Image Credit – Aditya Mishra

BANARAS
 

A place which burns through flesh and bones,
where death blends in our minds
as a part of life itself.

A place which makes one speak,
not of themselves,
but the enamoured faithfulness.

Someplace, there lies an energy,
the one which shoots a call
up the nerves to document everything.

A blocked river crammed with boats
taking it all
from the ongoers,
evokes a glimpse of the divine light.

A place where one doesn’t drag themselves
over others,
speaking a language which the eyes gleefully confer.

Someplace, where the art of maintenance
doesn’t coincide with conservatism.

I wonder,
looking at the old
silver halide particles
forming a photograph of the disciples
oscillating in the same manner
as they do now,
Did the river gift them salvation?


A HAND REACHING OUT FOR ANOTHER

Lanes for the seekers who
Stand over the shades
Of our joy
Go on for miles
Pretty harmless but cold.

Buildings and trains,
Screams and horns,
People falling off their bicycle 
People dying for their sport
People toying with their bloodline
Ruining a better part of an experience.

Trees overlooking houses
Husbands beating their spouses 
Books staring at heads and palms
And open space,
Some poets searching for rhymes
Some not.

Something’s up with the wiring
And with the politics
Maybe with the land
Probably not with a hand reaching out 
For something more than 
Another hand.

And over our shades they speak
With a haze they leave behind
Pieces, densely filled up to a full,
Showing no signs of regret.

People wanting specific people
People mourning over the seeming 
End of a sham.

We stand still 
facing the sun,
Paving the way for more 
Suffering and cruelty
Inherited by some.

Maybe there really is nothing wrong
About a hand reaching out
For another,
Wanting more than said.


MEMORY OF THE FUTURE
 

Just as I would waste
countless pages
to scratch a perfect signature,
you ought not to waste this ink
over the dwellings of a future
you remember inside your head.

Those wasted pages fly somewhere now
over a storm people fear,
and fear is a longing
we’ll always keep right over here,
outside our reach
but inside this memory of a future
that just won’t happen.

My signature still is
far from perfect
and I don’t hear any wind nearby.

Alas, these sidewalks must be
full of worthless small sheets
that were never really meant to find a home.