The Sans Secret

Sans

Through the echoing memories, high and low

Lost in a cacophony of sounds, inside her head

She dropped her instrument, unplayed symphony

A silent music sheet, can you hear the song?

Through the blurring memories, a kaleidoscopic 

Lost in a maze of images, inside her heart

She surrendered her brush, unwashed scenery

A barren canvas, can you see the painting?

Through the misty memories, black and white

Lost in a labyrinth of words, inside her soul

She abandoned her quill, unwritten calligraphy

A blank parchment, can you read the poetry?

S

Sans- San- Sa- S

Forgive me Bloggerita

Darling Bloggerita,
I'm sorry if you've felt like the neglected and ignored girlfriend lately. I'm not cheating on you with another blog, especially not one of those visually appealing blogs that feature fashion or food. I know how conscious you are of your profile and your identity as one of those 'literary blogs' and I would never do anything to hurt you. I hope you take these long intervals of time and distance as one that will make our hearts grow fonder. And that henceforth, I will bestow you with my undivided attention, and yes darling, you will be my first priority.
Although, I doubt these cliches will work as excuses; you have always been demanding and there's no getting past you. Oh no, that's not what I meant. I meant that you always strive to bring out what is best and true and good in me. I will do anything to make up for this... flowers, chocolates, diamonds? No? Oh, you will forgive me on one condition though, won't you darling?  I know you will. I'll shower you with poetry (if praises aren't enough) ... Yes? Your wish is my command.
                                                                                                                   - Bloggurus

Trust me when I say, I am faithful to you Bloggerita.

Oh my darling, where do I begin?

My behavior- it’s worthy of a sin.

Poems on paper, I threw in the bin.

Long silent nights spent drinking gin.

I'll admit i've been in the wrong.

How I wish I could write you a song.

It has been a while, it has been long.

We will get through this, stay strong.

You know I suffer from the writer's block.

But i'm thinking of you round the clock.

The words are in my heart, unlock?

My state of misery, please don't mock.

Oh darling, why don't we end this fight?

I will between us, make things right.

I'll be your poet and lover tonight.

Be my Muse, show me the light.

You know it has been hard for me lately, love. The inkpot has run dry, the quill is untouched. There are thoughts. Few thoughts, many thoughts. But, there are no words. There is no rhyme, no meter, no verse. Fill me up with inspiration and ink. Hold my hand, so the words may flow, without force. I'm struggling, i'm staggering. I need to break through this block, so I can see you on the other side. I'm  tying to compose my thoughts into words and words into poetry. I want to remind you of the poet you first fell in love with. 

We complete one another. Without you, there's no poetry. Without me, there's no you. Let's do this this together and show those fancy blogs how its done, yeah? 

Ode to Colours

L: So what is the deeper meaning to the pretty colours?

S: Happiness.

L: I didn't expect such simplicity from you.

S: But it is simple. There's Happiness and then there's Black and White.

S: Black and White, 

     Light and Night.

     White Light.

     Black Night.

L: What?

S: Within him the Sun, red passion,

A burning soul, alive but ashen.

High and low, swinging sensation,

Her Moon, Dawn of his imagination.

                                                 

Quill in hand, he inks poetry,

Muse in mind, drunk and jittery.

Words, devoid of symphony,

Oh, a heartbreaking cacophony.                                                                                   

Love, dancing fire, singing river,

Flames and waves collide, over.

Rainbows, a monochrome appear,

Sunrise and moonset, each year.

Within him the Sun, in darkness,

Four seasons gone, fifth in sadness.

Day and night, two bodies seamless,

Her Moon, Dusk diamonds limitless.

Happiness.

L: I was right. Cannot expect simplicity from you.

Chasing in Circles

Circular or Linear? 

 "..Unless time and thoughts aren't really linear. And we're following a circular pattern. We're back to the beginning now. Circles and circles later, we'll be back again.", he said.

"Oh, I think I understand now. Shakespeare thinks so too, doesn't he? In his poem, Seven Ages of Man.", she said. 

"Last scene of all, 

That ends this strange eventful history,

Is second childishness.."

There is a child in each of us. There is a deep rooted desire to revisit the past, to relive our childhood and to grow up once again.. A desire to relish candy floss, ride on carousels and watch cartoons.

I decided to take the circular route to childhood and back. And on this journey, I made two pit stops which I reckon most of you will make with me..

The Wizard of Oz 

"Somewhere over the rainbow

Skies are blue,

And the dreams that you dare to dream

Really do come true"

And of course, 

The Sound of Music 

And on my way back, I take a little childhood with me. 

I take a little rainbow, I take a little music. 

And in 'second childishness' 

I rewrite -

They guzzled down bottles of rainbows,

The ebony violets to the ivory yellows.

The coloured crescent , an intoxication,

A figment of their own imagination.

They guzzled down bottles of melodies,

The seven syllables, Do re mi fa sol la tis.

The notes into silence, a transformation,

The music in their minds, an illusion.

Rainbows and melodies, bottle after bottle,

The victims of an unfathomable guzzle,

It rained in all hues and it rained no more,

The sun’s shining song, they sober.

Oh, it was a drunken love.

Go on, round and round in circles. Go on, and chase your childhood. 

                                   

Sans. On repeat.

              Summer break 2012. Summertime Sadness by Lana Del Rey - on repeat.

I'm feelin' electric tonight.

Summertime in York, monsoon in Mumbai. Let's runaway from reality and run towards romanticized monsoons. That's what poets and dreamers do, don't they? Poets are dreamers. Let's dream of poetry tonight. 

Rainy afternoons, steaming hot cappuccinos, soft jazz, great novels..


"It hasn't rained in a while", she said. "Your words are as dry as the soil. Your silence as piercing as the sun's scorching rays.
Shower your manuscript with ink. Drop after drop."

"Rain on me", she said.

And rain it did. And write I did. 

Lana Del Rey's voice, echoing in the rain,
And then the sun came out once again.

But, this time the lyrics are mine.
This time, it's -

Sans. On repeat. 

Raindrop. Drops.

More drops. Many drops.

Dropping down.

Pouring down.

Down on them. Deep down.

Drowning in the depths.

Depths of the moments.

More moments, like more drops.

Many moments and drops.

Pause.

Rewind.

Play.

Raindrops. Drops.

Lets fast forward the latter.

Pitter patter.

Pitter patter, mad hatter.

Oh, a rhyme. Rhythmic rain.

Rhythm and blues. 

Blue, one of many hues.

Many moments and drops.

Pause.

Rewind.                                                                                               

Aah, it’s a Repetition.

Aah! Epiphany. Synchrony.

Synchrony and harmony.

Drop. Drop. Drop.

Pitter patter. Thunder.

Lightening? They wonder.

Wonder… Fireworks?

Blue fireworks.

Violet, indigo, blue. Hues

A rainbow? Drops of rainbows?

Drops of rain.                                                                                                                 

Drops of sunshine.

Rain and sunshine.

Shine. Sparkle. Shimmer.

Alliteration, you beauty. 

Beauty in rhythmic rainbows.

Red, orange, yellows. 

Sun.

Rays pouring down.

Rays sans rain.

With or without.

Without him.

Her.

Sans.                                                                                                             

Repeat.

Mumbai monsoons, you are my muse. On repeat.