To write about you,
Is it to dream about a song.
The humming of your voice
Is a symphony sometimes.
Do you see my heart dancing
In all the flames you set within me?
Do you feel the warmth that brews
within me, as the echo of your voice
slithers into my soul.
If you are the music,
then teach me to dance,
alone, unapologetically, forever.
Just once.
Let me paint this visual for your eyes, It is a lazy laid back warm afternoon, the verandahs are still your only quinessntial medium of communication with world and people outside without stepping out of the comfort of your home. A glance from a verandah to another is an invitation in silence, it is a language of intimation with eyes. This weather draws families to this pod for every human is a social animal.Over tea or coffee with snacks, discussions brew within and outside the family and they ususally end there itself. They revolve around the upcoming world cup or the local elections, few people discuss markets and some pupils dilate at such whisperings. Mostly it is the gossip that survives a session, the potpurri of happenings around the society or sometimes the world is where the aroma of excitement never dies within one room but spreads from house to house. It was a time when thoughts had a very little chance in becoming a idea that grips a nation overnight.
Things have changed dramatically, technology whose purported meaning was to make life easier has now engaged societies, people or even nations at scales unimaginable. Every single thought now has the capabilitiy of become an idea. No matter good or bad or worse. With the means of communication at our fingertips, is the conscious movement of people driven by an idea tearing down the social constructs of “individualistic decisions and its sole consequences”? In simpler words, do we still have the capacity to originate an original idea and stand by it ? Or even better, do we have the time even to sit and gauge the idea that is being pushed down our throats? Can we like old times, sleep over a perception, or research over an idea? Is the entire construct of developing ideas and perception has been affected by the huge unavoidable influx of social commentary driven by humans drunk on an Idealogy?
In a time, where the definition of freedom is debated, can we debate the individualistic freedom of making self driven decisions? It is almost ironical that this is a social commentary, another idea pushed down by a social means but there is no end to this circle. I would sleep over this off, Its a weekend, let it be like that.
Shashank Bhardwaj
It has been a long time since I have penned down something quite originial in this blog. There has been a lot of thoughts that have been going through my head seeing this world change. There is an uneasiness as to how things are unfolding, I have started my shift from poetry to non-fiction writings. Now I am trying my best to craft them into comprehensible and readable thoughts worth pondering upon. Its time to relapse to writing again. Time to end the drought.
Meanwhile here is the picture of some recently brought books.
Shashank Bhardwaj
A red sky,
dissolves in blue
the sun’s hue
turns to a dripped nectar.
The leaves do not wither,
The soil is never dry.
The air smells like
someone I knew,
It was a dream,
too good to be true.
you are most beautiful
when you sleep–
when the coffee-toned notes of your skin
brew a silent language.
while your lips are too tired to doubt my eyes
the dark mist of your breath trickles down my neck
I wait, staring unwaveringly.
outside there is a trail of rain,
drop by drop , this wind whispers
from the willow’s cage.
moonlight traverses the silence between us
every pause is sedimentary,
the longest distance between us tonight
is a raging river, its depth
a soft silver sea.
come : dissolve, disappear, dissociate,
a distance is only a measure,
when eyes can see.
when we submit ourselves
to absence of light :
these voices become unending images.
the moss by the window grows up
presumptuous contentment ferments itself.
This air is magically much lighter today
I remember this forgotten dream
where each rain drop
becomes a spiraling sigh of someone I knew.
Searching for my heart,
I scramble in linen white bedsheets,
my eyes rummage the room for a mirror
for this face must be a void :
an artist’s regretful hallucination
a dreamer’s revered loss.
We smile the best,
when the mind’s eye forgets the face.
I should settle for a second slumber
to grin like a Cheshire cat,
the sky turns murderous grey
a lovely occasion? Isn’t it?
This pandemic has made us work more than before, so for the sake of comfort I revamped my Writing/Work Setup. A mini office for the mini accomplishments .
Writings to Heaven 