Presence

 An auburn sky of yesterday,

and those 24 drops of rain that fell,
spawned an eager lemon tree,
prickles and peanuts on my shelves.

A lazy monsoon today,
of those 24 drops of rain that fell,
trickles down my teaks,
as a hurrying catabatic makes way through.

Suspended in 12 minutes of fame, and 12 of despair,

A still silent world of mine lost in itself,

The impatient sand dunes cajole themselves out,

Through my reluctant hourglass,

Air tight dreams dribbling inside.

Long away, A mild breeze somewhere  finds itself.

-Palash

October'2013, Lumding

Slashed!

Take a Someone.

Take an Eric Clapton. 9 times of 10, You’ll cry like never before.
Take a Jimi Hendrix. 9 times of 10, You’ll feel high like never before.

Take a Jimmy Page. 9 times of 10, you’ll feel your head banging like never before.

Now take him.

10 times of 10 (yeah, even for those half dead morons who didn’t understand Page, Clapton or Jimi), one wouldn’t know what hit them in the first place! He’ll sear and slice through you, like knife through butter, like a bullet through a heart.

What was a whole of you before,  will only be a part of you after. Everything else will be slashed away. Nothing will matter apart from the thing, whatever that is.

You’ll keep wishing there actually were no words left to speak, because all that would suddenly seem to be so grossly unnecessary. He would go on wailing and wailing, on top of pianos, makeshift stages, and barren church fronts. With each piece, a part of you would feel more and more alive, and more and more desperate all the same. It will reach a crescendo, peaking at the highest of notes that can be beckoned, and it will not fall down that easy too.

The wails will fight. With each other, and then with their end. They will die, but they will not give up.

Ever!

That will be the day, you’ll wake up to that one emotion.

That will be the day, you’ll wake up to Slash!

-Palash

September’2013, Lumding.

Visions of a father

An odd irritation crawls up from somewhere behind, and decides to settle in the back of my neck. 

 

I am in a void. Not bored, not exited, not up to anything at all, but oscillating somewhere in space and in time. Blaring horns of the Locos nearby are somehow lacking in confidence. Unsure of themselves and their audience, they pass by without being heeded. 

No Lizard ticks, No owls hoot. No music in the phones or the mind. 

The clock inside though, ticks on unabated. Where it will end, is a question that question itself can’t offer any answers to. I have infinity in front of me, and a sheer wall on my back. 

Tired of thinking, I let loose. The silence gets additive. I dwell in such regions of my mind I never knew existed.

I see the Man. Chocolate Brown Leathers. Havana Cigars. Piercing eyes. Wild, mad temperament lurking behind a silent exterior, waiting to be provoked, and justice to be delivered. Reclining in an ease of moral evil. And an offer that can’t be refused.

I see the Godfather.

 I see Al Pacino.

A Sceptic Eye

Consciousness,

Shattered to pieces,

never can come,

Together enough,

To love you once again,

Like before.

It rains,

like yesterday,

But the drops aren’t transparent anymore.

To you I’d written,

An Ode,

In mismatch poetry,

Stashed now between the bills,

Of two forgotten tea cups,

In a cheap restaurant,

Somewhere,

Someplace.

Confused,

In puddles of unaddressed drizzles,

I look up to the hills hidden in the fog,

All smug and happy,

And let my sun dry them away.

The clock races now,

To a fitting end in infinity.

I decide to spend my time well,

Designing a funeral for all the words knocking at my door.

Two heartbeats away,

A blind sweeper,

scoops our tea bills,
My poetry,
Our past,

and perhaps my life,

Into a new beginning,

Of an end.

-Palash

August’2013, Lumding.

The Sound of Jimi Hendrix

 Inadequate.

Yes, that’s how one feels. A tearing blues guitar, twaings and twoings, digging inside your emotions. There is a tad roughness to it, an unpolished beauty, everlasting . One begins to wish the lyrics never begin, for the Guitar speaks and screams to such volumes that no mortal has ever been able to put into words. And perhaps never will be.

The Sound of Jimi Hendrix.

He was a mere 27 when he reached for the stars and more. And we remain the inadequate mortals. To comprehend even a piece of his creation, perhaps would take many such infinite lifetimes. 

I could never make out his accent or his lyrics the first time. I let the missed words remain misunderstood. The notes however did not miss me. Drawn into a rising wave, helpless and out of control, I let him take over. How high, or How Low I stooped, I did not notice. It was just a searing emotion that had let go from the Blues Guitar!

Yes Baby!

-Palash

August’13, Lumding