Your presence,
Is a dance without a hymn,
A ballad without a bend,
a winter without an end:
where I curl up by the fogged glasses
to forget the warmth, sun offered me once.
The bright of your eyes are the shy autumn and mysterious fall.
Your absence,
Is a sigh without despair,
A rain without the air,
A summer with ominous ends:
My smile sometimes pretends.
For time becomes a path,
and journey is measure in memories.
I become a monk and a thief,
looking for peace, settling for grief.
The city lights of November,
after walking you home —
I will remember them,
As much as I’d like to forget.
It never stopped raining,
Never.
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.
float sublimely,
for there is no ground beneath the toes today.
The white verandah delves a sight
as you move untouched eclipsed by warm fingertips.
the water shall soon forget itself,
it has no memory of your existence.
White voids and bright wine.
melanchony’s cocktail : a melodious blur
beneath a bright but dusty chandelier,
We have nothing to break
our silence escaped through the white windows.
we retire,
listening to the winds
and sipping some wine,
rehearsing
our exits from one-another,
our exits from ourselves,
our exits from our pasts.
Like the waters in Greece,
blue, succulent , tapered into viscous curves
stay now, don’t leave.
This sigh reinvents itself more warmly,
sensing your departure.
Let me dream of it as you disappear,
The bed with white linen reminding us
of our flesh embellishing our existence.
A touch is what remains etched on my eyes.
Somehow now unseen, untouched.
What would the yellow kiss of sunlight greet?
A smile made of dreams?
Or dreams devoured off smiles.
The plants exhale hues of tamarind,
warm green tea succors the seperation,
In my wake,
I am next to a bottle of our emptiness.
I should have drowned when you stared me last night.
Her whispers turned into subtle moans.
The breathe turned warmer and warmer.
Her nails dug deep into the back.
As each inch of the curve is felt by bare cold hands.
She just cannot wait for the climax now.
The lust will spread within her,
With every thrust.
This will be the end and beginning
of the wet warm climax she deserves.
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
Writings to Heaven 