Thursday, 8 September 2011

To write


Write, write, write, we must
Else, who will tell the tale?

A possession it is, a muse divine,
Blessing blind poets with nocturnal visits
And to us poetasters,
Only a passing grace.

Wednesday, 7 September 2011

Say If


When all the angst
Of teenage rage is at rest,
And very adult ‘affairs’ through
Perhaps a worldly ‘sanity’ will follow:
The ones they call domesticity
And death.

A few twists, here and there,
Say: If the ugly cityscape
Had offered less scenic views;
Or, if we hadn’t held sacred beliefs
In myths like god and such;
If breathless desperation
Was not called lustful names
Like love; then
Perhaps, a conventional choice and
‘A lifetime of happiness’,
Would be embedded
In the twisted lines of our fates too,
Now diverging
Like railway tracks trailing away
Different journeys.
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