The First Poem : Chapter 1

A poet recites the untold tales of nature, where science fails to penetrate but a philosophical imagination is able to emote what the lifeless creation would otherwise project. This narrative arose centuries ago, when the humans were young and language was no means but only signs were a distinct feature used to survive in a world that was yet to see the wonders of this species.

He was staring at the moon when he got an idea; something that was going to change the lives of these wanderers was incepted even before the words to describe it could form. A young lyricist, writing a song without the means but only with the power of expression, thought within, and what followed was a conception of something beautiful.

He presented on a stone, all the emotions he had, imagine the depth they were eclipsed inside him over the years as never arrived but were waiting to breathe the air. When others of his age hunted he expressed the pain he felt while the deer laid in cold blood, in the winters around the fire the lightening intrigued him and he wished to know more of it but no one allowed him to go near.

He didn’t realize then, a society of questioning was emerging, features that will take his kind to places that were thought to be forbidden then. So, as he finishes the last expression of the first verse he wondered what others will say about it.

The first poem was the truth that the man can write, all the urges in its raw form, not without the influence of anything around, not without the fear of anything any pronouncement was omitted or added, not without anyone to censor, but with the confidence of thoughts and ideas which drew the painting of the real essence of the human soul as it was untouched by anything else then, the presentation was such that from its birth to all the occurrences, the man knew the truth of its existence and that sincerity was woven into this scripture by this very person who was unable to carry the burden of thoughts inside and flourished all the intuitions in this first of its’ type art.

When the others read it, they were terrified; watching themselves on the mirror and humanity faced its first actual threat: its own true image. They were habituated to hide it, to run away from it, the shadow was never to be seen by the same eyes and this implied rule was broken by someone who was amateur to understand the lies his fellow beings have built to survive.

So when the reality is unmasked what proceeds is anger, which in its earliest form was brutal as they tied this anxious man who inked the first melody of humanity and threw him in the darkest place of town, what would come to be the prison for such kind.

[To Be Continued…]


I watched the metal flow

I watched the metal flow at a high temperature, in its melted form and with the color of fire, loosing everything it was to the exposure of an extreme environment much like the boy trying to look smart only to woo the eyes of a stranger but not for himself.

Many continue to stay here, making it the easiest way of existence, to consume the ink of others and destroy the painter inside of oneself and failing to stand behind the rebels of nature.

The liquid metal is then devoid of it’s impurities as the pressure from the surrounding drops, that part of the age when a person faces himself, when the fear of the world decreases and an ability to rise develops.

There is a another lady who designs herself for the soothing of her own self, this is when the phase of the metal changes, the dawn of the steel begins and the point when it realises it’s shade and forgets that of the fires’.

Here comes the agitator, the one ready to summon the norms, rewrite the system that is flawed, paint the beautiful flower with the tone of darkness but alone it is for the world still dissolved in the first phase and a dilemma arises.

The question whether to join the arena or to script a new story, knowing a day would come when all the mutineers’ work would be judged as a myth, when the hardship would end up as a tale of a forgotten legend and the society would continue as it is.

He still, will fight his way throughout as to go by the customs is not in it’s will because he knows it is the steel that is used not the liquid metal which forgets it’s own self in the pressure of a burning surface.

A date with the devil

Growing up in an orthodox tree, always lonely she used to be, a day in her age of teens, when the sun rose, a rebel fruit arose. Entered the prince whose taste was sweet: it even made the honey on the tree look weak. He showed her a dream, where the roses don’t grow up in the dirt, where the sun and the moon together flirt. In the beginning she ignored it as a false belief, but as alone as she was even a myth was like a relief.

She left her place to discover the unseen, as the bushes around wished her farewell; in a hurry she ignored them, showing how much she was keen. While living there, she remembered the stories the leaves told her, the adventures of a strong lady they were. Her excitement was at the peak of that mountain she always stared, maybe she be the muse of those tales that is why so much for them she cared.

“Where are those fields of joy? The steep where the horrors end, the hill made of feathers, where the desert is replaced by the sea, and the windmills breeze poetry, where is the world you promised to show me?” she said to him, but not merely words these were, but painting of life for her. “Oh my sweet butterfly, everything I quoted is true, it’s hidden in my feelings for you, and I can see our picture on the clouds and even in the street, being together is for us the destiny’s treat.”

She was new to the idea of love, always hidden in her parent’s shelter like a sweet little dove, the society taught her not to stand alone, a day would come when her family would be gone, she would need someone then and in front of her with a proposal stands a young man.

“I don’t understand”, the only sentence she could find and with instinct he said, “I assure you my affection will never decrease, I came when you were sad, in a place which was bad, I gifted you your freedom, all I ask is to hold my hand, forever we both shall dance in this sand.”

As she was going to smile at him, whispered a voice only she could hear, “don’t go with him my dear”, the sound struck her like a latent cheer, something she desperately wanted to hear. It was her soul speaking, weeping the tears of water, as the salt had disappeared, it was the hard work that brings them but her path ahead was easy.

“An age to embrace your talent, all you discover is an excuse of hiding it, he maybe your moral support someday but no matter how much you try, a tree without its own root fall in a loud cry. You have to fight the horrors in the steep, to paint the fields of joy, so that your feathers could decorate a hill and on your own can you ink the windmills poetry, only after you realize the beauty of the desert and the toughness of the sea”.

She smiled with a no and ran away, he shouted “you cannot survive without me”, and thus with the phrase, the devil removed the mask he was hiding in.

The drowning city

I remember my foot rubbing over the sand, as I run my way to laughter, dissolved in the beach atmosphere and the sound of the waves giving music to my song. With mud all over me I walk out of the nice picnic to pack things back home and as I look behind, the giant sea teaches me a lesson, huge like an empire but its essence comes out on its small coast were people have the time of their life, on a small port, this beach is like that lake in the mountain which flows like a string of joy throughout…

A decade has now elapsed and I come to the shore to revisit the old moments that I painted with my childhood here but what I see is a disappointment. Appears that the empire is now expanding and the first thing it takes is its own soul, water has come to walls and there are group of people trying to harden it, avoiding it to come to the road…

No more the kids build castles here nor the balloon sellers woo them anymore, juice shop on the verge has been shifted as the thirst of the water has increased, the ice cream vendors have moved away and the winters are now shorter, swimming is now prohibited so the sun now shines more brighter, my childhood is somewhere inside, maybe with those sea pearls whose stories we used to here or the mermaids are keeping it safe from the pirates…

As the city drowns, along with it everything I learn from it goes away, it’s the roar of the nature which have been bled by man’s knowledge, it’s the hunger of the ocean that have been increased by human greed, it’s the loss of the man whose intelligence got the best of him, and it’s the death of the combined creativity that made this beautiful town of which what would remain would be inside me and the thousands who grew up here…

Those Days…

Shining were those days where every step the foot took, tattooed itself on the sand that faces the enormous sea,     only to be erased by the emotional outcry of the waves, a spectacle for the visitors around though…

In the teens I was and my philosophies kissed the skies, an age of irony where the simplest things like the Pythagoras theorem were visualized as the complexities of Fourier and Darcy…

Ice cream was very sweet then, but the salt irritated me, guilty I was but it were the parents who wronged me, shouting was my sword, though the neck it cut was mine, tears were acceptance of defeat as victory was never in sight…

A look behind, flashes the things I learn and the ones I continue to as some cultivated habits still plague me with their presence but the nostalgia that comes along with their existence, reminds of the child deep down I still am…

There were flavors to things and now it’s all grey, words were spontaneous then unlike the present time as today everything spoken is analyzed before showing it the light of the world…

The momentum of joy came with friends, faces I may never see again, distanced like two stars in vicinity once but now galaxies apart, though they were destined to be as those days were deemed to end, those days were the first sunlight of the morning, the most beautiful and closer glance to life…

The era of mask

We all wear a mask, to hide the real ourselves with different reasons but we all wear it. Some masks are dark and the world doesn’t bother to see whether there is a light beneath it or not, some are shining with glitters and everyone loves them, forgetting that even poison comes in the color of nature.

The question here is the reason hidden behind this phenomenon, for some it is because they are afraid, a fear of being a laughing stock, on what people will think about them, just agreeing to the opinion of the group and keeping your opinions salient, even after a time the latent heat fails to help the process.

For many it is to hide the true intentions, few give excuse of painting the truth behind a lie for other person’s happiness, some are frightened to face it, I chose the latter because at least they have accepted their fears unlike the former who have become habituated of backing a wrong with an excuse.

I wish I never had to dress with it, let the air touch my true face, let everyone see me with eyes of honesty and I don’t hesitate to face billions outside without a blink, let me be the butterfly flying in the garden, the sun brightening out aloud, the river making a huge cry around, let my noise get a vacuum, suspending the forces of judgment, criticism and even praise but I always forget that a vacuum exists only in theory.

The Concept of Love

Poets cherish it, decorate it with synonyms, relate it with phenomenon’s around, the writers go in detail of it, make it look like a fairy tale, like a cake of emotions with a berry on top, the berry introduced in a way that every person wishes to go only for it. It’s like an ocean, with a salty taste everywhere but still an unending list of visitors desperate to swim inside; such is its magic… My tale of it begins with a complication, as more than one I have with me, each having its own concept…

There is one person who proclaims his affection by the show of strength, “will die for you”, sings the young man, inspired from some story he read some day, and smiles the lady hearing it, her joy is illuminated by the fearlessness of her Mr. Perfect, only ignoring the fact the person not understanding the importance of life would understand hers in future…

The other one believes in beauty being the epitome of the desire his emotions require, in the first glance he architects his life with her, barely knowing the name and goes on with the obsession calling it his everything, forgetting of what he has built so far of himself, what now remains of him is something even he can’t recognize, an addiction to alcohol and the world would write songs on him, starting a legacy of his concept that many on street will follow…

This one is not the roadside Romeo of every household but the rich man’s kid, his infatuation is defined by the amount spent in bringing a smile on his lady love, gifts he call them, many at times of no event, he says he progresses in her company, just like the shining city as the gutters and slums have been hidden somewhere inside, irony being a woman making money by selling her body for reasons unknown is defamed in the society…

There are some tales of it, not restricted between two individuals but go beyond to relations of life, every tale has a different meaning but the emotion associated has a same name, I wonder where do people fall, in love or in the concept of love, with every person having a different one…

Times change, so do we….

Disappointed I was, as my teacher yelled at me, disobeyed her for something, was a careless ignorant kid then who doesn’t even try arguing back to his favorite teacher. Years from then, today the professor just frowned at me, lightening up curses and arguments, only to wonder at which situation more mature I was, happier in the previous as here I head nowhere. Times change, alas so do we…

On roads I once used to run, carefree of the world, untouched by the what-others-think-of-me phobia, breathing peace and free happiness, holding my parents hand. Today the mirror tests me before setting out, as I walk my way out judging the world and myself around, but not with parents, neither I hold their hand like before, maybe to appear independent but conversely, it was before when freedom’s shadow was over me.

Enthusiastically I looked at my cousin’s phone, he didn’t give it to me and annoyed I was, neither he played with me, just busy on this mysterious box, I told myself then, would not give him mine when I’ll have one. Today I have one, with features that were never at that time, but now my little cousin is annoyed as I hardly spent minutes with him when he visits me, he won’t give me his phone when he’ll have his he cried while saying goodbye. Wish this disease don’t catch you like it caught me brother…

Every root grows into a tree, developing a strength of its own, being independent but here all that has grown is the appearance, as the irony of time tells me I was closer to a tree then while now even I am not aware of where I am going, time changes as it should but we change as the world around us, not as we should.

The Mysterious Woman

Some things always distracted me, not only while studying but even while playing, and I remember this woman in my childhood, who with her son used to walk over the park daily.

A bit elder than my mother, spectacles hiding the pain in her eyes, tied to be becoming white hair, and the half wrinkled face defined her personality, but the thing that I observed was her patience.

Her son a bit elder than me, disabled, travelled in wheel chair, loved the sound of our playing, he wished he could join us, always he would stare at us and ask her mother “Maa when will I play like them” in a vulnerable but firm voice her mother would reply “One day you will son” and his smile after hearing these words is something I’ll never forget.

Sometime after I moved on from the place and post ten years, when maturity was on me along with the pressure of a career to be made, for breathing my old days out I went to the park again, memories of innocent childhood had rolled over me all over again, a pleasant day it was coming out to be until when I saw that lady again and in the first glance I recognized her.

Siting in one corner of the park, alone, looking at the ground, wonder what the old lady was thinking, from somewhere I discovered about the death of his son some years back, living by her own since then, working in the day and later arriving to her son’s favorite place.

Wished I could go and talk to her but lacked the courage, had no words to speak about her misery, had no words to comment on the irony of life or irony of a women’s life, all her life she did everything for family’s happiness only to be left alone by her family in this world.

Staring The Stars

His focus was on that girl,

quietly sitting in a group of five,

few tables adjacent to him,

and her shining beautiful small eyes,

triggering the increase in male customers as they

usually do, but for him they were beyond the

beauty they presented.

He called it the feeling of curiosity,

something untouched by the myth of love,

ignored by the fiction of lust, and

forgotten by the hoax of infatuation,

as his only wished to enhance his interest in knowing

a bit more, about those stars below her forehead,

hypnotizing everyone like the clouds below the sky do,

maybe they reminded him of someone,

or maybe they don’t, at all.

Some figures are discovered only to remain as a mystery,

because always a fear inside restricts him,

fear of being termed as a stalker, being called just another

desperate attention seeking man,

so he silently finishes his tea,

packs a moment in his book of memories and leaves,

hoping the innocence of his staring is felt.