Been So Long

Been so long since we met,
poetry, my dear friend. 
Been so long since we met. 

Been so long since my fingers traced paths on a keyboard, 
pouring my thoughts out, 
storing them in an abstract medium. 
Been so long since that happened. 

Did you miss me, my dear friend? 
Did you miss turning up
at the quiet corners of my mind
and holding my hand understandingly? 

I didn't miss you, my dear friend. 
I didn't miss you a bit. 

Now, don't think I'm ungrateful, 
my dear friend. 
I'm far from it; 
you'll soon see for yourself. 

There's a reason we were closer, dear friend. 
You visited often to bridge the gap 
between me and my then muse. 
You visited often to numb the pain, 
to soothe my heart, and heal my wounds. 

You, my friend, sprang from my heart
to let my muses know they were admired. 
You, my friend, didn't feel like it 
when destiny had smiled and the universe conspired. 

The nightingale sings, my dear friend, 
when it yearns for a heart that sits afar. 
Singing with hope is all it can do.

Is it fair to expect a song, my friend, 
when another nightingale sings the same tune 
and captures the heart with ease? 

I didn't miss you, dear friend,
for I haven't been singing from afar. 
I didn't find the need to sing, dear friend,
for I've been busy loving.

Flight of a Kite

Adorning its self in colours,
ameliorating its fragile physique
through aerodynamic stability,
a kite prepares well for its impending flight.

With a scape as vast as vast can be,
and just a strand of thread for direction -
in the hand of one who elevates it,
the kite begins its journey upwards, skywards.

It braves strong winds,
apart from flying birds,
and other kites seeking the same progress
that it strives to achieve in life.

Another kite might cut it off mid-air,
thinking its own success lied in bringing its peer down
oblivious to the truth that good kites
will be passionately pursued by kids who know its value.

When the kite falls not to such cut-throat acts
and keeps soaring higher and higher,
it finds its gift in its freedom
and an eye view only birds can boast of.

So, that's the simple story of a kite's flight.
Similar to that of artists wishing to reach a height.

Image courtesy: Tholly

Company of Creation

When all my muses walk away from me
without even bidding farewell,
when worries turn into sorrow
and later into depression,
when the heart wants to cry in agony,
shedding tears and trying to reach out to someone,
in desperation,
when the heart wages a war against the mind,
when thought just does not stop peeping into my being,
when I realize the only true company
I have in the world is myself
and let solitude embrace me,
I wish you be there on my side,
Oh! Poetry.
beautiful lady made of stringed syllables.
Choose not to abandon me
like my muses did.
Help me find
solace from my sorrow.
Kick logic and rationality from the mind
and inject the slow poison of unparalleled beauty.

You are beautiful yourself.
A smiling child's innocent countenance,
a soothing music I'd gladly drown into,
a sudden burst of colours
splashing in all directions -
the type of beauty I'd love to be killed by.

Be with me and take me high.
Be with me till I die.
Be with me and I will not cry.

Aham Brahmaasmi

In the drop of paint that unites bristles;
In the notes of music born out of reeds
Is one of the most fulfilling deeds,
Completing which the heart joyously sizzles.

While holding a pencil to make a sketch,
While twisting the legs to make a step,
While saying a joke to make feel pep,
While producing music with a magical touch.

While giving shape to a mound of clay,
While stringing words to make a verse,
While knitting yarn to make a purse
Moments of idleness does a man slay.

While breathing life into an inanimate figure,
While chiseling an idol out of a rock
Mortality does the creator mock.
His/her heart does grow bigger and bigger.

Glowing bright, creative light
Exhibits its eternal, joy-giving force.
An artist in his/her life's course
Demons many does he/she tirelessly fight.

Red Hot

I walk hand in hand with art,
With an open mind and a joyful heart.
I bestow upon it matchless love,
It comes to me easily now.

Music amazes me,
Poetry amuses me.
My fingers have created the same.
Passion is that force's name.

Red hot does it glow,
Through my blood does it flow.
In many an art am I self-taught,
For, impossible there is naught.

I'm one of the infinite artists
Who never bare their teeth nor clench their fists.
For, the language of heart is what we speak.
Love makes our knees go weak.

Love, passion and gratitude
Have moulded my ever cheerful attitude.
I'll never ever fall in life,
For me it's a festival and not a strife.

And That's How It Began....

No fear or apprehension occupied me
When I showed her what I wrote.
Only my poem she could see
In that little note.

The rhyme was bad; the lines were long
But still she said nothing.
I gave it a tune; I made it a song.
The same she asked me to sing.

I stood on-stage with my best friend.
We sang that childish rhyme.
Thus came into being a novel trend
That you enjoy many a time.

A furious stare or silent scorn
Would have instantly turned me off.
The poet in me would have never been born
Had there been a mocking laugh.

That's how I began my poetic quest,
With her motivation and support.
This passion made a girl realize her zest
For the words she can't write in a report.