From roots that run on love and veins throbbing with the breath of a million sentimental poems grew our very own Methuselah Grand in its rugged ancientness Carrying secrets of Earth’s soul.
This is our clandestine habitat where you softly lay your head and feel my fingers run through an undergrowth of old fantasies We travelled this far not to die We evolved so we could survive.
Today marks the end of the #30days30poems #NaPoWriMo challenge. There were days when I did not feel like posting a poem, but I’m glad I persevered.
To everyone who read my poems and appreciated my efforts, a big hug of gratitude. Since today feels special, I’m sharing a poem that’s very close to my heart and one that made it to the anthology ‘Verses of Love’ published last month. This one is inspired by the grand, old Methuselah tree in California’s White Mountains which turned 4,853 years old this year.
I shall try to post frequently – though daily posts might be difficult – and hope that the few hearts that have found connection stay with me.
And now for a favourite song, but one that I haven’t listened to in a long, long time. Hope y’all like it.
I spend afternoons Bottling up your rhymes Into old vials of Guerlain So when empty nights come With all their dreariness I can spray the verses Onto my feathered pillow And drift into sweet sleep On a bed of your fragrant poetry.
Solitude sometimes becomes a presence; so real that you can almost touch it. Over 20 million people in this city and yet this eerie silence. Also, I’m running dangerously short on rhymes. So I turn to a song that is recommended like a magical potion for precisely such days. It is pure therapy. Nothing comforts my heart quite like this one. Hope it feels like a hug to you too.
I wake up with a thousand suns To the beats of your lovesong Unveiled, unabashed, I lay myself Like an offering at your altar Poems spill out of your eyes and lips With reverence I kiss those scriptures They say the ocean is very deep But I know a love that is deeper With sacred seeds we grew an Eden We are the keepers of its gate I believe this rare love is our destiny Oh darling is there a better fate?
It’s been four days now since I’ve stepped out of the house. So here I am slipping into reveries instead and listening to bird calls.
Speaking of lovesongs, the most vocal right now outside my window is the Indian Cuckoo because March to June is apparently its breeding season. Genghis’ ears are perked up all the time – with annoyance or intrigue, I can’t really tell.
We find ourselves trapped Within confines of little worlds “You take the bedroom desk”, I say “I’ll set myself up in the living room“.
We have become territorial Each careful not to spill over into The quiet room of the other.
The only sound comes from ribcages Faint flutterings of unfrequented hearts Flapping their rusty wings Nudging to find gaps in doors Waiting, waiting, to take flight.
After a day glued to the desk and trying to ignore the constant fluttering, what else would I write about?!
This poem has re-ignited my desire for a bird tattoo. I’ve had the design and location marked out for the longest time now. Some things just take time. But there is always hope. Here, listen to this one.
Out of the sirens might come the birdsong Out of the silence might come the lovesong….
The air is abuzz with longing too heavy to hold The same canopy of Copper Cods bright like gold And tiny rivulets flowing down my back. Even then, the days are alright, busy and bearable But the sorrow of a sunset brings me down. Tell me what to do with all the empty minutes And the disarray that you left behind How do I tidy it up? Beneath the sky of a warm and tender evening As the summer breeze comes through My only solace comes from knowing You are gazing at the Pink moon too.
Let us clutch at the tiniest consolations and find a way to smile. I cannot stress how rare, yet necessary connection is. Devoid of such attachments, all that we are left with is a vacuum.
Gazing at the moon and listening to Sinatra tonight, because the apartment building is sealed and I am trapped, when all I want is to fly to the moon. In other words…
Gone is the rousing The bracing of soul The movement of mind and body just by mere suggestions. Like plasma carrying water, salt, passion where it was needed. The lack now obvious on sheets and paper where my veins incessantly bleed.
Genghis, the cat, is curled up on the couch – peaceful, as if nothing can go wrong with the world. The season in my soul has changed though, without warning.
In a bid to write about hope, I tried to hold on to the scarlet sun, but it only lasted a minute. So, I turned to a song and this is what came up.
I can’t stop crying today Everything is a trigger The night clings to the day The tea leaves misbehave Verses don’t speak my name Right now the sun’s making patterns that aren’t right and I can’t stop crying today.
The river runs back Refusing to fall into the sea There are things to forget The blur of what was said A fragile heart, the way it wept Hours vast like the ocean You, a pause on the horizon I, a twig on a wave and I can’t stop crying today.
Every wave hits a barrier Twists, spins away Most days I do okay But right now the tide’s making whirlpools that suck me in and I can’t stop crying today.
Mid-sleep in the dead of night I am awakened by a touch.
Without opening my eyes my hands grope and feel the softness of a memory. I pull it close to my belly and sleep with my arms around it.
Soon dawn chorus resumes in the Silver Oak — reminding me of songs from bygone days I sigh and clinically open my eyes to the demands of another day.
Many many years ago, my father gifted me a small cassette player and a few tapes. Most evenings, I would turn down the lights, pick a cassette and lose myself to the music. This morning (and I don’t know why), a song from then, one that I haven’t heard in ages, came back to me. A simple, sweet one…’When I need you’ by Leo Sayer.
The evening is doused with gentle rain Life throbs and fills worlds within worlds Behind closed lids a tear forms and stays Far away a heart tends to a memory Perhaps this is how love’s forest is nurtured And how it grows in silence.
Apart from imagery, what I love immensely about poetry is ‘movement’. The way one can cross distance, otherwise impossible, in the span of a few lines. The ease with which the unspeakable flows, like rain water, replenishing the very soil it rose from.
PS: Since songs are now becoming inherent to the poetry posts, this evening let’s go with The Sky is Crying by Gary B. B. Coleman and pine for imaginary rain.