Dear Glacier

Dear Glacier,

Heaven give me the sweet poison 
dare if I stop you.
Sweet poison 
distilled from the morning dew on angel's bosom
care if I touch you.
Man is not a man
lest his dry hand
adhere with your cold manifestation crystalline
and pleasure the shock so sublime
to freeze the manliness in your spine.
And then let us dine.
You serve to devour 
and I bring some wine. 
And let me move and take a chance. 
Let me be ever rambling like your unstoppable dance. 
And I will trade an inch for a tick.
So puzzle me and treat me a trick.
Are you a beauty or time ?
Your ceaseless shifting with grace divine.
And how can you be a poet's muse?
Killing the artist in cold 
leaving the death to amuse.
And that grim reaper left awestruck 
cursed with the poet's luck
For he knows not that this divine daughter
turns even a stone into a poet 
with a sight of her chilly slaughter 
Then put a wager on me and see me rhyme
So I can gamble with you and succumb to your crime 
And let me perish and pay 
a visit to heaven if I may
Then I will enjoy that sweet poison 
with the ticks I traded
And greet you again some summer
warm and faded.

~ Poet's note: " Timeless beauty " is an oxymoron ~

Quartz

Quartz

The quartz rattles, strapped in leather

They say tis’ getting warm, not the weather

The wicker rocks on the Venetian Waltz

A cradle not of child but a bygone quartz

What a pity to be born; what a shame to die

What a pleasure to pen this on a bourbon high

Pleasure it is my friend, to listen the quartz fly

Between the first cry and last sigh

In this ward of life, the visitors are the seasons

Wishing you false hope with rains of reasons

They greet you in turns

Placing on the side table, their fruits and flowers

Pineapples in snow and oranges in showers

But alas my friend

This salt and pepper head is too seasoned

For technicolour radio and age of the reasoned

To ye fresh flesh charioteers I say

Think of me not what I may

Wheels of quartz run those chariots you ride

Ever rambling, ever moving forward, an unstoppable tide

Waits for none, carries but itself, regardless of effort you make

The tracks it leaves behind is the only thing you may take

And soon the tracks be gone and chariot out of sight

Out of mind will depart the mind and itself from itself might

Crooked nihilist, I am not, of what you think I may

Walk those tracks while ye may, is all I have to say

The humble snail leaves behind

What Parisians in Gauloises find

A lustrous track of drunken blood

Of misfit meals and the generation flood

What happened to those who made it happen

The flattening soda and  rock n roll autumn

What of the lost souls that are no longer lost

Found in niches like ice in frost

The harvest of season past

Shall mock the shiny seeds at last

And yet the farmer reaps on so fine

So that a distant table in peace can dine

So, dear friend, I am here to say

Befriend the scythe and unrecalled hay

Epochs pass like night and day

But the jingle of quartz is here to stay

Eventide

Sunset (or eventide) is one of the most beautiful gifts of nature. This poem is an empathy of Sunset. It objectifies Sunset as an entity which feels for a human sitting under a chestnut tree. There are certain strings attached between humans and sunset. On human end of the string we find sunset  comforting and beautiful. On the other end of string the Sunset finds.....  

Defeated maybe I; yet I caress thee 

Drowning in this bottomless line; just like thou painted me  

As I intertwine with this century old chestnut tree 

By which thou art resting solitary  

I touch this nature’s furrowed paw 

And feel a century of scars on this wooden scree.  

As I embrace this grassy nature’s skin 

Unto which thou art resting solitary 

I get a sensation so akin 

As infinite blades of grass fit in infinite pores of my skin  

Defeated maybe I; yet I caress thee

Entity of past will be I soon; leaving behind this gentle golden sea

  

And yet in thee I find nothing to feel 

As I stroke thy skin and everything underneath 

What enigmatic broth doth thy soul conceal? 

Which my placid touch is unable to heal

  

Amongst the familiar voices, a whisper of air thou art 

Reticent to the pathos is thy alienated heart  

And yet I glide towards thee for intangible reasons  

As I perceive in thee a thousand summer seasons

   

Defeated maybe I; yet I caress thee 

I am defeated every day and yet I can never foresee

  

Thou gaze at me as if thou art breathing me 

As thy lungs get filled with my soothing gleam 

Solitude has hollowed thy soul as I caress thee 

I can feel thy presence as feeble as a fleeting dream 

Though thy presence be void unlike grass and chestnut tree 

But this eternal pact with solitude will set you free 

And now, I am defeated by dusk and farewell I bid thee 

This solitary air dissolves you as the horizon dissolves me 

- Salil Bhat

A Solitary God

On 8^th December 1982, the Nobel Prize committee paid tribute to an eternal masterpiece, without an equal on earth, One Hundred Years of Solitude. It was a literary diamond that shone like no other and whose brightness would blind the sun itself. It was a literary sorcery that was beyond the measure of man and beyond the calibration of time and space. But, who on earth, less than a God, could possibly conjure up such a divine creation, except for the God himself.

It was indeed a God, lurking in solitude, and turning each word into Gold. This living Philosopher’s Stone was named Gabriel García Márquez. Gabo, as he was affectionately called, was a Colombian novelist who introduced the world a genre called “Magic Realism”. It is a genre in which it becomes difficult to distinguish between fantasy and reality. This made Gabo a true magician in all aspects. His magic left the entire universe spell-bound and especially Latin Americans who credit him for giving them back their history.

There are times when we say “I am speechless”, “I have no words”, “I can’t describe”, etc. Gabriel García Márquez found words for these expressions. Gabriel García Márquez found words, lines, paragraphs and metaphors for things which were otherwise impossible to describe. In his writings, he forced upon the readers, the wonder and extravagance of life.  His work is considered to be written even before the world was created and written to such a perfection that weighed every a single comma. Just one book of Marquez sold more than thirty million copies and was translated into thirty-seven languages across the world. This obstinate story-teller explored the theme of “Solitude” which made his books an exploration into solitude of an individual and solitude of humankind as a society.

Gabriel García Márquez died on 17^th April, 2014. On this day Columbia’s President declared an official three day mourning in the memory of, as described by him, “the greatest Columbian who ever lived”. But his immortal legacy lives on beyond time and space. People will cherish his Magnum Opus forever just like they have been cherishing before. His greatest works include One Hundred Years of Solitude, Love in The time of Cholera and other short stories. Even in future, when entire human race would be reduced to monotonous dust, his writings would continue to live on.

Gabriel García Márquez, an alchemist of words, through his books, gave readers the feeling of swinging into a hammock, having a peaceful siesta and daydreaming of fantasies till it becomes impossible to separate them from mundane reality and till it becomes a single solitary act of celebrating life.   

Wanderlust

Wanderlust

A multitude of voices have perished singing that passionate song.

For what passion fruit, O’ traveler, doth thy tongue long?

From what blessed land hath thou come and what is thy name?

This land is so rotten that it will put rotting to shame.

Utter the name of the beloved which thy soul doth seek.

Thou art the only beloved mortal ever to walk on this arenaceous clique

What is to be bought and what is to be sold?

This land hath never heard even the whisper of gold.

Cursed air and damned sand art the only things it doth behold.

Name the Lordly Majesty thou serve

Who hath commissioned thee unto this desolate turf

Beseech Her Majesty to abort thy duty and avoid the curse

This lodging serveth a destiny worse than that of a serf

What thou covet upon this unfortunate land?

What art thou looking for in this vicious sand?

This is a dicey affair; I desire thee know the stake

“BEAUTY” was the only word the eccentric traveler thus spake.

- SALIL BHAT

Your face is a Poem

Your face is a poem that ripped my soul apart,

Your laugh is an unpredictable storm

That shakes me

Body and soul.

To you, I offer the best in me,

To you I open the windows of my heart.

Your winds seized every part in me,

Every vein, every drop of blood.

You are the melody of my existence,

That tainted my melancholy with an everlasting beauty.

- by Amira Aloui

Words are the most common form of magic. A writer or poet is the magician. Books are the magic shows. And do you know what's the secret behind the magic trick? It is Coffee.

If you are fond of books and love to drink coffee then there's nothing else like Classics ʚïɞ  (click on it for best results )

Winter Lessons

Winter is the season to learn. A simple walk in the garden during winter can teach lessons of life. 

There are some flowers that bloom only during winter. They are so beautiful that you wish that they should bloom throughout the year. But this is not in your control. No matter how hard you try, the flowers will bloom only when their time comes. We should realize this and accept that the things are never under our control. Things will happen when time is right. And in the words of Kabir :

"Dheere Dheere Re Mana, Dheere Sub Kucch HoyeMali Seenche So Ghara, Ritu Aaye Phal Hoye"

("Slowly slowly O mind, everything in own pace happens
Gardener may water with a hundred pots, fruit arrives only in its season.")

Sometimes you will notice that flowers would bloom only on warmer days of winter and would cease to be on colder days. These flowers are immortal. They never die. They never cease to exist forever. They manifest themselves when conditions are right and cease to be when conditions are not. And such is our soul, immortal. It never dies. It manifests itself when the conditions are right. There is not point in weeping over loss of loved ones. They shall manifest themselves again. 

Such is the season of Winter. It teaches so many things. It shows us the pattern of changes. It makes us realize the irreplaceable role our Sun plays. Every sunrise brings new hope. A hope of rebirth. A hope that things will manifest soon. It reminds of that song by The Beatles

"Here comes the sun, here comes the sun

And I say it's all right

Little darling, it's been a long cold lonely winter

Little darling, it feels like years since it's been here

Here comes the sun, here comes the sun

And I say it's all right

Little darling, the smiles returning to the faces

Little darling, it seems like years since it's been here."