,
in the sunshine, softly churning,
and gurgling, and quietly whining;
oh, the pleasure untold,
like that in the symphony,
of the leaves, rustling aloof,
in the breezy drizzle,
and the pitter-patter of the rain,
on the mahogany painted roof.
And they crash,
into the shore,
and a million smiles,
break into ubiquitous uproar,
in remembrance of the days,
from my heart.
And they crash,
into the rocky sub-terrain,
that houses weeds and snails,
in sparkling iridescent green.
And then they recede,
like a child,
rebuked by her mother,
and all is quiet, for once it seems,
and the sea shells gleam,
in sunlight masked
by a cloudy sheen,
and reverberate in them the tales,
of lost souls
in existentialist ways.
And there is a loneliness,
creeping into my heart,
as I wish for her to come back.
I wish for her to stay,
this time, I wish to be foolish,
doting at her wonderful ways.
I am sad.
and my life, it seems to pass,
with hurtful impasse;
reflecting in the undulated fashion,
of the pianist's portrayal,
of melancholy and indisposition,
and in her subtle betrayal.
And the waves, at the sea shore,
they crash into the sea,
And your essence, it drives me,
everyday to this bed of sand;
the chance, and the hope to see,
you mimicking, making fun of me,
your love, teasing, grappling, slipping,
maybe even coming back to me,
your wonderful ways,
from the wonderful days of yore
all in the rhythmic ways of these waves,
that I wish,
were to crash into me,
and with a swift blow to the chest,
take my breath away,
like you so often did to me.

Kartiek Agarwal.

Inspiration: I intend this poem to be a tribute to the most enchanting symphonies of Beethoven and Claude Debussy. It's amazing what emotions these symphonies can evoke in you. I started writing this poem listening to alot of Debussy, and I was compelled to write about the beauty of nature, because I inevitably listen to his music mentally picutring picturesque scenes of nature portraying its grace and serenity and all about the little emotions on the faces of little animals. Also, I meant for this poem to be as unstructured as most of Debussy's work, that tend to flirt with notes and timings outside the domains of traditional rhythmic progressions. Somewhere in the middle of the poem, you can see a sudden change in emotion. This is when I started listening to Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata". I don't think I could have written anything else while listening to that symphony, it just begs you to enter its melancholy little world. I think, you may want to listen to the "Moonlight Sonata" while reading this poem.

Ofcourse, this refers to a man searching for his lost soul, his lost friend, his lost lover in the waves.

This is inspired by Zakk Wylde's tribute to Dimebag Darrell called "In The River". Nothing as passionate as a great man paying tribute to another great man. Also, it made me realise how much a river is like life itself, and more so, how it is a reflection of all that is happening in the whole universe. R.I.P. Dimebag, and all the people who died trying to save him that unfortunate day.

Can you hear it?
Its crying,
its laughing,
its sneezing,
its coughing,
its whirling,
and warbling,
and chirping,
and gnarling,
its dying,
its living,
its being born,
all the beauty,
that it has,
is holding time,
and every possible moment,
in a single moment
of life.

I wonder if he is a prisoner of life. He wakes up, with the mosquitoes all chewing him up, and chewing where they have already bit before. Before he knows it, he wanders off to the nearby market where the rediwaala sells his fresh cucumber and kakris all lined up and decorated. Just as the rediwaala looks away, he steals a few of his produce and stuffs them in his mouth, as he runs off to somewhere near. The sight of streetlights means he is nearing home.

He toils for a few paises and a cup of chai a day, sometimes selling balloons and toys, and sometimes wiping off all the window stains of the rich people in their cars. Sometimes he just begs for alms. He sees the day lift its curtains for night light to pour in, with a sweep of cool airy bliss. But sometimes, its just too cold, and so he runs, runs away from the cold, and to warm his body. But then, he runs out of air, and his lungs start to give in. So he settles down on a pavement on the land of mother earth. Sometimes, the police chase him off, but a very lucky few times, they mercifully let him be. As the frost starts to dig his grave, the sun, one lucky winter night, intervenes and acts like the mother who has only eyes for her child. But the sun has eyes for us all.

Mother earth and the fatherly sun are the only of his kin. One day, another fatherly figure in the form of an old man in his dying days wrapped around in a dilapidated, somewhere torn, and throurghly worn-out rug offers him his lifeline of so many years. The shivering lad, denies, in all self-restraint he can conjure up, by all self-respect he can search for somewhere lost. The father, however, loses his restraint, he doesn't survive the night. He remorsefully removes the rug from his naked body. He is thankful, but shivers in self-loathing, and runs away crying. He prays to some God he fears, and he is thankful, for the greatest gift he has ever received, even if remorsefully. But , maybe, he already has the greatest gift of them all. Maybe he has shame, something we never had when we let our country rot to what it is now.

My eyes closed, and I couldn't see so far,
as a fading lamp's blaze burnt out like a dead cigar,
insinuating its presence in dampened sparks of imagination,
leaking through crevices in the door left ajar.

<Party music fading in the background>

And the breath felt very warm, and soft, as they walked
and, I swayed on her shoulder and looked into the night, and talked,
as they bade farewell to the merry chatter in an uneasy calm ,
And the door of the car opened, and jammed shut with a rusty thud,
and I slept, like a child in the backseat of a car snow covered.

<And the poor old Lada choked but finally roared on>

For I was, but a child of 5, in the backseat of my car, wondering,
why the vipers of the my Lada, weren't big like the Volvo's ,
or why an antenna on my car, wasn't there after all,
or why Deepti Mohta was so beautiful, in her princess-like frock
with her one arm wrapped in ceramic, hidden under soft cloth?

<And the poor old Lada chugged and crept on>

And as it turned and glided, on the salted Moscow streets,
And the curfew sirens waled from speakers somewhere afar,
and they were my lullaby and the winter my mother, and I slept.
like a child in the backseat of his car.

<And the sirens kept resounding and lullabying me to sleep>

And the next thing I heard, were voices extremely sharp,
a woman, pleading, almost crying in amidst some commotion,
to a man in finest Russian leather, it was my mother I could see,
and from out the window, I saw a man, and he looked back at me.
"Igor, niet, leave them, leave them, look at the child, how could we ?"

<And it seemed Igor obeyed, for he lowered his Kalash, looked at me once, and left us safe>

Kartiek Agarwal

P.S. true story! :) The above is a nested photo (photo of a photo!), hence the lack of clarity.

My words are all but lies,
released into the bewildering wild,
in opiate nights under
the sun-bathed moon with crimson wine
all that set to conspire,
setting my imagination on fire,
imploring me to oblige,
to ponder and to settle down, to retire.
To retire into the arms
of the chair besides my desk and write.

And I write about love,
and death and all in which I find beauty,
And I make a mockery of it all,
every night when I retire,
all that set to conspire,
setting my imagination on fire,
didn't ever realize my ineptness
to set alight the mind, the pyre,
that is in a way only a true lover
could ever aspire .. to.

And so I set to write nonetheless,
of the tempest, that is her soul,
that blows on the lands of evermore,
burning ever bright
like the christening jewel
of a crown in clear daylight,
But again I realize my ineptness
to set alight the mind, the pyre,
that is in a way only a true lover
could ever aspire .. to.

And so I surmise,
from the evident lack of device,
love, I have never realized.
I have never felt it, I could never write.
But yet again I set my ineptness aside,
and continue to scribble and write,
And I find poetry in the death of a flower,
caught in a tumultuous monsoon shower,
That pleads to the skies, and dies,
amongst remorseful eyes.

Eyes, that were never mine,
and it is beyond evident and I realize,
how fickle and unwise,
my words will seem to those eyes,
that belong to the mother of a lost son,
and an orphan of a lost mother,
a lover, his blessed soul,
that bloomed today with new found love, and further
I realize, these words, never writ better
than those on the lips of a bereaved lover.

Kartiek Agarwal