Tuesday, February 8, 2022

The obsession of sisyphus

 In repetition I find 

my release. like
Sisyphus who paused 
for a while to ponder: 
did he think 
it was all futile?
or did he notice 
that each moment 
in being repeated
was always new? 


Monday, February 7, 2022

जिंदगी की जद्दो जहद में

 

अक्सर जिंदगी की जद्दो जहद 
में वास्ता दरवाज़ों से होता 
एक दरवाज़े से प्रवेश 
एक से निकास 
एक आने से पहुंचने 
के बीच सिमटी जिंदगी 
जो स्थिर है 
जो गौण है 
वह उसका हिस्सा नहीं 
जैसे यह बालकनी 

मैं आदत में एकांत लिखता हूँ

 

मैं आदत में एकांत 

लिखता हूँ , लिखते 
एकांत खत्म हो 
जाता है , जो बचता 
है एकांत जैसा उसे 
मैं वैसा ही छोड़ देता 
हूँ. 

जो बचा है 
वही हमारी सीमा 
है , जिसमे गिरने का 
खतरा हमेशा बना 
रहता है. मैं गिरने 
से पहले लिखता हूँ 
की कुछ बच जाऊं 
किसी शेष की तरह 
नहीं , किसी फुटनोट 
की तरह.   

गिरना मेरा अंत नहीं 
पर वो है जहाँ से 
यह कविता शुरू होती है, 
शायद मैं भी. 

Friday, January 21, 2022

Sometimes


Sometimes the day begins 
slow, in a murmur , it is 
Easy to ease out of the bed
Turn your head , absorb the 
Wind as it eases in. 

Sometimes the morning has a wisp 
Of a rumour that hangs 
Uneasily over the reluctant 
Day yet to come 

The heaviness of the day past 
Is yet to pass. The promise of the 
Future yet to realise. 

My mind plays tricks on me. 
I want to open the book 
And learn what slowness means 
What it means to embrace what 
Is? 

I need to find my answers before the
Tea turns cold. Something changes 
Between the sips of tea that 
Determines what the day would be . 
There is more to beginnings than 
Getting up. There is more to rising 
Than realising the ground is where 
It was the last night. 

Wednesday, February 7, 2018

I submit to the sky


A sudden flash
of lightening pierces
the veil of a summer
night. A storm teases
the trees. Some street
lamps wink and fall 
asleep in the womb 
of darkness. Earth 
sheds its burning skin
for a day and the parched
soil swirls around madly
in the hairs of the passerby.
An uneven tiredness 
subsides and I submit 
to the sky.

(May 23, 2016)

Old Skin

Old skin, possibility is
a dotted line. Learn to 
write your name. But
erase it soon lest your
traces be heavy. Open
future is an undeciphered
script, the uncertain has
its trappings. (Sometimes)
it is beautiful.


(24 May 2016)

............................................

Old skin, clouds are a
guest to the summer
night. Flashes of lightening
an interlude to their
love. You a drifting 
passerby. Collect the
fragments in their pauses.
This instant is alive with
the possible.


(23 May 2016)

...............................................

Old skin, murmurs of an
instant are not rumours.
There are clouds passing
nearby. Finality dissolves
(sometimes) when you
stop parting shadows.
Wonder!


(23 May 2016)


Tuesday, February 6, 2018

Slow



All seen is a waiting for 
the yet seen. 

Slow!

The veil is fragile. A 
drop dissolves, 
the dew
splits. 

A tiny crack is all you have
 anticipations galore. 

Slow!