The Poetic Meanders

A Girl in another City

In another city, a girl,

Whose hair caress her pretty face

When the breeze trespasses gently

Her soul, then in a soft embrace,

Nestles her in its entirety;

She must be sitting at the bay

Now, in that another city

Which - what a pity, is far away.

In another city, a girl,

Whose fingers fidget with the hemline

Of her coat, awaits her flight home.

She’s melancholy, but is “Fine”

When someone asks her how she's doing;

Her suitcase hates the delay,

It lies morbid in the lobby

Which - what a pity, is far away.

In another city, a girl,

Whose coffee has gone from strong to stale

Is pondering at the spectrum

Up in the sky, thinking it'll fail

To persist like the one she saw

Ages ago that rainy day,

In that valley - her second home

Which - what a pity, is far away.

In another city, a girl,

Whose mind is currently confused

Between two voices and choices

She's to make, that she has refused

To make up until now, but time

Has held her prisoner this day

Inside tenuous walls in a world,

Which - what a pity - is far away.

Understanding Ms. Understanding

I had the greatest fortune of

Gaining the rich acquaintance of

One difficult Ms. Understanding:

Punctuality notwithstanding,

She was as lovely as, well..

Whatever that is you marvel

At. So not further digressing

I'll begin my tale - depressing

To the sympathetic soul that

Asks random people "What you're at?"

And thus gains naught and loses naught.

But hear my story out you ought.

So, Ms. Understanding and I, we

Met for coffee, having eluded the

Other's company for a while

In the past, by kindness or guile.

The evening soon set; we talked

All through the distance that we walked,

And I didn't complain when she left

About how I would be bereft

After Ms. Understanding's farewell,

And she didn't guess what I didn't tell.

Problem? - The Miss is situated

Far from where she can be dated.

That's not all, because if it was,

Then this poem I pen would be dross.

The Miss, to believe her missive,

Has problems of which she's dismissive.

Thus the circle of reason closes,

What I propose, She disposes,

And what she won't tell, I won't guess,

For sake of prudence, I won't press.

Anyway, it seems like the Miss

Understanding understands this

Business of mind over the heart

Better than me. What a good start

To what, to-what-end, for-what, no

One will now ever think or know.

If she ever in life looks back,

Ms. Understanding will find her track,

I'll pray, without marks of too much

Of looking back in her life, such

Is the goodbye message the lady

Will not receive; silence, you see,

Works both ways, and what you don't know

Doesn't hurt you. Neither does it show.

Apart, soon, work will keep us aloof,

And you'll choose what will serve as proof

Of how we let time take its bend,

For now and forever - The End.

Hola on an Ola

I thank a monoglot Ola driver, Bangalore's dense traffic and a great young couple for this. In increasing order, definitely.

While on the long cab ride

Back from my dear cousin's,

I thought for once more about life,

Spurred by said relation and his wife.

I thought hard about my choices -

Those in the past and those ahead,

How I've never known what I've wanted,

How I've become a nowhere man instead.

So, all this mental senescence

(Waiting, wondering and weighing),

Led me to some clarity about

How far from clarity I'm straying.

Perhaps at twenty-three, it's not too late

To start things from scratch, all over again.

All you gotta do is read Kip's 'If', then
Rediscover, and reinvent your plan.

You recur in dreams I dream with closed eyes,
Making the past pass without the slightest
Of qualms. Your arm holds my arm, your head tries
To rest upon my shoulder; with the best
Sundown in front of us, you, eyes gleaming,
Part your lips in vain to enunciate words,
I don’t know to what purpose, what meaning.
I don’t want to know. The hour’s late, the birds
Return now to their homes, so let’s to ours.
End my day with the silence of your breath.
Sleep, for me it’s a matter of some hours,
Sleep, for the dawn brings my dream’s death.

The Poetic Meanders