Saturday, June 23, 2012

Light and Dark

Your light pulls me,
Your light pulls me
like a morning ray
making its way through
a tiny crack in an iron door

Your light pulls me
But then, also,
or even more so,
Your darkness pulls me
For the places in the deep
trenches of your mind,
where you are afraid to go
make you as much
as does your light

As a day, incomplete
without her night
Never fully meeting
But always softly kissing hellos
and goodbyes

So I write this,
In the name of your darkness
as much as your light
Light that fills me
Darkness that makes me plunge
Only to return
As a day after her night

- Neha

Saturday, June 16, 2012

(Poem #1370) Ask to Embla, XIII

 They say that women change: 'tis so: but you
 Are ever-constant in your changefulness,
 Like that still thread of falling river, one
 From source to last embrace in the still pool
 Ever-renewed and ever-moving on
 From first to last a myriad water-drops
 And you -- I love you for it -- are the force
 That moves and holds the form.

- A S Byatt  (fictionally attributed to "Randolph Henry Ash" in "Possession")

Papa With A White Beard

Papa with a white beard 
Unshaven and un-unbrazen
For the first time in years
That must be his way to rebel
Against the silent atrocities of life
A life he never spoke about much to her

The door of the room she sleeps in

has been opened by a stranger
to let some fresh air in,
"There are fresh pancakes here!", someone calls out

It is only her dream, y

Yet, she has been to this place before

Long been absent though
And now everyone has gone
Strangers fill the house from her past
The house where she was once a frequent visitor
Only papa remains

People are urging him to shave

his long white beard
He looks like an old movie hero she remembers
He is still in the bed, he has given a resignation
to all worries that worried him all his life
She wakes up in her dream

A dream within a dream

She goes to his room

She says papa I understand
You don't have to shave if u dont want to
Papa blinks his eyes in his feeble state
As if to say, "I know you understand" 
She feels like crying in her dream
Her throat fills up in real
A tiny drop touches her pillow

She wishes she had gone home more often, 

called more often
But it was too painful
A very long short distance
Like between Papa's long white beard
and his eyes 
His cataract treated eyes
now filled with a distant peace 
Peace that eluded him in life

- Neha

Sunday, June 10, 2012

A Poem Suspended In Air

She wrote a poem
suspended in air,
She was suspended
in a plane in air,
As was her poem
in her mind in clouds in air.
The plane went down in air
The poem with it in air
Suspended in air

- Neha

Sunday, June 03, 2012


"You see, I want a lot.
Maybe I want it all:
the darkness of each endless fall,
the shimmering light of each ascent.

- Rainer Maria Rilke

The Lightest Touch

Good poetry begins with
the lightest touch,
a breeze arriving from nowhere,
a whispered healing arrival,
a word in your ear,
a settling into things,
then like a hand in the dark
it arrests the whole body,
steeling you for revelation.

In the silence that follows
a great line
you can feel Lazarus
deep inside
even the laziest, most deathly afraid
part of you,
lift up his hands and walk toward the light.

  -- David Whyte from Everything is Waiting for You

Friday, June 01, 2012

Bottled Up

I am a daughter of nature
meant to flow, quench, rise, fall
all in the arms of nature
Nature where I came from
Nature where my days will end in

But you captured me.
You captured me in an industrial complex
There is a reason it is called a "complex"
Because nothing about it is simple
Nothing like the nature of which I was born

It is not restrain that I mind
For my name is water
I am always within boundaries -
boundaries defined by nature

Sometimes a waterfall hitting the edge of a mossy rock
Sometimes a soft lullaby in between the two banks of a river
The two river banks that never meet except through my whispers
My soft lapping whispers about what one had told me to tell another

It is not restraint I mind
But it is the nature of this restraint that I mind
For I am no longer plain water
I am now married to this bottle

And unlike women who take family names of their husbands
I have not become Water Bottled.
No. I have taken your name as my first
And you a plastic bottle
Grandson of industrial revolution
Son of petrochemical

I will be gulped down by strangers right under your nose
Some thirsty throat I will quench in front of your eyes
And recycled as life is meant to be.
It is not me that I cry for
For I was born to quench

Nature where I came from
Nature where my days will end in..

But I cry for you. I cry tears of myself
I cry so much that my throat is dry
But I am water
and where does water go to quench its thirst?

So I cry some more in silence of your chemical walls.
For what will become of you?
You a plastic bottle
You "bottled" of bottled water
My bottled half

What will become of you?
You will end up in a mountain of urban waste
or make a waste of a scenic nature trail somewhere
A ghost of your packaged self once sold on supermarket shelves
Stuck in these complex waste footsteps of your forefathers
- never knowing the liberation of being gulped down to be born again

And that breaks my liquid heart, dear plastic bottle

So let's summon your creator
Let's ask him to recycle, regenerate you
Regenerate you so our world may not degenerate
So that you too might find a release

I am bottled up but have gathered up the courage
Courage to speak up my heart
And this speaking is the relief that I hope you will find
A relief in a new world where your life is not a bottled waste.

With unquenched love,